‘’Twill be a battle now as sure as fate,’ she said. ‘Have everything in readiness, Johnnie, for when this news breaks ’twill make us a fortune.’
It broke nine days later, and was printed in the London Gazette Extraordinary, headed ‘Downing Street, Thursday June 22nd 1815’.
‘Major the Honourable H. Percy arrived late last night with a dispatch from Field Marshall the Duke of Wellington, KG, to Earl Bathurst, his Majesty’s principal secretary of state for the War Department, of which the following is a copy …’
It was headed ‘Waterloo June 1815’ and was a laconic account of a great battle, written without emotion but detailing every attack and repulse until the final moments which came at ‘about seven in the evening when the French army made a desperate effort with the cavalry and infantry supported by the fire of artillery to force our left centre back to Have Sainte, and, after a severe contest, was defeated. Having observed that the troops retired from this attack in great confusion, and that the march of General Bulow’s corps upon La Belle Alliance had begun to take effect, I determined to attack the enemy, and immediately advanced the whole line of infantry, supported by the cavalry and artillery.
‘The attack succeeded in every point. The enemy was forced from his position on the heights and fled in the utmost confusion leaving behind him as far as I could judge one hundred and fifty pieces of cannon with their ammunition which fell into our hands. I continued the pursuit until long after dark, and then discontinued only on account of the fatigue of our troops, who had been engaged during twelve days, and because I found myself in the same road with Marshal Blucher who assured me of his intention to follow the enemy throughout the night. He has sent me word this morning that he had taken sixty pieces of cannon belonging to the Imperial Guard and several carriages, baggage, etc belonging to Bonaparte.’
Then followed the casualty lists. At a cost of more than 62,000 men dead and wounded, 15,000 of whom were from Wellington’s army, the battle was over and Boney defeated.
Within minutes of the appearance of the first copy of the Gazette, all the spires in the city were clamorous with bells as the news spread from house to house and church to church, and soon people were waving and cheering from every window, and the streets were full of jostling crowds and carriages barely able to inch through the hubbub, and men on horseback waving their caps in the air. ‘’Tis a triumph!’ people said to one another. ‘Such a great victory in such a short time! Have ’ee seen the papers?’ And the Easter family worked until they were dizzy with fatigue.
Fifteen days later Paris capitulated to the Allies, and six days after that Napoleon wrote a letter surrendering himself to the mercy of the Prince Regent, whom he called ‘the most powerful, the most constant and the most generous of my enemies’. But flattery got him nowhere. This time there was to be no escape for him. It was announced that he was to be exiled to ‘a lonely island in the midst of the South Atlantic Seas, from which his villainy would never again emerge to torment his fellow men’. France was to pay an indemnity of 700 million francs and submit to military occupation by Wellington’s army. The war of a hundred days was over.
The Prince Regent, as was only to be expected from a man of such extravagant and flamboyant taste, immediately announced elaborate plans for victory parades in the capital that summer, with reviews, and masques, and firework displays and all manner of lavish entertainments. And not to be outdone, small towns and municipalities all over the kingdom planned their festivities too. The month of August, as Billy was happy to point out, was going to be one long, unbroken round of pleasure.
‘I shall stay here in London to attend the review,’ he said, ‘and then I’m off to Bury for the Victory Ball. Shall you join me, Johnnoh?’
‘Only if you give me your word that Lizzie ain’t to be there,’ John said. ‘I’ve been lisped over quite enough for one lifetime.’ But he knew he would certainly go. There was no pressure of work now, and it would be a chance to see Harriet again.
‘We will all attend the Victory Ball at Bury,’ Nan told them firmly. ‘’Twill be expected of us. As to the rest, you may go wherever you please. Billy will follow Miss Honeywood, I daresay.’
‘Oh I say!’ Billy protested, grinning sheepishly, and then trying to explain: ‘She’s a deuced pretty creature, Ma. I might even marry her.’
‘Don’t torment your brother with that Lizzie, that’s all,’ Nan said.
‘I shall make certain to keep well out of her way,’ John assured them, making up his mind that he would spend all his time dancing with Harriet. How pleasant it would be.
So preparations went cheerfully ahead and Billy bought three tickets for the Victory Ball the next time he went down to Bury, and the citizens of that rejoicing town brought out their best clothes ready for the Grand Parade that would precede it during the afternoon.
Mrs Sowerby did not approve of the extravagance of new clothes for such an occasion and said so unequivocally, maintaining that her Sunday-go-to-meeting-clothes were quite good enough for any celebration and that Harriet had more than enough clothes already without swelling her pride by offering her more. But Mr Sowerby felt he owed it to his position in Mr Cole’s establishment to look as well as he could.
‘A new cravat, my dear,’ he said, ‘and new revers to my best jacket and perhaps a new beaver hat?’
‘A cravat I will allow,’ Mrs Sowerby said, ‘for nothing looks worse than crumpled linen about the neck, and a small piece of velvet would be sufficient for new revers without putting us to unnecessary expense. I will steam your hat. That is all it requires.’
So the day before the Grand Parade a fine piece of cream linen for the new cravat was purchased at Mr William Pickering’s drapery in Abbeygate Street, and after work that evening, while Mrs Sowerby was occupied darning her black stockings and Harriet was busy kneading bread for the following morning, Mr Sowerby retired to his bedroom to try it on.
He looked exceedingly fine. In fact, if he hadn’t been acutely aware that he had to avoid the sin of pride, he would have felt quite pleased with himself. All that is needed now, he thought, was his gold-plated tiepin fixed right in the centre of the centremost fold. And as the tiepin was kept neatly in the trinket box beside the candlestick, it was the simplest matter to stretch out his hand for it.
The reason for what happened next was never entirely clear to him, because he was usually so careful with the candles, being mindful of their power to start fires or burn fingers or, even worse, drop hot wax on his wife’s well-polished furniture. It occurred to him much later that it could have been an act of God deliberately designed to reveal the perfidious nature of his daughter. But whatever the reason, as he opened the lid of the box that evening, he passed his hand straight into the searing heat of his own two-headed candlestick. The unexpected pain made him jump, so that he dropped the box onto the floor, and as he rubbed the side of his hand and spat on it to ease the pain, the contents of the box scattered about the room. And his tiepin skidded through the connecting door into Harriet’s little cold cell.
He got down on his knees irritably and began to gather the trinkets, his wife’s jet beads and her agate brooch, fortunately undamaged. Then he stooped through the door and bent to retrieve his tiepin.
It was lying at a curious angle against a very loose floorboard. I shall need to mend that, he thought, and lifted it idly to test how far it had become disconnected. And what he saw underneath it stopped his breath with delighted horror. There was a positive cache of letters there. Thirty-six of them. He counted as he drew them out. Trembling with outrage, he took them through into his bedroom to read them by the light of his treacherous candle.
Then, enlarged by an overpowering and entirely righteous indignation, he took them downstairs to show to his wife.
Chapter Ten
‘Explain yourself,’ Mrs Sowerby said terribly.
Harriet was so frightened she could hardly breathe. When her mother called her from the kitchen, she’d wiped
her hands on her apron and obeyed readily enough, even though she knew from the peremptory tone of the call that she must have done something wrong. But she didn’t think it could be anything particularly bad because she’d been working very hard and very carefully all that day. And besides, she’d been in the middle of such a happy daydream, looking forward to tomorrow when she would dance at the Victory Ball with Mr Easter.
She’d found a way round, just as she’d hoped. Or to be more accurate Miss Pettie had provided one, inviting her to this Victory Ball just as she’d invited her to the last, and even giving her one of her ball gowns, which they’d altered and trimmed and made over into quite a new garment –and such a pretty one, with a new waistband of pale blue velvet and the dearest little puff sleeves trimmed with pale blue ribbons to match. And now she only had twenty-four hours to wait before the ball began and she would see her dear Mr Easter again. The sight of his letters, spread out before her on the dining table, looking so white and vulnerable and naked against the unforgiving wood, gave her such a shock that she couldn’t move another step.
‘Well?’ her mother said, standing beside the offending documents straight-spined and fierce-faced and black as thunder. The chastening rod lay on the table beside the letters, ready for use, its red leather most horrible in the firelight.
‘I found – these –’ her father said, speaking slowly and precisely as though every word were so distasteful that he had to spit it from his mouth, ‘these – articles – hidden under the floorboards in your bedroom, my gel. What have you to say for yourself?’ His face was so pinched with anger that his lips had virtually disappeared and his little narrow nose was as grey as dry putty. ‘What? Eh? What?’
Harriet was too shaken to be able to answer. Yet. She stared at them mutely, her knees trembling.
‘You don’t deny they were sent to you, I suppose?’ her mother said.
‘No.’
‘Nor that they are from Mr Easter, with whom you were most expressly forbidden to communicate?’
‘No –’ her chest constricting most painfully.
‘Nor that you have disobeyed your parents in the most flagrant and disgusting manner?’
Oh no, Harriet thought, there was nothing disgusting about my letters, nor about Mr Easter’s. I can’t agree with that. I was wrong to receive them but not disgusting.
‘I disobeyed you, Mama,’ she said, ‘because you told me to do something that wasn’t polite.’ It frightened her to be making such a stand but it had to be done.
Mrs Sowerby was so surprised she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ she snorted. ‘Do you defy me, girl?’
‘No, Mama,’ Harriet said. She was calmer now that she’d made her stand.
‘Then how dare you say such things to your Mama?’ Mr Sowerby said.
‘I say them, Papa, because they are true. Mr Easter is a fine gentleman. He wrote to me and I replied. ‘Twas only common courtesy.’
Her mother picked up the chastening rod and jabbed the wooden end under Harriet’s chin. Her eyes were blazing with hatred.
‘I have never known such flagrant disobedience in all my born days,’ she said. ‘After all we’ve done for you. All the care we’ve taken of you. All the money we’ve spent on you! Only think of the money we paid to have you educated, and a fine waste that’s turned out to be. Oh yes! We teach you to read and that is the sort of rubbish you spend your time on. “We live by admiration, hope and love.” What wicked, wicked trash to write to a young girl. Admiration hope and love indeed! There is nothing in you to admire, let me tell you, nor to love, if this is the way you go on. Wicked, wicked trash! And if you don’t know yet what evil will come of reading such vile words then I despair of you. Oh what a waste of your education! We teach you to write and you spend your time writing foolish letters to young rakes who will ruin you. And after all our efforts to protect you, to raise you up in the right way, to inculcate obedience and sobriety and self-control and gentleness and all the good Christian virtues, after all our efforts, this is how you turn out. Oh Mr Sowerby, words fail me!’
But words didn’t fail Mr Sowerby. He knew exactly what to say and exactly what to do.
‘There is nothing for it, Mother,’ he said happily. ‘She will have to be whipped.’
With her chin still held up by the rod Harriet had no way of avoiding the expression on her father’s face. His mouth was twisted sideways with the force of his anger and his little eyes shone. ‘She will have to be whipped, Mother,’ he repeated with satisfaction. ‘Whipped within an inch of her life. The evil will have to be whipped out of her.’ And each time he said the word whipped he licked his lips as if he were already savouring the action.
I won’t beg for mercy, Harriet thought, because this time I am right and they are wrong. I won’t beg for mercy, no matter what they do. Her hands were still sticky with dough and she tried to rub them clean on one corner of her apron, acting instinctively as if clean hands might deflect their wrath. But she didn’t flinch and for the first time in her life she didn’t drop her eyes.
‘You will take your punishment,’ her mother promised grimly, thrusting a chair into the centre of the little room. ‘Take off your dress and bend over that chair if you please.’
Harriet didn’t resist because she knew from bitter experience that resistance only prolonged a beating. If they were going to beat her let them do it quickly and get it over with. She took off her shoes and her apron and unbuttoned her dress and stepped out of it without a word. She even folded her clothes and put them neatly on the table, because neatness was habitual to her and because it gave her a few more moments to compose herself before the pain began. Her heart was beating so fast it was making her chemise shake and her chest felt as though it was being squeezed by some giant vice. But she would endure it. She always had.
But this time, although her mother watched her prepare with her usual narrow-eyed anticipation, her father was infuriated by her slowness. He seized her roughly by the hair and pulled her down across the chair. ‘Lay on!’ ordered his wife. ‘She has dallied long enough. Now do not spare her!’
Harriet lay across the chair, afraid but still determined not to plead and not to say another word. But she cried aloud at every blow. She couldn’t help herself. They hurt so much and came stinging down upon her back and her legs and her shoulders so quickly and brutally and unpredicatably, and with such force.
It was the worst beating she’d ever endured. Usually her mother hit her either six times or twelve, counting the strokes as they fell, her voice as sharp as the rod, and Harriet hung on to the edge of the chair silently counting the blows too because each one brought her nearer to the moment of release. But this time her mother beat without counting and without mercy, flailing at her daughter’s body until her arms ached and she could barely see what she was doing. ‘Repent your sins!’ she shouted. ‘Repent! Repent!’
And Mr Sowerby echoed, ‘Repent, you grievous sinner! Beat her, Mother! Beat her! Repent! Repent! Repent!’
After the thirteenth blow Harriet began to scream, hanging on to the edge of the chair because her mind had stopped functioning and she couldn’t think of anything else to do. But after the twentieth, reason and revulsion returned together and she struggled to her feet and stumbled away, dodging the next blow, and the next, pinned against the wall and swaying out of range, and still screaming a long, high-pitched, eerie wail of desperation and terror. Her unexpected resistance drove both her parents into a frenzy.
Her father grabbed at her, trying to pull her down on the chair again, tugging at her hair and shrieking at her to be still, and her mother beat her as though she was demented, terrible blows that cut her arms and her face until her whole body was slippery with terrified sweat, and she couldn’t run any longer, and she couldn’t stand either because there was no strength in her legs, and she fell sideways onto the flagstones, wrenching her hair from her father’s grasp so violently that clumps of it came away in his fing
ers.
For a few seconds they were all quite still, looking at each other, while the Sowerbys blew like horses and the fire spat and hissed, and two drops of blood fell from Harriet’s forefinger into two neat red circles on the flagstones. Then she began to cry, in long, drawn-out, forlorn sobs that hurt her throat and frightened her parents.
‘Get to bed,’ Mr Sowerby said abruptly. ‘We don’t want to see your ugly face again tonight.’ The sooner she was out of sight the better.
Harriet crawled up the stairs on her hands and knees, sobbing and groaning, and stumbled through her parents’ room, barking her shins against furniture that she could barely see, and fell onto her truckle bed in a state of total exhaustion. But even then, with the beating over and alone in the dark cell of her room, she couldn’t stop crying. She wept on and on until the ache in her chest was sobbed away and she had no more energy left to cry with and no more tears to shed. Then she lifted herself wearily from the mattress, covered herself with her blanket and lay shivering in the dark.
And her thoughts went round and round in an endless, useless circle all night long. She had disobeyed her parents, which was certainly a sin. And she’d fought against them and she was glad she’d done it. For she wasn’t sinful. Not this time. Writing a letter to a gentleman as proper and kind as Mr Easter couldn’t possibly be a sin. She knew it. And as she lay stiffly under her blanket, she also knew, in that private innermost core of her mind and emotions, that she hated her mother and father and that she always would.
She was still cold and still wide-awake when the dawn began to trawl a faint grey light across the little space of her window. She got up very stiffly and limped to the door to see if it was possible to get out quietly and go downstairs for a drink of water, because she was desperately thirsty. But the door was locked. And there was no water in the ewer either, because, as she remembered now, she’d been sent upstairs before she had a chance to fill it. Her mouth was so terribly dry it was an effort to swallow. But then it was an effort to do anything, she felt so sore.
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