The shock of seeing her there beside him was so profound he could barely breathe. ‘Betsy?’ he said. ‘What are you doin’ here?’
She smiled at him and slipped her hand from underneath that blanket shawl so that she could hold his arm. ‘You surely don’t imagine I’d let ’ee go all the way to London on your own,’ she said. ‘What next? I’m a-comin’ with ’ee.’
He was so happy he wanted to jump up and down. She was coming with him. His own dear darling Betsy was coming with him.
She gave him the benefit of her blue eyes, sitting there in that icy morning, smiling and happy. ‘You’ll have to marry me, though.’
‘Oh yes, yes, a’ course,’ he said, and he bent his head to kiss her, to the delight of their fellow passengers who chirruped and whistled and asked him if that was the way he always went on and said he was a dog ‘damn their eyes if he wasn’t.’ But he didn’t care about being teased. He didn’t care about anything. He could kiss her whenever he wanted to. ‘Oh, my dear darling Betsy,’ he said. ‘I never thought to see you again an’ here you are. How did you know I’d be on this coach? An’ why aren’t you wearin’ your cardinal?’
‘I sold it to buy my ticket,’ she said, ‘an’ don’t make that face. I got a good price for it, an’ Ma give me this to keep me warm. I shan’t feel the lack.’
She was feeling the lack already for her hand was icy cold. He took it in both his and chafed it to warm it. ‘I’ll buy you another one the first thing I do,’ he promised.
‘I brought us a pie for the journey,’ she told him. ‘I made it for ol’ Miss Pearce but she can go without, an’ serve her right, nasty spiteful ol’ thing. ’Tis in the basket. An’ there’s a bottle a’ porter an’ some brandy an’ water to keep us warm. We shall do very well.’
Oh, yes, Johnnie thought, as they sped along the London road. They would do very well.
Chapter Twenty
Saturday April 24th 1852
Farmer Harry Boniface was in a very good humour that Saturday morning. It was his father’s ninetieth birthday and although the old man was frail and deaf and toothless the family meant to celebrate it in style. The birthday feast was prepared, the table set and now it only wanted the guests for the festivities to begin. He was just climbing into the farm cart to go and fetch them, when the potboy trotted into the yard, breathless and urgent with a message from the publican to ask if he would be so kind as to take Mr Gilchrist into Chichester with him, if it wasn’t too much trouble. He agreed cheerfully. That lawyer feller had been poking around the village quite long enough. High time he was off. Although, being a practical man, he did ask what had happened to the carriage.
‘The wheel come off,’ the potboy explained. ‘What’ll take all day to fix. An’ Oi reckon this ol’ pony’s gone lame on me. Oi been kickin’ loike billyoh an’ he won’t go more’n a trot.’
‘Don’t look lame to me,’ Harry said. ‘Bit disagreeable moind, but tha’s hardly a surpoise if you been a-kickin’ of him. Talk to him gentle an’ he’ll go loike the wind. Roight then, young feller me-lad, you cut back an’ tell Mr Gilchrist to be ready an’ waitin’ in twenty minutes an’ he shall roide in with me.’
Mr Gilchrist was ready and waiting within two minutes of the potboy’s return, and climbed up gratefully into the cart, with his carpetbag in one hand and a rolled umbrella in the other. ‘This is very civil of you, Mr Boniface,’ he said.
‘We aims to please,’ Harry said, amused to see how the lawyer’s long hair was being blown by the wind and how pink in the face he was. For a second he felt quite sympathetic towards him. He was such a dreamy looking, moon-faced young man and couldn’t have been more than twenty or so. ‘You had a good day yesterday, Oi’m told,’ he said, and clucked to his horse to walk on.
‘I did indeed,’ Mr Gilchrist said, as they headed off towards the church.
‘And found the answers to all your questions, Oi don’t doubt,’ Harry said, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. Now that the young man was leaving it suddenly seemed important to find out how much he knew. If he really was a writer and meant to make his findings public there could be trouble.
Mr Gilchrist was guarded. ‘To many of them, yes. The accounts of the trial were most interesting.’
‘Now there’s a thing,’ Harry said. ‘Oi never knew there was an account of it. Although Oi s’ppose, givin’ thought to it, there must’ve been.’
‘Several,’ Mr Gilchrist said. ‘None as full as I would have liked but sufficient to give me some sense of what happened.’
‘He was found not guilty,’ Harry said stoutly. ‘Tha’s what happened an’ a good thing too, to moi way a’ thinking.’
‘I gather that was the opinion in the village at the time,’ Mr Gilchrist said.
There was no harm in admitting it. ‘Aye, so it was. He was a good man.’
‘I also gather,’ Mr Gilchrist went on, ‘that giving evidence on his behalf was a somewhat risky thing to do, given the preponderance of tied cottages hereabouts.’
‘Well as to that,’ Harry said sternly, ‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Nor will you,’ Mr Gilchrist said, ‘and the more honour to you.’
‘You’ll be glad to get back to Lunnon, Oi daresay,’ Harry said.
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘We’re in good toime for the coach.’
‘I hope I’m not taking you out of your way,’ Mr Gilchrist said.
‘No, sir, you aren’t,’ Harry said happily. ‘Oi got business in Lavant moiself. Oi’d ha’ come in anyway.’
The coach down from London arrived with horns blaring and harness jingling ten minutes after Mr Gilchrist’s coach had trundled away. It was full of people, most of them in holiday mood, and eleven of them were Bonifaces, Johnnie and Betsy and their son Frederick and his wife and their two daughters, and their pretty daughter Hannah and her husband and their three children. Johnnie was the first to jump down, looking very smart and prosperous in a new green jacket and twill trousers and a fine pair of leather boots, his grey hair bushy under the broad brim of his green top hat. He waved at Harry but then busied himself helping Frederick’s wife and her two little girls to climb down. And there was Betsy climbing down after them, her wide skirts swinging like a bell, wearing a little blue jacket the colour of her eyes and the prettiest poke bonnet framing her grey hair and her plump face, rosy and smiling and calling out to him. It was a homecoming, as it always was when they came a-visiting.
‘Your Billy’s grow’d so’s Oi wouldn’t ha’ know’d him,’ Harry said as he handed Betsy into the cart. ‘Quite the young gentleman.’
‘He starts apprentice in a week or so,’ she said, beaming at her grandson as he settled alongside her.
Harry was impressed to hear it. ‘So soon?’
‘He is fifteen,’ his grandmother said. ‘Time he learnt the trade, eh, Billy? How’s Lizbeth?’
‘She got a foine ol’ feast ready for ’ee,’ Harry told her happily.
And a fine old feast it was, with the entire family gathered round his kitchen table with porter and small beer aplenty and more food than they could possibly eat. Johnnie’s daughter Hannah sat between Lizbeth’s two daughters, chatting nineteen to the dozen, for they were great gossips, and gentleman Billy sat beside his cousin John, who was ten years younger than he was and a very messy eater, and was told what a kind young man he was by the messy eater’s mother, and didn’t admit that his altruism was actually because he enjoyed being hero-worshipped, and Lizbeth and Betsy had so much news to exchange they had to be reminded to pause from their talk to eat. The brothers carved meats at the sideboard and filled plates to capacity and talked to their father who sat at the head of the table, looking stooped and very wrinkled, as well he might on his ninetieth birthday, but enjoying the occasion despite his frailty. In short it was just what a family gathering ought to be.
When the meats had been cleared to Lizbeth’s satisfaction and the fruit pies had been brought to the table, the ta
lk turned to the work they were doing. Harry told his brother what a fine herd he’d got that year, Betsy said her dame school was thriving, ‘I took four new pupils this term’, and Johnnie spoke at some length of the improvements he was making to his printing firm. ‘There are more newspapers comin’ out than ever,’ he said, ‘and our print works is renowned for reliability, though I says it who shouldn’t.’
‘Oi allus knew my boys ’ud do well,’ Hiram said. ‘An’ if your Ma could ha’ been here to see you, she’d ha’ said the same.’
The brothers sent quick eye-signals to one another. The subject had to be changed and quickly or he would be in tears. It was nearly twenty years since their mother had died but he still felt it keenly.
‘We’ve had a bit of a stir down this way recently,’ Harry offered. ‘’Aven’t we Father?’
Hiram cupped his ear with his hand. ‘What? What’s ‘at?’
‘A stir, Pa,’ Harry shouted. ‘Oi was tellin’ Johnnie we’ve had a bit of a stir hereabouts.’
‘Not so’s Oi’ve noticed,’ Hiram said. ‘What stir?’
‘Some lawyer feller’s been stayin’ in The Fox askin’ after William Blake,’ Harry said, explaining to them both. ‘Wanted to know about his trial seemingly. Who gave evidence an’ so forth. I got the feelin’ he thought there was more to it than met the eye. Things what should ha’ come out an’ was kept hid. What do ’ee think to that?’
‘Well I never,’ Betsy said, much surprised. ‘Fancy that, Johnnie. After all this time. Did he find anythin’ out?’
‘Not from us,’ Harry said happily. ‘We sent him off with a flea in his ear.’
Betsy enjoyed that. ‘You would.’
‘Not that there’s many people left for him to ask now,’ Johnnie said, eating his pie. ‘Apart from Pa here – and Will Smith, I s’ppose. Is he still around?’
‘An’ me, don’t forget,’ Harry teased. ‘He come up to the farm to see me.’
‘He had time to waste then,’ Johnnie teased.
‘Oh, Oi never told him nothin’, if tha’s what you means.’
Johnnie was still teasing. ‘On account of you don’t know nothin’.’
Harry gave his brother a wicked grin. ‘Now that,’ he said, enjoying his moment, ‘dear brother John, is where you’re wrong. If Oi’d had a moind to, Oi could ha’ told him a great deal. On account of Oi heard every word.’
Betsy was intrigued ‘What do ’ee mean, every word? Every word a’ what?’
‘Every word a’ what went on in the garden,’ Harry said.
‘You never did!’
‘Oh, Oi heard roight enough. ’Twas a hot day if you remembers an’ Oi’d took toime off for a breather. Father’ll tell you, won’t you Father. An’ Oi was sitting leanin’ against ol’ Blake’s garden wall an’ Oi heard him come out into the garden. Furious he was. “Oi don’t allow soldiers in moi garden,” he says. “Be off out of it.” An’ the soldier says, “Oi’m a member a’ the 1st Royal Dragoons,” he says, “an’ Oi can go where Oi please, so you can put that in your poipe an’ smoke it.’”
‘Good lord,’ Johnnie said, round eyed at such a revelation. ‘You really did hear it. I thought you were too young to know anything about it.’
‘Oi was twelve,’ Harry said. ‘Nearly as old as your William here. Oi knew about it roight enough.’
‘So go on,’ Betsy urged. ‘What did he say next? I bet you don’t remember that.’
‘Ah well,’ Harry said. ‘Now that would be tellin’.’
Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks to the following for their assistance in the writing of this book.
Heather Howell of Blake’s Cottage, Felpham.
Peter and Nina Johns of Robson’s Cottage, Lavant.
The staff of the Public Records Office, in particular Ron Iden, Chichester.
Joan McKillop, Custodian of the Cowper and Newton Museum, Olney.
Eileen Page and Peggy Horwood, who lived in the old Fox Inn as children.
Dr Keri Davies, Historian of the Blake Society.
A Note on the Author
Beryl Kingston was born in Tooting in 1931. She was eight when the war began and spent the early years of her education in many different schools, depending on her latest evacuation. As an undergraduate she attended King’s College London, where she read English.
She married her childhood sweetheart when she was 19, with whom she has three children. Kingston was an English teacher before embarking on a career as a full-time writer in 1980.
Discover books by Beryl Kingston published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/BerylKingston
A Time to Love
Fourpenny Flyer
Gemma’s Journey
Maggie’s Boy
Sixpenny Stalls
Tuppenny Times
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This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
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First published in Great Britain 2006 by Allison & Busby Ltd
Copyright © 2006 Beryl Kingston
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