Devil Water

by Anya Seton

  On Sunday morning Charles arose before five and slipped out of the castle before anyone awoke. He would miss Mass and there would be a fearful hullabaloo, but no matter. Later he would gracefully accept whatever penance Mr. Brown gave him. He avoided the wood where the thief hung in the gibbet, and cantered fifteen miles along tracks and muddy lanes towards the trysting place. He crossed the Derwent River, then began to look for the abandoned windmill Meg had told him of. He found it easily. It had been abandoned because of its situation next to a way-leave on which ran tracks from Sir Henry Liddell’s colliery near Ravensworth to his staith three miles away on the Tyne. The farmer had exacted enough rent for the way-leave across his property to enable him to buy a new farm he coveted.

  On weekdays the clear morning air would have been acrid with smoke from a dozen nearby pits, a line of coal wagons would have been trundling by to the waiting keelboats. But today there was no danger of being seen. It was quiet around the crumbling mill, except for a blackbird singing in the branches of a scarlet-berried rowan tree which had escaped the hatchet.

  Charles had barely time to tether the mare and begin to worry as to whether Meg had changed her mind before he saw her coming. She sped across a field in her bare feet, having left her shoes home. They would have hampered her for the two miles of running from the Wilsons’ cottage. Otherwise she wore her Sunday clothes-- faded blue wool and a fresh-laundered white kerchief. Her brown hair was tied back with a bit of tape, for she owned no ribbons.

  Charles went to meet her and then they both stopped dead, struck with embarrassment. “ ‘Tis a fine day, sir,” said Meg. “I thought it might be yestere’en -- the sun so red, I’m early, mebbe, the bells havena rung yet, Nanny thinks I’m off to see the minister in town, I divven’t lie though, she just thought it. Dick, Geordie, an’ Robbie went to their ould mother--” She knew she was gabbling, but Charles, of whom she too had dreamed, now seemed a stranger.

  He wore fawn-colored breeches, there were silver buttons on his riding coat, white ruffles at his throat and wrists, his black cocked hat was gold-laced, and a small sword dangled from his hip. He resembled the gallants she had seen riding haughtily through the Newcastle streets, and tears came into her eyes as she realized her wicked folly in coming. “I wouldna’ve knawn ye --” she faltered, in answer to his look of concern.

  “Oh,” said Charles, not displeased. He had dressed up to impress her. His shyness passed as he saw hers; he put his arm around her waist and, laughing, pulled her to the mill. It was dark and quiet inside beneath the huge millstones. And there was a pile of old sacks on the rotting floor. “Let’s sit and talk,” Charles said, drawing her down onto the sacks beside him. “Have you breakfasted?”

  She shook her head and Charles pulled a flask of port and some marchpane cakes from his pocket. He had found both in the dining hall on his way out, since he dared not go to the larders.

  Meg was entranced by the sticky sweetness of Charles’s provisions, which were unknown to her, and the two eagerly consumed every drop and crumb. Charles had no previous knowledge of seduction, nor plan for it now; yet he noted that Meg’s nervousness had left her as the port warmed her veins, that her brown eyes grew brilliant, and soft red appeared on her cheekbones. She leaned back against his arm and sighed happily. He flung his hat to the corner of the mill and began to kiss her. After a moment of shrinking she returned his kisses. Her breath was sweet as violets, her little body yielded to his increasing ardor. Though once she cried out in protest, when he whispered hoarsely, “Don’t, Meg, don’t, sweetheart, I won’t hurt you.” She gave a little sob and shut her eyes, then clasping his neck tight with her arms, she let him do as instinct bade him.

  But later when the sun slanted through the mill door, and aroused Charles from a delicious languor their thoughts were very different. Charles’s were exultant. He was a man now! No one could gainsay his manhood any more. He turned with a smile to kiss again the partner of so delightful an experience, and found Meg’s chest heaving, and tears dripping off her cheeks onto the sacking.

  “Why come, poppet,” he said, half exasperated. “There’s no cause for weeping. What’s amiss?”

  She pulled away from him and buried her face in her arms. He barely heard her choking voice. “I diwen’t knaw that was going to happen. I divven’t guess ‘twould be like that. I’ve brought shame to m’family.”

  “They’ll never know,” said Charles confidently. “Silly girl, this happens every day ‘twixt two young folk who take joy in each other.”

  “Not wi’out a wedding first,” she cried, and sobbed harder. “I’ve done very wrong, but I love ye, sir. Mebbe the Faw woman cast a spell on me fur I began to love ye then.”

  “Love is sweet,” said Charles abstractedly kissing the top of her head.

  She twisted around to look up at him. “But there’s naught ahead fur us,” she said with dreary finality. “We may not love outside our class. ‘Tis very wrong.”

  Inexperienced as he was, it occurred to Charles that that particular wrong was widespread, but arguments wearied him, and he pulled her onto his lap, saying, “Smile, Meg! Smile the way you did before! You’re pretty as a posy when you smile.”

  “Am I then?” she said striving to obey. In a while he had kissed and cozzened her back to a happier mood. When at last they parted, she had promised to meet him here the following Sunday.

  On five Sundays, Charles and Meg kept their trysts in the old windmill. Nobody suspected them, though there had been such a fuss over the neglected Mass that Charles did not dare repeat his sin. He rearranged his meetings with Meg so that before leaving Dilston he might first attend the family Mass at eight. He avoided confession, in which he had been most irregular anyway, and he told a few shrewd lies to Sir Marmaduke, who had washed his hands of the rebellious boy.

  On the last Sunday in October Charles set out as usual, though it was pouring with cold rain. For the first time he found himself reluctant to go. He felt tenderness for the girl, and gratitude for the pleasure she gave him, yet the first rapture had dwindled. He knew now all the secrets of her small body, and he knew precisely how she would act. She would be initially reluctant, even sullen, she would weep a while and worry about her wrongdoing, presently she would let him kiss her into surrender again. And despite the freezing rain, she would be waiting docilely inside the mill. Of all these things Charles was certain. Great then was his astonishment when he arrived sodden and quite late to find that Meg was not there. He frowned and peered around the dark building until he spied a piece of torn paper folded on the sacks. He carried it to the light and deciphered the childish scrawl: “Fareweel, sir. I’ll not forget thee but ‘tis beter we meet na more.”

  Charles gave a startled grunt. A hot flush stained his face. He felt betrayed, and after a stunned moment he solaced himself by kicking over the pile of sacks. So this was all her vows of love amounted to! The false trollop! Then it occurred to him that not only had she apparently had the effrontery to tire of him first, but that she had probably gone to Dick, whom he had ceased to consider as a rival long ago. In thinking back to their last tryst, Charles now remembered that Meg had fallen into heavy silences, had seemed about to speak and then stopped. That when they kissed at parting, she had clung to him and whispered, “I’ll pray for thy happiness!” She had then meant it as farewell?

  She’d not get away so easily! Charles, smarting and suffering more than he let himself realize, mounted the mare and rode through Gateshead to the Wilson cottage. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he expected to find Meg there. He hammered on the door. It was opened by a taller, paler edition of Meg who had an infant at the breast and cried “Lawks a me!” as she stared at the thunderous young gentleman in the dripping greatcoat. “What can I do for ye, sir?”

  “Where’s Meg?” cried Charles beyond discretion. “Is Meg here?”

  Nan Wilson’s eyes narrowed and she drew back. “What’s it to thee, where Meg is? Who are ye?”

  C
harles did not answer. He could see into the tiny bare room behind, and there was nobody there. Nan put her hand on the latch to close the door. She had known that lately something was very wrong with Meg, and the world being what it was, had wondered if a man would likely be the cause. But the girl had never said anything. She had worked hard in the cottage, helping with the baby and the eternal filthy wash a pitman made, and she had been remarkably glum. Even when Dick came courting of a Saturday night, Meg had shown no lightening of spirit. She’d cling to her sister, and then tell poor Dick she had the headache when he wanted to take her to a jig in Sandgate, or to watch football on the fell. Meg was such a good, honest girl that Nan had not questioned her. Besides, they were proud, the Snowdons, and kept their troubles to themselves.

  Yet now, as she looked again at the youth on her doorstep, her hand fell from the latch, and she said, “Would ye be the Mr. Radcliffe my husband tould me was here the day I birthed the babby?”

  “Yes,” said Charles. “Where’s Meg?”

  Nan opened the door and motioned him inside. “Come to the fire, an’ warm yoursel’ -- ‘tis bitter.”

  Charles came in and stood beside the tiny grate, where a shovelful of coals burned sulkily. “Thank you,” he said with more grace, “and I pray you tell me where Meg is.”

  “I cannot,” said Nan, putting the baby on the bed and fastening her bodice. “The lass is gone, I knaw not whither.”

  “She -- she is always out of a Sunday morning, isn’t she?” asked Charles, trying to be offhand. “To see a Dissenting minister in Newcastle?”

  “Aye,” said Nan with a sharp look. “ ‘Tis what I thought. But she’s not there, nor has been this month o’ Sundays. Maybe you know where she’s been instead these Sundays?”

  Charles flushed and stared down at the bare grease-stained hearth. “I see ye do,” said Nan. She sighed and shook her head. “I’d niv-er’ve believed it o’ Meg, nor that she’d leave me as she did yester-morn, afore I waked, wi’ all her gear in a kerchief, and a note to say--” Nan stopped. The note had said, “I’m sick for home. I mun get back to the Coquet or die. My Sister, tell nobody this.” Nan had not told, though Dick had stormed and pleaded at her, and now this lad -- Nan had a sudden fear. “Mr. Radcliffe,” she said, “ye’ve not got m’wee Meg in trouble, have ye?”

  “In trouble,” repeated Charles blankly. “What trouble?”

  Nan started and peered up into his face. “How ould are ye?” she snapped.

  Charles answered resentfully. “Sixteen.”

  “Oh lawks,” cried Nan, collapsing on the stool with an unwilling laugh. “I had thought ye full grown! Weel, sir, ‘twon’t be long afore ye learn what trouble means ‘twixt lad and lass, but niver mind that now.”

  She was ashamed of her suspicion, which did Meg scant justice besides. A bit of love-making there had certainly been, a kiss or two and the poor girl’s heart sorely touched, but Meg, no doubt seeing with her usual good sense that any mingling with a gentleman was dangerous, had certainly put the most decisive end to it she could. So Nan reasoned, and she looked on Charles more kindly. “ ‘Tis best to forget her, sir, she wishes it, and ye soon will. Why, when his lordship comes, fur sure he’ll bring a bevy o’ fair young ladies alang wi’ him. Ye’ll not hanker then for a simple lass like Meg.”

  Part of Charles knew this to be true, and he wondered if there were a chance that James would bring any gay company to Dilston. Yet the sense of loss continued, and he said, “Mrs. Wilson, I pray you, tell me where Meg’s gone! It’s not to your brother-in-law, Dick, is it?”

  Nan shook her head. “Nay, Dickie’s as ‘wildered as you -- an’ far more stricken,” she added with a rueful smile. Dick truly loved the foolish girl, and had made a shocking scene when he found her gone. So much so that Nan had nearly told him where to look, which would be the road north from Newcastle to Morpeth. But she had not.

  Charles finally left Gateshead and started sadly back to Dilston. He passed the windmill and searched again inside. There was nothing there but field mice. As he sloshed through puddles on the river-bank, he tried to hold on to his anger at Meg, yet there was a lump in his chest, and unmanly prickling around his eyes. He did not speculate any more as to why or where Meg had gone, that was not his nature. When a thing was done it was done. But he found the days more tedious than ever now, and the sense of emptiness could only be assuaged by hard dangerous riding, by training the apathetic stable dogs to rat-catching, or by wandering back across the bridge to the Angel at Corbridge, where the giggling barmaid no longer seemed so attractive.

  TWO

  The Earl of Derwentwater and his party landed in London by the end of November. A few days later a letter arrived at Dilston which dissipated all Charles’s lonely boredom, for James summoned his young brother to London for Christmas, and the invitation did not include the Constables. The Earl wrote that he presumed the winter journey would be too rigorous for Cousin Maud, and that since he expected to be North shortly such hardship was unnecessary, and Charles might travel in the care of Mr. Thomas Errington of Beaufront, who was also coming South.

  Charles was wild with excitement, nor was he even much annoyed by the requirement that he should travel in anybody’s care. At least he would be free from the bleak, gloomy old castle, and from fingering discomfort when anything reminded him of Meg.

  On the morrow after the arrival of the Earl’s letter, Charles bade his cousins and the priest a lighthearted adieu, rode across the Tyne through Corbridge, and presented himself at Beaufront Hall -- as he had been directed. This stately Tudor mansion was the seat of the Erringtons, and Mr. William Errington, its owner, was locally known as the “Chief.” He came stamping out to the courtyard as Charles appeared and shouted at him genially. “So young Radcliffe, here ye be! Come in for a stirrup cup, afore ye start. Tom’s about ready, and ye two’ve a lang way to go. Some neighbors’re here to see ye off!”

  Charles dismounted and bowed, a trifle startled by the Chief’s appearance. The old man, who did not believe in chopping and changing, was dressed in patched red plush breeches and the long coat of his ancestors. This costume was topped by a ragged Northumbrian plaid and a black felt bonnet which flopped over his hairy left ear.

  Charles followed his host into a smoky wainscoted hall full of people drinking October ale from pewter flagons. They all turned and stared at Charles while the Chief clapped him on the back and boomed out a list of names. Swinburne, Shaftoe, Collingwood, Widdrington, Forster, and others which Charles, confused and trying to bow in all directions, did not hear at all.

  That these names belonged to old Northumbrian families, and that they were mostly Roman Catholic he did know, but he had met none of them before, because Cousin Maud from the moment of their arrival at Dilston had discouraged callers. Time enough for that, she said, when the castle was in order and the Earl had come. Besides, how did one know which of these Northerners were suitable? One must be careful not to cause dear James future annoyance.

  There were a few ladies among the group; the handsomest of them came up to Charles and, smiling, took his hand. “For shame, sir,” she said to Mr. Errington. “The boy’s all mazed with so many to greet.” She turned to Charles. “I’m Mary Swinburne. This is my husband, Sir William.” She indicated a middle-aged man with auburn hair and a pleasant face. “We live at Capheaton Hall, where we hope very soon to welcome you and your brothers. Though indeed,” she made a charming little curtsey towards the Chief, “nobody can hope to equal the hospitality of Beaufront!”

  “So say we all, my lady!” called young George Collingwood, a handsome man who was clinking mugs with one of the Widdrington youths.

  Lady Swinburne smiled again and said, “Mr. Radcliffe, will you tell his lordship, I pray you, how eagerly we all await his coming, and that though we do not know him yet, our hearts already do him great honor.”

  Charles stammered an assent. He thought the lady agreeable, but he was embarrassed that she still held his hand. “
We are kin to his lordship,” continued Lady Swinburne, “at least Sir William is. I was but a poor spinster from Berkshire before my heart’s delight here--” she waved towards her husband, “carried me off to the splendors of the North.”

  “Hoot, Mary,” interposed her husband laughing. “Enough of your Southern compliments and graces, or young Radcliffe’ll take you for a mincing courtier! As a matter o’ fact, there are several of his lordship’s cousins here today.”

  “Aye,” said the youth, Peregrine Widdrington, putting down his ale flagon. “His lordship is kin to me”

  “And to me,” boomed a fat young man with piggy eyes and snuff stains on his splayed fingers. “Tom Forster of Etherstone, at your service, sir,” he said, winking at Charles. “Tell his lordship m’fair sister Dorothy’ll be here to greet him when he comes, fairest flower o’ Northumberland she is! He’ll like that I’ll warrant!” Forster gave a lewd, slightly drunken chuckle, and inhaling a huge pinch of snuff sneezed luxuriously.

  It occurred to Charles that if all these folk were kin to James they were also kin to him, though nobody mentioned it, and he felt the old twinge of being forever neglected and passed over in favor of the magnificent James.

  Lady Swinburne was watching him covertly and read some of his thoughts, for she was a discerning gentlehearted woman. She loosed his hand, which had grown very sweaty, and said to the Chief, “But we forget that Mr. Radcliffe has not himself seen his brother in many a year, and must be eager to start. Where is your nephew, sir?”

  “Up to his ears in paper and ink, no doubt,” said the old man, shrugging, “ever trying to turn our few shillings into pounds, which can’t be done.” He raised his voice and bellowed, “Thomas! Thomas! Where the devil are ye!”

  A stooped, frowning man walked into the hall, saluted the company briefly, and said to his uncle with reproof, “I was putting your bills in order, sir. I pray you, endeavor while I’m gone not to lose the rents again, and to pay our most importunate creditors or we’ll have the bailiff here.”