by Anya Seton
“Thank you, my lady,” he said grinning. “Betty pleases me as she is, and I long for the day in which I may claim her.”
James and his French valet, Mr. Petre, Roger Fenwick, and Charles all set off on Monday in a hired post chaise. Often during the long uncomfortable ride north Charles thought about Betty. At York he even wrote to her, a laborious blotted effort which started with a catalogue of the sights he had seen. James, unlike Thomas Erring-ton, encouraged sightseeing. Then Charles finished his letter with a shameless copy of one of his father’s courtly poems, which was supplied by James.
My Goddess Lydia, heav’nly Fair
As Lilies sweet, as soft as Air;
Let loose thy Tresses, spread thy Charms,
And to my love give fresh Alarms.
Charles did not think it made much sense, but James assured him that young ladies expected love poetry, and Charles was anxious to please Betty, and increasingly willing to be guided by James.
The brothers stopped a few days in Durham to visit their elderly aunt, Lady Mary Radcliffe, and she took them to call on Lord Crewe, the powerful Bishop of Durham, whose wife’s father was distantly related to the Radcliffes. There was hardly a great family in the North which was not related in some degree, it seemed. James was pleased. It confirmed the feeling of roots for which he longed.
Finally on a cold, cloudy January morning their chaise reached Gateshead.
The foggy air was yellow and acrid with smoke from the collieries. The Durham Road passed near the Park Pit, where Charles had met Black William Cotesworth on that far-off September day. It he continued to look he would soon see the row of pitmen’s hovels where Meg had lived. Charles did not look. He was as unwilling to be reminded of his affair with Meg as he was of that with the Duchess. Both seemed incredible and shamed the many good resolutions he had made. From now on he would be a worthy and noble Radcliffe as James was. He would perfect his sketchy education by studying the Classics with Mr. Petre. He would fulfill his religious duties, and help James with the estate responsibilities. He would make himself into a dependable upright husband for Betty. Tenderly he thought of her laughing face, her plump wholesome body, of her voice and the little airs she had which showed her high breeding. Both she and he had royal blood in their veins, though Betty’s ancestry was of longer noble lineage than his, Charles thought with humility. And she’ll turn Catholic for me. I know she will, Charles thought with an added glow. Betty had as much as said so, during their last intimate moments of farewell.
Charles was so delighted with these happy reflections that he did not notice the crossing of Tyne Bridge into Newcastle. “Here’s the town, my lord,” said Roger Fenwick on an apologetic note. “Not much of one after Paris or London, I fear.”
“It certainly seems extraordinarily dark and smoky,” remarked Mr. Petre with a sharp sigh. His high-beaked nose twitched and he sneezed. What a pity that the young Earl’s inheritance should lie in these freezing gray northlands. Nor could one hope for civilized welcome today in the shape of good food, wine, or beds. The last nights on the road had taught him that. The priest savored his comforts and was beginning to think that his agreeable chaplaincy might soon develop into a penance. He frowned at the nearly deserted streets, the huddled smoke-grimed houses and said, “Cest morne.”
James spoke quickly. “It won’t seem dreary, sir, when we’re used to it up here. In any case it’s home, and in one’s home, I’m sure one sees few imperfections. Where’s my town house, Fenwick?”
“On Newgate Street, my lord,” answered the young lawyer. “Not worth looking at today since it’s been untenanted for years, of course.”
“To be sure,” said the Earl. “And we must hurry on to Dilston.” He spoke the name of his castle as some spoke the name of a lover, the priest noted bleakly. A curious name, said to be a contraction of Devilston, and located on the Devil Water. Bizarre fancies the ancient Radcliffes must have had, in fact all these Northerners, the priest amended to himself as Roger Fenwick, usually taciturn during all the months he had been of the Earl’s entourage, suddenly cried, “There’s Denton Hall, my lord, on the right. It was haunted by a ghost named Silky! She always kept an eye on her family there -- the Rogers -- and also on the pits nearby. She warned time and again the colliers o’ danger, but some years ago Silky got offended; she’s gone further north to Belsay Castle. Since she left there’s been naught but trouble at Denton. The old squire’s turned lunatic, and the colliery caught fire. ‘Tis still bur-rning, you can see the glow yonder.”
They all looked through the window and saw a black cloud and sullen wisps of flame on a great desert of turf.
“What a taradiddle, Mr. Fenwick,” snapped the priest. “I never thought to find you superstitious.”
“ ‘Tis not superstition but tr-ruth,” said Roger resentfully. “Not being of our blood you may meet none of the ‘presences’ up her-re, but I’ll be bound his lordship will.”
James stared at the young lawyer, who had hitherto been eminently sensible. Even Fenwick’s speech had changed during this tale of Silky. It had broadened, the Northumbrian burr had crept in.
“I’ve no wish to meet a ghost,” said James smiling, “unless ‘tis part of my duties. Is there one attached to Dilston?”
“Aye, my lord. Some say ‘tis of a nun who was murdered by the Scots. There was a nunnery nearby in olden days. Some say ‘tis the ghost of a Radcliffe who was slaughtered for defending his king at the Battle of Hexham Levels, which happened on your estate. King Henry Sixth, that was, during the Wars of the Roses.”
“Well,” said James lightly. “I believe I could make shift to welcome either a pitiable nun or a brave man who died for his rightful king.”
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Petre, sneezing again and blowing his nose irritably. “I grieve to hear you speak thus, my lord. Though the Church holds with exorcism on occasion, I do not believe there is ever the slightest need for it, save in the minds of self-deluded simpletons.”
“A lot you know,” muttered Roger. He was Protestant and he didn’t like priests, particularly stout arrogant ones.
“Can we see aught of the Roman Wall, Fenwick?” James interposed tactfully. “Even at Saint Germain I’ve heard of that, though little else was known about Northumberland.”
“ ‘Tis here, my lord,” Roger gestured from side to side. “This road runs along it. There’s the vallum to the left, and here you can see the mounds that cover the stones. Further west, the wall shows plainer.”
Charles looked up with interest, though he had scarcely listened to the ghostly controversy. “I’ve ridden along the Wall,” he said. “Once it was manned by Roman soldiers, centurions, Sir Marmaduke told me. They were great fighters. I’d like to have lived in those times.”
James laughed. “You find life too tame now? Well, we’ll try to furnish you some excitement anyway. Fox-hunting for instance. I long to learn this sport myself.”
“There’ll be plenty to teach you, my lord,” said Roger. “Not a squire in the county but dotes on hunting and shooting. Though ‘tis tough sport. Not like in France.”
“Good,” James said. They were silent until at one o’clock the chaise reached Corbridge and drew up at the Angel. There was a crowd of townspeople assembled in the little square by the inn. As soon as the Earl stepped out on the cobbles he was greeted by a mighty cheer, and a babble of voices crying, “Darntwater! Darntwater! God bless his lordship!”
“Why, they expect me?” said James, taken aback. “Is it for me they’re cheering?”
The landlord of the Angel had rushed out when he heard the chaise arrive. “We’ve been expecting ye all day, my lord,” he cried, bowing. “Iver since Mr. Thomas Errington o’ Beaufront come an’ tould us when ye might be arriving. Please to step in the parlor whilst we sends over to warn ‘em at Dilston. There’s gents inside t’meet ye too.”
James nodded. He turned again to look at the eager welcoming faces in the square. Tears came into his eyes and he raised
his arm in greeting, tried to say something, then walked hastily into the Angel.
In the parlor the old Chief of Beaufront and Sir William Swinburne were waiting. They rose uncertainly as they saw the Earl, so small, so erect, and so gorgeously dressed in plum-colored satin and velvet cape, a gold-braided tricorne on his flaxen periwig.
“Y’re exceedingly welcome, my Lord Derwentwater,” said Sir William, bowing with great ceremony and mindful of his lady’s warnings that Northumbrian heartiness and familiarity would not do. “We are gathered to pay you honor and to offer our most humble services in any accommodation we --”
“Why, you must be my cousin, Will Swinburne,” cried James cutting through the speech and staring at the red hair. “And you, sir,” he turned to the old man, “the Chief of Beaufront! Come, you can’t treat me like a stranger, for I know all about you and have dreamed of you many a night.”
“By God then --you’re not a stranger!” cried the Chief, suddenly rushing forward, hugging the Earl and slapping his back. “Ye’ve the look of a Radcliffe and ye’re home at last, where ye belong, and I vow this is the happiest day o’ me life!”
It was the happiest day of James’s life. His own Dilston horses soon were brought over the bridge to the inn. They all mounted. The horses were decorated with rosettes, their tails braided with ribbons. The cortege rode towards Dilston and the cheering crowd grew each moment, as word of the Earl’s arrival got abroad. When James rode off the bridge onto his own land he saw that the river-bank was dense with people, all dressed in Sunday best. The men were bowing and tugging their forelocks, the women curtseying. They were his own people, a thousand of them -- his tenants and servants, and pitworkers too from his lead mines as far away as Alston. Busby, the steward, had gathered them in readiness at dawn this morning.
As James came among them, an old crofter from Slaley began to play the Northumbrian pipes and the crowd began to sing in their wild throaty voices. Not one word did James understand, yet he could not mistake the warmth of their welcome. When they entered the wood which led to the castle two lads ran forward with a banner on which someone had painted the Radcliffe arms. James saw the two black bulls as supporters, the familiar quarterings, which included the royal arms of Britain, and even the motto worked out in uncertain lettering, Sperare est timere. An odd motto, he thought -- “To hope is to fear.” But his father had once explained it. Hope in a way meant apprehension, and the lack of faith. And this I’ll never lack, James thought, so God will help me always to care for my loyal people here. Once more tears came to his eyes as he waved and smiled and thanked them.
James did not see the caged skeleton hanging on the gibbet as they passed through the castle grove, for a small girl had darted up with a large bouquet of pine cones -- the only offering which could be garnered from the January woods. She thrust it at the Earl, stammered something, and retired in confusion. Charles, who followed his brother at some paces, saw the gibbet without emotion. The contents were no longer human at all. The horses did not even turn their heads, and Charles wondered that he had felt so much revulsion last September. He had been a child then -- no doubt of that. Afraid of a gibbet, afraid even of James! Sir Marmaduke and Cousin Maud, who were now dithering a welcome on the castle steps, they no longer counted. There was no cloud ahead, no prospect more dire than a winter of sport and at the end of it -- Betty. They would come here on their wedding journey, and ride the moors together and dance the night through. Together, as they had been whilst King and Queen of Twelfth Night, they would shake up the staid Northumbrian gentry. The old castle would ring with laughter and music, and then at times alone, there would be the dear companionship in the great new bed which James had said he would buy for them. Soon, but not too soon, there would be children. Charles saw them as shadowy little figures with no characteristics except the ones he had lately come to admire -- the pride of high birth and suitability. Doubly royal these children would be, bearers of a great name and lineage, raised too in the Catholic faith which would doubtless be the faith of most Englishmen, when Queen Anne died and James Stuart crossed the water to his rightful throne.
“Move on, move on, Radcliffe!” Mr. Petre’s irritable voice jarred Charles out of his thoughts. “How long d’you expect me to stand here in the cold?”
Charles had been blocking the castle doorway, and he jumped aside. “Forgive me, sir. I was thinking how well content I am -- as James is.” He indicated his brother, who stood smiling in the hall and soothing Cousin Maud’s spate of apologies for the condition of the castle.
“Humph,” said the priest casting a disgusted eye at the stained plaster of the Great Hall, at the rush-strewn floor, where two hounds were snarling over a bone, at the pewter flagon of small beer which Lady Constable was offering the Earl and which was apparently the only drink which would be offered. “So you’re content! De gustibus non est disputandum. And since nobody seems to have succeeded in teaching you Latin in this barbarous country, I will add that it means I don’t agree with you at all.”
FOUR
From the day of his arrival home, James lost the brooding melancholy he had sometimes shown. He became alert and vigorous, full of enthusiastic plans for the improvement of Dilston. On the morrow of his arrival, James summoned Busby and commenced a tour of the property. Busby was a quiet, spare Northumbrian who had been born in the castle fifty years ago and had received his education from the resident chaplain of that time. He was proud of the black silk suit and official gold chain which proclaimed his stewardship. He was proud that he and his wife, the housekeeper, managed to regulate some thirty-three servants, despite the recent handicap of Lady Constable’s twitterings.
Busby showed the Earl Dilston’s natural beauties first -- the avenue of magnificent chestnuts, the cascade in the Devil Water, the view, somewhat overgrown, of Corbridge across the Tyne. They went to the breweries, the dairies, and the stables. “Ah,” said the Earl, “I see we need more mounts. And I must breed a pack of beagles too.”
They walked to the adjacent village, and the Earl knocked at every door, greeted the inmates personally, and kept a sharp eye out for needed improvements. At the cottage of John Selby, the blacksmith, Mrs. Selby tried to hide her idiot son Jackie from the Earl, thinking that he might order the lad sent to the lunatic asylum at Newcastle as Sir Marmaduke had threatened.
But the Earl did no such thing. He took the boy’s flaccid hand, smiled into the vacant eyes, and said, “Perhaps, Mrs. Selby, a new suit will cheer the poor innocent. See to it, Busby, I pray.”
Nellie Selby burst into tears. She was something of a ballad-maker, and that night, while spooning crowdy into Jackie’s gaping mouth, she expressed her gratitude in a song, which all the village soon learned.
O Derwentwater’s a bonny earl,
He wears gowld in his hair
And glenting is his hawking eye
Wi’ kind love dwelling there.”
Last of all, James went over his castle, which had only twenty-four rooms, besides the attics and offices. He began in the stone tower, which had stood here since the fifteenth century, when Sir Edward Radcliffe married the heiress of Cartington and moved from Cumberland to Dilston. The old ivy-covered tower contained the disused nurseries and the stewards’ suite; beneath there was a dungeon vastly older than the tower itself. “There’s said to be a tunnel from here to the Tyne, my lord,” said the steward, “but I canna be sure. ‘Tis only the Lord o’ Dilston is permitted to know Dilston’s secrets.”
“Permitted by whom?” asked James, glancing with distaste at the dingy vaults of the dungeon.
“Why by the ‘presences’!” said Busby, somewhat surprised. “The ould Radcliffes went to all the trouble to make hidy-holes and escapes. They’d not like anybody but the owner to know of ‘em. An’ if everybody knew them, what good’d these escapes be in time o’ danger?”
“Ah, the times of danger are past, Busby. And now since the Union we needn’t even fear the Scots any more.”
&
nbsp; The steward waggled his head. “I wouldna trust ‘em neither. But ‘tisn’t only the Scots -- there was need o’ priests’ holes here last century. Your great-great-grandsir, Sir Francis, that was --the first baronet -- he made a priest hole when he built the new wing time o’ Queen Bess. And used it too, I’ve heard.”
“No doubt,” said James, and he thought of the many Catholic persecutions there had been since Henry the Eighth took religion into his own hands. There were no persecutions any more, but there were galling restrictions -- a Catholic might not hold public office, or a commission, he might not attend the universities or run for Parliament. On sufferance we are in our own land, James thought, yet would not let his joy be dampened. Someday there’d be a change for the better, and in the meantime give thanks for being home.
“Do you know where the priest’s hole is, Busby?” he asked as they walked from the old tower into the wing the first baronet had built. “Near one of these fireplaces, I suppose?”
“I don’t know, my lord,” said Busby. “Ye’ll find all Dilston’s secrets in the ironbound coffer in the chapeL I’ve gi’en ye the key.”
James nodded absently. “I’ll read the papers soon, for I must hire a good builder. I want to enlarge this house.”
Dilston should be made modern and airy with spacious wings around a marble courtyard. There would be fountains, vistas, formal gardens. The old tower might be left for sentiment’s sake but it should be disguised and incorporated into a harmonious whole. This would be a costly project, yet it would be of benefit to all the countryside and eventually employ many workmen. James did not lag in ordering immediate benefits for his people, either. Long overdue repairs were made to each cottage in every hamlet on his vast estates; near his Alston lead mines he built new dwellings for the miners, while from now on, bread and beer were always to be had for the asking at the Dilston kitchens.
