by William Hunt
“Rosalyn takes instruction from the Dominican Sister Hood,” explained the Comte. “Our prayers go with them and to our Blessed Virgin Mary,” he added reverentially.
Squire Portlock stood wondering at this manifestation of Catholic clergy in Gloucester itself. In the past, such sights were unheard of… but now! Here in Gloucester, these people were the living embodiment of events taking place in Revolutionary France.
Without another word, Sister Jacqueline left her charge, and withdrew noiselessly from whence she came. The Squire could only marvel at the hushed air of sanctimonious religious sentiment that presented itself to him. A greater contrast to the garrulous and earthy venue he’d only recently left, could not be imagined.
But in answer to his own solicitations, the de Moritz family were in good spirits, although the Gloucester town house (quaint enough in its way) was a good deal smaller than what they had been used to.
Comtesse Lisa was far more impressed by Cheltenham. As recent guests of Major Alan Bullimore; they were much taken by the freshly built and spacious Cotswold stone apartments with their wide approachable avenues. Far and away more conducive to civilised living than the crooked timbered houses and narrow streets of Gloucester.
And sadly, the coiffure salons and peruke makers of Gloucester could not begin to compare with the high fashion in Cheltenham. The newly built ‘Colonnade’ had a much greater selection of style and material, than anything found in Gloucester.
But most of all, the daily rantings of the street preachers in Gloucester, came as a most unpleasant surprise. Methodists, Calvinists, Presbyterian – all could be heard hectoring the crowds, whether it was wished for or not. The French aristocrats found it most vexatious and intrusive to their Catholic conventions.
Jonas smiled, “Oh, God’s in Gloucester for sure.” Seeing the puzzlement on the faces of his hosts he explained. “It is an old saying we have hereabouts.” Indeed, the inflow of dissenting protestant clergy into Gloucester had long since been a feature of city life since the time of the English Civil War. And with the added presence of Sister Jacqueline earlier… Jonas wryly thought the adage was never truer than of today.
But now down to a little business. The Comte received a missive from Lord Arlingham who understood the London banks were most disquieted by the quantity of depreciating French assignat bills currently in their possession.
Before long they would cease releasing gold in exchange for the assignat. His Lordship warningly wrote. It was high time to sell off their joint holdings of this currency. Therefore, a document was enclosed for both their signatures, authorising the sale.
“And here I must countersign-Henri Fontaine,” declared the Comte perusing the paperwork. But before he did so, the Comte further wondered if ‘Gloucester Old Bank’ might be a possible agency for such a transaction… It was the adjacent building after all.
On this matter, Squire Portlock was able to render sound advice. “It is a trifling provincial money lending establishment for farmers and innkeepers”, he pointed out. “They print their own paper notes which are unredeemable ten miles beyond Gloucester Cross. Take my word Comte! The Gloucester Old Bank is totally unsuited to undertake such a weighty transaction.”
The Comte thus persuaded, prepared the document for posting at the ‘Bell’ and onwards to London. The squire himself offered to oversee its despatch at the posting house, which further pleased the hosts.
With the document countersigned and sealed, Squire Portlock was persuaded to remain a little longer for refreshments, and as the conversation proceeded, the innermost thoughts of his hosts were aired.
Naturally the Comte and Comtesse yearned to return home to their Chateau, and eagerly sought any news which might lead to a restoration of the old ways. And within the last week, developments in Paris had raised their spirits dramatically.
After King Louis abortive failed attempt to escape, it seemed a rascally gathering of Parisian troublemakers assembled on the Champ de Mars demanding they would have “no king at all”. The National Guard opened fire and the mob fled in disorganised retreat.
“Why, it is written in the ‘Gloucester Journal’.” The Comte pointed to the newspaper draped across an armchair. The squire nodded sympathetically. He too had read the article.
“Ah yes. Lafayette set about those revolutionaries,” the Comte rejoiced. “And we hear their horrible printing presses were broken also.” Greatly enthused the Comte smartly clapped his hands together.
“Un-Deux-Trois!”
Comtesse Lisa and Mlle Rosalyn responded in gusty unison. “Vive Le Roi!”
So beleaguered; the French emigres seized on whatever brought consolation or comfort to their exiled lives. And with every dispatch of information: be it word of mouth, personal correspondence or news periodicals. The mood of the de Moritz household rose and fell like the Severn tide itself. One could only live in hope. It was all they had.
August Moon
The August sun was unrelenting that year. For the corn harvest, the weather could not be bettered. Across the estates, first barley then wheat stalks quivered and swooned under the blades of the ragged lines of scythe men working beneath the glare of the great yellow orb.
Straw hats and bandanas covered the heads of the field workers, and at hourly intervals the men paused to slake their thirsts with the jugs of cider ferried over to them.
Once upon a time, the favoured tool for the corn harvest was the sickle hook. A few of the longer-lived inhabitants remembered those days.
Back along, the corn was planted in strips and collectively worked by the families of the village, but with the advent of private enclosure, the cornfields had relocated and grown big.
Now the old undulating ridge and furrow lands below Windmill Hill lay abandoned and planted over with apple orchards.
For the owners of the cash crop fields, what mattered now was the work rate. The sickle became obsolete… The scythe was King.
Throughout this period of hectic activity, streams of people swarmed the lanes and fields. It seemed as if most of the able-bodied men women and children of Gloucester had de-camped to the countryside. And willing hands they were too. Toiling the long days through and sleeping out under the carts and haystacks of a night.
Most, but not all… In the country houses of the well-to-do and the substantial farms. The gentlefolk – especially the women and children – took care not to be exposed to the sun. Preferring to remain indoors, they stayed within the cooler rooms of their spacious dwellings, or took their ease in the shade of an outdoor summerhouse.
As a result of this retreat from the suns glare, the complexions of the landowning folk retained a pink hue, whilst those abroad in the fields turned swarthy and sometimes even black. It seemed that England at this time was home to two sorts of people, separated not only by station but by colour.
Nevertheless the harvest work continued apace, and as the corn fields were cleared, wages owed were settled at the nearest alehouse. A strenuous drink filled day gave way to a carousing and occasionally cursing drink-filled night.
John and Charlie could do no other than be swept along by the throng at the ‘Forge Inn’ on those halcyon summer evenings.
“And how bides those by the river?” enquired Peter Rastall to the wayfarers one night.
“All’s well and good,” replied Charlie in response. “We ’aven’t fallen in yet.”
However, as Charlie and John were making their unsteady way home the previous night, both were startled out of their wits by the upward rush of the Severn tide.
“Why, strike me but I’d never seen the Thames in such a rage,” spoke Charlie with awe. John thought it was the judgement day and prayed for deliverance.
“What can it be?” they enquired of the gathered company. Amid the jovial laughter, Peter Rastall ventured an explanation.
“Why at the time of a big harvest moon, the tides run high. I’d be careful now or the floodwater might come peeping into the hut one night soo
n.”
John and Charlie took stock of this information with no small alarm causing further hilarity. Richard Amos seated in the nearby alcove with Jasper Ely, overheard the teasing and put his head round the door.
“Pack that in!” He called out loudly. “And you two take n’ notice.”
The guffaws subsided, but the chuckling bubbled over a while longer. “Not such a poor sort of a river now, eh?” gloated Peter Rastall. All in all he was greatly satisfied to see John and Charlie’s newfound respect for his beloved Severn.
The month of August began to lose its fullness, and the field workers sensed their work coming to an end. The harvest moon appeared low over the eastern skyline, and its bright glow on the floor of the earth threw long moonlit shadows across the countryside.
At such times the figure of Melody Bell fleetingly crossed lea and stubble to meet with her lover… Toby Portlock. After their first clandestine meeting, temptation proved too great. Irresistibly, drawn back to the maid, Toby sought her out by singular encounter. And willingly she came to him.
For the farm servants at Home Farm. (As with their counterparts elsewhere in the parish). The usually strict lock up times were relaxed for the period of the harvest. Freedom of movement was gained, and lateness of the hour allowed, that was seldom permitted at any other time of the year.
Young couples in high summer were presented with a heaven-sent opportunity, and many a dalliance took place among the stooks and hay barns. Furtive lovers lay safely ensconced, and hidden from prying eyes.
So, it was with Melody Bell and Toby Portlock. At each subsequent meeting, their courtship grew bolder, and soon it was consummated… They knew each other.
At day’s end, she ran back to re-join the homeward procession lit with lamps amid the fading light. And alone among the others, she took hold of Charlottes hand, her eyes aglow and her face flushed and jubilant.
At Home Farm the two maids shared a bed, and Charlotte inevitably became Melody’s close confidante. Lying together in the darkness, Charlotte was agog, (her God-fearing morality shocked to the core) whilst Melody recounted her exploits with Toby Portlock.
“Melody, how can you?!” Charlotte reproached her friend. “Why, there’s a time for kissin’ and a cuddlin’ but you go too far. Marriage must come before that.”
Melody laughed carelessly… What did she care? It seemed both Rupert and Toby were hers to summon. In the event, Charlotte made a belated attempt to bring Melody round.
“You always were the pretty one of the village, but bad things will come of this. I just know it will.”
Melody was dismissive of her roommates concerns.
“When the time comes, Charlotte, I will decide who is to walk out with me,” she announced airily.
“Oh! Hearken to the Queen of the May,” Charlotte responded sarcastically. “Pride goes before a fall my girl. It says so in the Old Testament.”
With that, Charlotte huffily turned over in bed, and the little attic room at Home Farm fell silent.
As for Toby; the clandestine trysts hastened his loss of virginity in circumstances his cultural upbringing led him to expect. At ‘Kings’, the bawdy references to chambermaids and village wenches by the older boys, pointed the direction from whence a young blade was to proceed. And so it went. At such times, a willing farm girl became very useful.
Then of course, there was the lovelorn son of Lord Arlingham himself. “Cocked a snoop at Rupert Valans eh!” He thought with glee. Whilst the heir to Hardcourt Hall was composing ineffectual odes to the maid, he had taken possession of her.
Galloping home Toby Portlock reached Manor Farm, and in a state of high excitement spurred on his mount towards the five barred farm gate.
Up and over they went. In the distance, the solid red-bricked farmhouse stood bathed in moonlight, surrounded by stacks and ricks. The collective efforts of the summers labour so far that year.
He could see the flickering candles placed in the windows by the servants. Doubtless his guvnor and mother were at this very moment pondering his whereabouts. Why, he could hear his guvnor now… No doubt speaking in an exasperated tone.
“Where has that boy got too?”
“Not such a boy anymore”, Toby thought gleefully, as he pushed his horse onward for the final gallop home.
To think that a short while ago he’d had been looking forward to the commencement of the Continental Grand Tour. But of late, he had embarked on another journey altogether… A journey into manhood.
Oh what fine sport he was having. And the fox-hunting season was soon to start. What joy under the stars and heavens, to be the son of a gentleman landowning farmer, and living in the God given County of Gloucestershire?
For others that August night, the future was not quite so rosy. The word had gone around. There was just one more field of wheat to mow. Once the last of the corn stooks were stacked onto the carts, the harvest was done.
At the ‘Forge Inn’, John and Charlie jostled to fill their mugs, and afterwards (to avoid the crush) they took the air outside, sitting ’neath the spreading ancient oak tree, its heavy boughs propped up by iron supports.
All betokened peace and tranquillity, save for the occasional laughter from the pub yard and the distant churr of a nightjar hawking in the night sky. The two quietly nursed their drinks, and then Charlie broke the silence.
“A few days more and we’ll be done ’ere, Johnny,” he cautioned.
“Today Lords of the ‘arvest. Tomorrow, seeds a tumblin’ along, blown by the winds of heaven,” he added in a philosophical vein.
John made no comment, but Charlie was concerned for what was to come.
“Shall you and I keep company thereafter?” He tentatively probed.
“And why should we not?” John replied.
“But where do we go? That’s the thing.”
John had already made up his mind on that score.
“It’s time I went home. Are you to come with me, Charlie?”
“Papist Ireland?” Charlie was incredulous.
“To be sure,” John replied, and then a little fuddled by drink, he mumbled incautiously. “The troubles must be done with be now.”
Charlie quickly seized on John’s last utterance. “Troubles? What troubles?”
John recovered his wits, and he attempted to make light of it all. “Ah, but me mouths running away. I’m talkin’ too fast to think.”
Charlie eyed his companion with a steely glint. His intuition told him, the time had arrived to delve down a bit.
“See, I notice things, Johnny boy… Like the day his lordship’s coach passed by. Why you stood wonder-struck. As if you’d seen a ghost… Or summat worse even.”
Charlie’s remarks were perfectly timed. John in his mellowed state – driven by honesty – and above all a wish to unload his burden, opened up to his housemate. By now the bond between them was strong enough to stand it.
“Ah, a banshee was what I saw all right!”
As Charlie listened intently, John told the whys and wherefores of his departure from County Wexford. But when John revealed that the Irish landowner from whence he’d fled was the self-same Lord Arlingham on whose estates they presently worked, Charlie goggled in surprise.
“Well, cut out my gizzard and feed it the dogs,” Charlie spoke in blank amazement. John little guessed his revelations had brought to light an incredible coincidence that linked both men inextricably to Hardcourt Hall.
For a moment or so a confounded Charlie inwardly digested the implications of the imparted facts. Then it was John’s turn to ask a few questions.
“And you, Charlie? If the streets of London are paved with gold, what brings you scrapin’ alongside of me?”
It couldn’t be denied. Charlie owed his companion a small explanation. But before he began, Charlie took a swig from his mug and cocked his head round to check no eavesdroppers were loitering by the oak tree.
“Ah well! I got into a mix up, you might say,” Charlie began hesi
tantly. “Never mind the gold, Johnny boy, but there’s a deal of villainy on those London streets as you cannot believe.” John waited whilst Charlie geared up to divest himself of a particle of truth.
“There was a burglary see,” Charlie finally admitted. “None of my doing,” he quickly added, “But I got the blame for it anyhow.” At this point, John sniggered disbelievingly.
“The Lord strike me down if I ain’t tellin’ the truth,” Charlie blasphemed loudly. The two started in anticipation of divine wrath. John crossed himself and uttered a small prayer.
The seconds passed and the heavens remained calm. Charlie’s aplomb returned, and (in a nutshell) he spelt out their collective situation.
“Anyways I can’t go back and neither can you… So there!” John however disagreed vigorously.
“Oh but I’m bound for home,” he insisted.
“Come or stay as you please, but go I will.”
“And walk straight onto the gallows mate!” Charlie shot back.
“And where’s the money for the boat fare matey? I don’t know about you, but I’m skinned. What with the boozin’ and bread to fill our bellies?”
Charlie’s blunt verdict went hard for John. He became maudlin. It was a bleak assessment. Adrift in England-with no turning back -and their harbourage soon to be terminated.
All of a sudden, loud shouts punctuated the night air. An argument had broken out at the Forge Inn, and a disorderly crowd spilled outside onto the green. Shaken from their introspections, the two companions took stock. Given their past, it was most advisable to steer clear of any untoward commotion.
“List to them… Let’s make tracks whilst there’s moonlight to show us the way,” advised Charlie. Both drank up and tied their pewter pots onto their belts.
“You know what, Charlie? John remarked.”Before I left, me father said if I ever came across Lord Arlingham, I was to pass on his kindest wishes… Can you believe that now?"
In the event of this unlikely occurrence, Charlie gave John some helpful advice on conduct proper to such an occasion.
