Piers Blanding had given his orders to a liveried man who hovered outside the box, and they were soon eating a luxurious cold collation washed down with what seemed to Hart a great deal of claret. ‘You wouldn’t like something … something lighter?’ he asked as Blanding refilled Julia’s glass.
‘Lighter?’ She looked at him for a moment in entrancing puzzlement, then gave her delicious little laugh. ‘Oh, dear Cousin Hart, you think I would rather have orgeat or even lemonade as at stuffy old Almack’s! No, I thank you, the ladies of our family have always drunk their glass with the gentlemen, and I hope we always will. They do things otherwise in your American colonies, I suppose?’
‘Not colonies, Cousin,’ he said, suddenly stiff. ‘Independent states, if you please.’
‘I stand corrected.’ She raised her glass in silent toast. ‘Ah, here come the others.’ She turned to greet George and Mordaunt, who each now had a ravishing young lady on his arm. To Hart’s surprise, no formal introductions were made, though he soon learned that the ladies were Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Warren, or, mostly, Charlotte and Emily. He understood, now, why Blanding had ordered for so many and was not entirely surprised, when they came at last to leave, that he seemed to be expected to pay for all of them.
‘Dear Hart,’ said Julia, pressing his arm as he led her down to the waiting carriage. ‘I do thank you for my happy evening. And for keeping my bad brother out of mischief for once. Just think what he might have been losing at the Cocoa Tree.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Hart dutifully, and told himself that he had best pay another call on Drummond’s Bank in the morning.
Next day the papers spoke hopefully of a probable early end to General Clinton’s siege of Charleston. ‘It seems extraordinary.’ Hart put down the Public Ledger.
‘Extraordinary?’
‘That I should be free to enjoy myself here in London while men on both sides are fighting and dying at Charleston.’
‘Let us hope that they are not,’ said Dick. ‘It does look as if Clinton’s force was overwhelming. Your General Lincoln must surely see reason and surrender. Then, perhaps, it will be possible for us to negotiate a peace with honour to all sides.’
‘I wish I could believe it,’ said Hart.
‘Well,’ Dick said bracingly, ‘believe it or not, there is nothing in the world you can do about it, so let us put on our leathers and take Julia for the ride in the park she longs for. She’s right, you know.’ He had seen Hart hesitate. ‘It can do you nothing but good to be seen to be behaving like a reasonable man. You must see that any excessive exhibition of mourning might be misconstrued. You cannot possibly go wrong if you stay close to Julia, who is universally loved, and with cause.’
‘I should think so,’ said Hart warmly.
It was extraordinary to have escaped from so much danger, to be still under threat of imprisonment, and to find himself in fact involved in the whole pleasant whirl of London society. Protesting less and less, he rode with Julia in the park, squired her to the exhibition of paintings at Somerset House, and let her make up parties to see Mr. Sheridan’s School for Scandal and Lady Craven’s comedy, The Miniature Picture, with Perdita Robinson, the young actress who was rumoured to be the Prince of Wales’s mistress. Julia seemed to know just whom to ask on these occasions and made everything easy for him, even down to the paying, which was, of course, his affair.
He had not actually met Mr. Fox or Mr. Burke yet, though he had seen them often enough at the parties to which he squired Julia, and, what concerned him even more, there had so far been no response to his request for an exchange. But as Dick and Julia both said, it was early yet. Two or three weeks were nothing when it was a question of the grinding of the mills of power. ‘And there could be nothing more fatal than to seem too pressing,’ said Julia in reply to one of his anxious speeches. ‘Just keep on as you have been, Cousin, and I am sure we will see a happy ending soon enough. In the meantime, you must arbitrate between Dick and me. We have quite come to cuts as to what we should do this evening. I say Vauxhall, and he says Ranelagh, so you must decide for us.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Hart, ‘you must decide, Cousin. But,’ he went on, puzzled, ‘is there not a ball at Devonshire House tonight?’ Here would be his chance for a meeting with Fox, who surely would not be dancing.
‘A ball! Why, Cousin Hart, I am surprised at you.’ Julia made him a little face of shocked surprise. ‘You in such deep mourning to be talking of balls! You must understand, dear Cousin, that breakfasts and routs are one thing, balls quite another. Lord, it’s lucky for you that you have me to school you, or I hate to think what trouble you would be getting into! As it is, I give my voice for Vauxhall. Dick, you must command one of Mr. Robert’s boats. The one with eight oars, and shall we have music?’ She turned with a pretty hesitation to Hart. ‘It’s charming to be rowed upstream from the Whitehall Steps with one’s attendant band of horns and trumpets playing Mr. Handel’s Water Music:
‘It sounds delightful,’ said Hart.
It would have been still more so, he thought, later, ensconced in a snug box, with burnt champagne and the expensive, thin-sliced ham for which Vauxhall was famous, if their party had been a more interesting one. He was getting a little tired of Mordaunt and Blanding and their attendant ladies and began to find himself surprised that Julia continued to enjoy their company and their endless talk of parties of pleasure and, in the ladies’ case, dress. The gentlemen talked about this too, about waistcoats and snuff boxes and boot polish, in the intervals of their interminable talk of racing and of bets won and lost.
‘Look!’ Could Julia have read his mind, as she sometimes seemed to do? ‘Now there is a party that will interest you, Hart. There is Dr. Johnson’s friend Miss Burney, the daughter of the musician, you know, with Mr. Thrale and his wife and daughter. I quite thought they were at Bath.’
‘Is Dr. Johnson there?’ asked Hart. ‘I would dearly love to meet him.’
‘And get one of his famous setdowns, for being the lowest of God’s creatures, an American? No, I am sorry to have to disappoint you, but I doubt this is the kind of place he frequents. Or at least not when his toady Boswell is at home ruralising with his Scotch wife and all those children. And anyway,’ Julia finished with some finality, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Thrale are very good sort of people, I am sure, but not quite the kind that I would wish you to be associating with. And I am your mentor, do not forget.’
‘And the most delightful one a man could have. But pray, wise mentor, since so you are, when am I to see Mr. Walpole’s Strawberry Hill? I have read of the wonders he has done with the place – of his fountains and grottoes, as far off as America, and I do dearly long to see it.’
‘Stupid of me!’ said Julia. ‘I had quite forgot. Dear Mr. Walpole, he is an old man, though he would rather die than admit it, and I really believe he must have overlooked my letter. He is nice, you know, about whom he admits to his beloved Strawberry. I will write again in the morning.’
XII
Dick and Hart both had business in the City next morning, Dick with Mr. Busby and Hart once more at Drummond’s Bank. Meeting Hart outside St. Paul’s, Dick proposed that they should stay in the City for a while. ‘Busby tells me that some of Gordon’s people from his great meeting in St. George’s Fields are to march to Parliament by way of the City this morning and then up Fleet Street and the Strand. It would be interesting to see what kind of crowd he has stirred up by this strange campaign of his against the Roman Catholics. Nothing will come of it, of course. Everyone knows that the Relief Act of ’78 was a measure of simple justice. Now, by taking the oath of allegiance, a Roman Catholic can actually inherit an estate – or serve his King as an officer in the army. Between ourselves, we Whigs always thought that that was part of the purpose of the act: to help recruitment for service against you rebel Americans.’ A smile for Hart deprived this of its sting. ‘It all passed off so quietly at the time that it’s hard to understand why Gordon is making such a to-do
about it now. But everyone knows him for something of a wild man. He’ll never get anywhere with his petition, but let’s see what sort of numbers he has contrived to assemble.’
Hart agreed. ‘I’ll send the curricle back to Fozard’s, and let us walk back to Charles Street. Now this hot weather has dried up the mud in the roads, I immensely enjoy walking in your great city.’
Dick laughed. ‘A most unfashionable pastime, but so do I.’ He was silent for a moment, then smiled rather ruefully at Hart. ‘The truth of the matter is, I’m no Londoner, never have been. A few weeks on the gad here are enough for me. Frankly, I wish your business was happily settled and we could go home to Denton.’
‘Are you waiting for me?’ This was news to Hart. ‘I thought you, too, were waiting, for news of a ship.’
Dick looked unhappy now. ‘They don’t hold out much hope at the Admiralty. To tell truth, Hart, I do not quite understand what is going on there. There’s a feeling … oh, it’s nothing. London always gives me the blue devils.’
‘I’m sorry. And sorrier still that you have to stay on my account. And were it not for the pleasure of Julia’s company, I would be inclined to agree with you about London. I was never a great one for society either … That reminds me, Dick, who are the Mohawks?’
‘The Mohawks?’ Surprised. ‘Why, a very wild gang of young men indeed. They took their name from the Indian tribe, and a good many of their habits, by what one hears. What makes you ask about them?’
‘Something Julia said’ – Hart wished now that he had not raised the subject – ‘about George …’
‘George? Was he mixed up with them? I do hope not! It’s terrible to have been away for so long. Sometime I feel I hardly know my own brother and sister anymore. I worry about them, Hart.’
‘Surely no need to worry about Julia,’ said Hart.
‘No … no, of course not.’ He turned to look down Cheapside, listening. They could hear the buzzing murmur of many voices, now, and an occasional burst of singing. ‘Hymns, I think. They sound quiet enough.’
‘But a great many of them.’ Hart had heard the noise of a mob too often at home in Savannah, and though this did indeed sound like an unusually peaceful one, he could not help a slight chilling of the blood. ‘What are your English mobs like?’ he asked.
‘Like all mobs: frightening,’ said Dick. ‘I was in town during the Wilkes and Liberty riots in ’69 and don’t much want to see anything like that again. Mind you, John Wilkes had some right on his side, as you must know, such a friend to you Americans as he is. But there was the devil to pay for a while. The case today is quite other, of course. If mad Lord George should stir up trouble, which I do not expect, it needs only a magistrate with the courage to read the Riot Act and a few soldiers ready to do their duty, and it’s over in a trice. It’s true’ – he looked up at the cloudless sky of yet another brilliantly fine day – ‘this hot weather may mean greater numbers, perhaps a bit of trouble as a result, but nothing to signify, I am sure. Government have known about the meeting in St. George’s Fields and the planned marches to Parliament for some time; they will undoubtedly have made their preparations. Look, there the marchers come. You see, a very decent-looking lot of men.’
‘And women,’ said Hart in surprise. ‘It looks almost like a family outing. And so many of them in black, too. Yes, I agree with you, Dick, they do look a sober lot. But, Lord, what a number of them! And this is only one of three processions, you say?’
‘So Busby says. Hark at that!’ The leaders of the procession had reached St. Paul’s now and had broken out into three deep, echoing cheers for the cathedral. ‘You see; they are men of God, they respect the church.’
‘You think cheering a sign of respect? I wonder.’ The marchers were filing past now, cheering as they came, and Hart saw that most of them wore blue cockades in their hats, while some carried banners, with the legend ‘No Popery!’ He also noticed that the procession was being quietly joined by people who came out of the small side streets and that many of these were of quite another stamp from the respectable black-clad leaders. He pointed this out to Dick, who agreed.
‘Yes, the inevitable crowd of hangers-on, pickpockets and petty thieves, and discontented ‘prentices. You’d best watch your pockets … What do you say we cut across the fields and rejoin the procession when it gets to the Strand? It is moving slowly enough, in all conscience.’
‘And is long enough. It sounds like the sea,’ Hart went on as they turned away into the shabby open country round the Fleet Ditch. When they rejoined the procession, near Temple Bar, he thought that the raffish element in it had increased considerably. ‘And listen to that!’ he exclaimed as a great shout of ‘No Popery!’ came reverberating back down the long procession.
‘They must be passing near one of the Catholic chapels,’ said Dick. ‘Oh, well, harmless enough, I suppose. Let them shout away their feelings and be done with it.’
‘If it’s only that,’ said Hart. ‘I think we should hurry home, Dick, and warn your father to be ready for trouble when he goes down to the House today.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Dick cheerfully. ‘But let us by all means go home; we promised Julia a ride in the park. I’m surprised you should have forgotten.’
Hart had not in fact done so but, as so often these days, had been trying to bridle his eagerness to see Julia, to be with her, to touch her hand while helping her to mount her horse. It was horrible that he should feel like this; he was ashamed; he fought it as best he could; and in the end, he could not help himself. To see her daily, many times every day, to have to live in the same house with her and pretend, always, that he felt for her only what a cousin should, was horrible, was more than he could bear. But it must be borne. He knew he should move away, into lodgings, free from this daily, hourly temptation, but the terms of his parole tied him to Dick, and besides, he had promised Busby that he would stand by the Purchases.
If only he would hear from Mercy. Then perhaps she would become real to him again instead of seeming more and more shadowy and remote, his wife in name only. The cold salt width of the Atlantic lay between them, dulling memory, chilling the heart. Two more lines of the ballad his mother used to sing came suddenly back to him, giving him the whole first verse:
Oh, wide is the water, I cannot get o’er,
The water lies wide twixt my true love and me,
I stand alone on a stranger shore
And never more my true love shall see.
His true love. Mercy? Mercy, who had caused his mother’s death. And still had sent no word of comfort, of apology … Busby had explained, pitying his ignorance, that there was a lively traffic in smuggled American mail by way of Holland. Mercy must have seen the news both of his capture and of his mother’s death in Rivington’s Gazette, which was freely circulated among the rebels. Rebels? He pulled himself up. He meant, of course, the free Americans.
They found Julia impatiently awaiting them, very elegant in a new dark green riding habit with gold frogging.
‘You’re very fine, Julia,’ said Dick.
She pulled one of her expressive faces. ‘Since revered Papa decrees that my mother and I may not go to the Birthday, and therefore do not have the expense of hoops and feathers, she has the vapours, and I have treated myself to the consolation of one whole new habit. Anyway’ – brightening up – ‘the Birthday would be small pleasure without the benefit of my favourite escort.’ She gave her rich little laugh. ‘I would just like to see Farmer George’s face if we were so bold as to confront him with one of his rebellious Americans. And that starchy Queen of his, too, and all those sad princesses. But instead, I have arranged a party of pleasure for us, of which I do hope you will approve, Cousin Hart. Mordaunt and George and you and I are all to hire one of Mr. Roberts’s boats and make a night of it at Vauxhall. Monday, of course, since the Birthday will be celebrated then. You shall come, too, Dick, if you can find yourself a young lady. I am not to be troubling with you if I have Hart to galla
nt me, as I trust I will.’ With a ravishing upward sweep of dark eyes.
The park was unusually full of people, even for a Friday, and Julia was soon surrounded by her usual crowd of devoted cavaliers. Hart always enjoyed watching her hold court like this, and enjoyed it the more because of the sparkling, special look she saved for him. There were never any women in her company, he had noticed and could only suppose that her rivals could not bear to be outshone.
They were joined, after a while, by George Purchas and Mordaunt. ‘There’s the devil to pay at Westminster,’ said George with evident pleasure. ‘Members being jostled and tousled and made to swear “No Popery” before they are so much as allowed into the house. Chief justices without their wigs; bishops without their gowns, and Lord Boston’s very life in danger. Don’t I just hope some disaster may strike our revered parent. Nothing too serious, you understand, just death.’
‘George!’ said Julia. ‘It’s no subject for your jokes!’
‘Who said I was joking? But we are shocking our American cousin. Surely you are used to the antics of the mob on your republican shores, Cousin Purchis.’
‘I am afraid so,’ said Hart gravely. ‘And very much ashamed of them. But are things really so serious down at Westminster? Should we not go there and try to help Mr. Purchas?’
‘Quite impossible,’ said Mordaunt. ‘I am but now come from there, and I tell you you might as well look for a hot coal in hell as one man in that scrimmage. If Mr. Purchas has his wits about him, as, to give the devil his due, he mainly has, he is snug at home by this, having given his coachman the office to turn tail at sight of the mob.’
Wide is the Water Page 16
