The Tarrant Rose

by Veronica Heley

  Jasper avoided the gravel paths, which might have betrayed his footfall, and made his way to the house via the flowerbeds and the lawn. A thick, lead drainpipe debouched onto the terrace at the back of the house. He looked up. All the windows of the first floor room were shut, except for one. He could hear a voice speaking in measured tones and thought he recognized it as Lord George Murray’s. The voice faded and Jasper guessed that the speaker was walking round the room. He tested the drainpipe. It was fixed to the wall with brackets at intervals, and looked secure.

  He did not have far to climb—perhaps ten or eleven feet—and then he had a foot on the architrave of a ground floor window, and his ear to the sill of the window above. Grasping the sill, he edged round until he could see past the half-open shutter into the room. Intent faces were angled to the right of Jasper. Someone was saying that it was madness to engage the Hanoverians with the forces they had at their command, that the Duke of Cumberland was waiting for them to the south, that Wade was at Wetherby, and the militia at Finchley. Until the French sent reinforcements, it would be best to retreat to Scotland, where they might recruit more men.

  Another voice broke in; a younger, impetuous man. The Pretender? Jasper wished he could see further into the room. He shifted his grip, but did not improve his view. The new speaker was excitable, declaring that he had firm promises of support from many gentlemen in the south.

  Something caught Jasper’s ankle. He kicked. There was a shout of “I’ve got him!” His other ankle was caught. He lost his grip and fell down onto the terrace. The window above him was thrown open and heads looked out. He saw them looking down on him as he was borne, struggling, to the ground, his fall broken by the men underneath. There were three Highlanders in the garden, and they explained to the heads at the window that a sentry inside the garden had seen someone come over the wall, and raised the alarm; that as soon as they saw the spy’s head silhouetted against the lighted window, they had crept up on him, and seized him in the very act.

  Jasper’s hands were wrenched behind his back and tied there. At a word of command from above he was taken into the house, prodded up the stairs and thrust into the council chamber. It was a dining room, wainscotted with ancient oak, dark and handsome. Jasper had wanted to see into the room, but now he had his wish, he would have given anything to be elsewhere. Rough hands searched his pockets and discovered his pistol. Ah, a pistol! So he was planning to shoot their Prince through the window, was he? He was silent. They found his Jacobite cockade and a map showing the route from Macclesfield to Derby. Jasper bit his lip. Philip had told him to burn everything, the moment he had finished with it. Money … his money was removed from his pockets and thrown onto the table. His handkerchief … the monogram had been unpicked long ago, to conceal his identity.

  What is your name? David Vere.

  Are you with us, or against us? Neither, I was curious, that is all.

  Why did you have a cockade with you? It was a souvenir.

  What about the pistol? I carry a pistol to protect myself on the roads.

  “Cockades!” One of the officers snapped his fingers. “That’s where I’ve seen him before. I didn’t recognize him at first. It was in Edinburgh. He was hanging around, asking questions about the number of cockades we had ordered.”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I’ve seen him before, too,” said another man. “He was in a different wig and a suit of brown fustian, such as farmers wear. I asked him the way to my lord Barrymore’s, and he took the letter to deliver for me.” The man would not admit he had allowed Jasper to snatch the letter from him.

  What bad luck! Should Jasper deny everything? “It could not have been me, sir, on either occasion. I’ve never been north of Macclesfield in my life. I was visiting my uncle there, and now I’m on my way home to Lichfield. My uncle gave me the map because I was not sure of the way. I heard you were in Town, and it seemed a lark—I mean, I was curious to see …”

  “I am certain this is the man I saw in Edinburgh,” said the officer who had first spoken. He was appealing to Lord George Murray.

  “What is the name of your uncle, and what business did you have in Macclesfield?” asked Lord George.

  “Mr. Pouncey,” said Jasper, thinking hard. “My mother and I are not well off, and he invited me to stay for a sennight …”

  “I know no one of that name in Macclesfield,” said a man who had not spoken before. Jasper cursed under his breath. Of all the luck!

  “I am certain this is the same man,” said the man who had seen Jasper in Edinburgh. “I had a good look at him then, and I never forget a face. He has nothing on him to prove his identity, and that in itself is suspicious. If he was who he said he was, he would have papers on him to prove it. My vote says he is a spy. Have you searched his boots?”

  Jasper was thrown to the floor, and his boots removed. He closed his eyes and began to pray. The game was up now. To the accompaniment of a buzz of alarm and speculation, his report was handed round the table.

  “A spy, all right,” said Lord George. “Take him out into the street and hang him from the nearest lampbracket.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Wait!” The Pretender held up his hand, and cast a look of dislike at Lord George, presumably because the latter had failed to ask his permission before ordering the disposal of the spy. “The man is a spy, but we may be able to learn something from him. You …” he addressed Jasper. “What is your name? David Vere? Well, Mr. Vere, if you will accommodate us with some information, we may accommodate you by commuting your death sentence to one of imprisonment. Do you admit you are a spy?” Jasper did not reply. “Who is your contact? Are there any others of your kind in the vicinity?” Again, Jasper kept his mouth shut. One of the Highlanders hit him across the face. Jasper’s face burned, but still he kept silent. “What do you know of Cumberland’s plans?”

  Jasper’s throat constricted with fear at the thought of death, but it was not that which held him silent. He had been caught because he had disobeyed orders. He had deserved to be caught. He would go to his death in silence. It was the least he could do now. He would not betray Philip, whatever happened.

  “This ‘Maijorie’ whom you mention in your letter; who is she?” The Pretender was studying Jasper’s report. “And ‘Mr. Dalby’? Are these code names, do you think?”

  “Dalby?” A sharp-looking gentleman spoke for the first time. Jasper recognized him as a certain Mr. Townley, one of the Manchester recruits, and a respectable gentleman in civilian life. “I knew someone called Dalby once. He lived near my sister’s place. His widow lives in Town now, with her son. I don’t believe they are politically-minded.”

  “Is this the same Dalby?” Jasper stared ahead and made no response. He thought: I’ve handed Marjorie over to Dalby, when I could have done as Philip said and gone to London before this. Sweet Marjorie. …

  “This girl of yours cannot mean much to you if you are prepared to die without leaving her so much as a farewell note,” said Lord George, his cold eyes now on Jasper, and now on his report. The temptation was great. He could write a note, bidding her farewell. But now, it would never reach her. Sir John would intercept any letter sent by the common post, and he could not send it by Philip, for that would tell the Jacobites the name of the man who had played such a big part in engineering their downfall. He could send the note to Sophia; but no, that would not do, either, for he would have to say that Sophia was his sister, and someone in the room would be bound to know that the Countess of Rame had been Miss Sophia Tarrant.

  Jasper tried to think clearly. Would it matter very much, would it harm Philip or the Hanoverian cause, if the rebels were to learn his true identity? What would they say if they knew he was Sir Jasper Tarrant? That he had duped them with false letters of invitation? Surely the time for concealment of the fact was past? The rebels had been drawn down into England, were cut off from Scotland, which was the only part of Great Britain to support them, and they were wondering what
to do next. Suppose he told them. …

  “If he will not answer, take him outside and hang him.”

  He was being dragged to the door. “Wait!” he said. They paused, their hands still on his arms. He tried to consider all the possibilities at once. If the rebels turned tail now, would that be a good thing, or a bad? Jasper had heard the French were poised to invade, but if the Pretender fled back to Scotland with his troops in disarray, then what would the French do? Would they still invade? Surely not. So. …

  “We cannot wait for ever,” said Lord George. “Take him out and …”

  “I will tell you something of great importance, if you will spare my life,” said Jasper.

  “A dead spy requires no food, or guards to watch him,” said Lord George. “You will have to let us be the judge of whether your information is worth a life or not.”

  “Suppose I tell you something which will help you decide whether you should press on to London, or retreat to Scotland?”

  “Is Cumberland upon us?”

  The Pretender was more optimistic. “The south of England has risen for me?”

  “It will not do so,” said Jasper. “You see, my name is not David Vere, but Sir Jasper Tarrant. My father was the Sir Richard Tarrant with whom you used to correspond. He died a year ago, and since then it is I who have been writing to you in his name. I am no Jacobite, but a true supporter of our rightful King, George II, and the letters I wrote you were devices to lure you first into this country without proper support, and then to bring you down south, where you could be defeated with the minimum of effort. Let me be perfectly frank with you; none of the gentlemen who promised to rise for you will be doing so. Oh, some are still Jacobite in sympathy, but none of them are prepared to lose their heads for a lost cause. Has William Watkyn joined you? Or Barrymore? Or any of a dozen others who promised to do so?”

  The Pretender’s mouth worked. “I don’t believe you. This is an invention to …”

  “Compare the handwriting in my report, to that of the letters you received from ‘Sir Richard Tarrant,’ and you will see that they are the same. If anyone here knows the county of Sussex, I am prepared to give them chapter and verse of all the gentry who live within twenty miles of Tarrant Hall. Our crest was the Ram and the Rose, and it was to that sign that you sent your letters, and it was with that sign that I sealed my replies. The ‘Marjorie’ in my letter is Miss Marjorie Bladen, the niece of Sir John Bladen, our neighbor in Sussex. He does not approve of my wishing to marry his daughter, and is trying to force her into marriage with Mr. Dalby, who until recently was courting my sister Sophia. Mr. Townley may have heard something of that matter.”

  “Was she not known as the Tarrant Rose? There was some talk—my sister wrote me a tale about the King’s interest in her. Did she not marry someone else? Ah, I have it. She married Rame, a nephew of Carteret’s. If you know so much, what is Rame’s Christian name, and what does he look like?”

  “His given name is Philip; he is tall, fair of complexion, and has been a soldier. His crest is a Swan. Is that proof enough, gentlemen, or would you like me to describe Tarrant Hall to you, room by room?”

  “I don’t understand,” said the Pretender. “How could you, whose father and brother both served the Jacobite cause, believe in the Hanoverians?”

  “My father and brother drained the estate in the Jacobite cause to such good purpose that I had to sell Tarrant Hall to pay their debts. Allegiance to a lost cause has cost the Tarrants dear. I am just as much a soldier of fortune as they were, but I have picked the winning side. Oh, you may hang me or not, as you choose, but it will not alter the fact that you have lost this throw. There is no support for you in England. There never has been, and there never will be. You had better run for safety while you can.”

  Everyone started to talk at once. At a sign from Lord George, Jasper was dragged out of the room and taken down the stairs. Would they hang him now? Oh, Sweet Jesus, have mercy! His boots had been left behind in the upstairs room, and the floors were chill. He was thrust into a cellar and thrown to the floor. His feet were tied. The door was slammed shut, and bolted on the far side. The window was small and barred and high above his head. He was safe for the night.

  “It’s all the fault of that traitor, the Earl of Rame,” said Mr. Farrow, refilling Sir John’s glass. “You remember I told you he was secretly working for the Jacobites?”

  Sir John looked up, bleary-eyed. He was frequently the worse for drink nowadays, and his memory was beginning to go. His temper, however, was as fresh as ever.

  “You remember Greenwood’s story of the letter that the Frenchman gave the Earl, and how he concealed the true facts of the ambush from you? You had every right to be told the truth as Justice of the Peace, did you not?”

  “That’s right,” said Sir John loudly. “He made a fool of me.”

  “That was only the beginning, though. He’s been working in secret for the Jacobites ever since, hasn’t he? Doesn’t he have suspicious-looking men hanging around in his hall, night and day? And letters which arrive by couriers who have ridden hard and fast? Haven’t we had these couriers followed, and don’t they all go north? Why should he need so many letters from the north, when his estates are in the east? And why, if he is not engaged in treasonable activity, does he need to guard his papers so carefully? That woman we bribed—the Countess’s maid—she reported that she could only once catch a glimpse of the library, but that the walls were covered with maps.”

  “He shall be exposed as a traitor,” nodded Sir John. “I shall denounce him, before everyone, in public.”

  “I have a better idea,” said Mr. Farrow. “You don’t want to run the risk of his calling you out …”

  “Never fear,” said Sir John. “The man’s a coward—twice refused to fight me, though I as good as gave him the lie. He’s behaved very badly to Sophia, you know. Her maid said … badly bruised. The brute! Making eyes at Marjorie, too … though I soon put a stop to that, didn’t I? Marry Dalby, or stay locked up till I take you back to the country, I said.”

  “She still hasn’t consented to marry Mr. Dalby?”

  “The little idiot! Haven’t I gone to enough trouble for her already, persuading him that she was the very wife to help him with his farms? Ungrateful … teach her a lesson … teach her a lesson every day until she promises to obey me.”

  “Better be careful,” warned Mr. Farrow. “You don’t want the girl’s death on your hands. If someone sees her with those bruises, there will be talk of the wrong kind.”

  “’S all the Earl’s fault,” said Sir John, dissolving into tears. “Damn his eyes! Putting ideas into my little girl’s head … never would have disobeyed me, otherwise.”

  “Yes, yes. We must bring him down, but we must do it properly. Giving him the lie in public is one thing, but a better way would be to denounce him as a traitor to the newspapers. Think of it! He would wake up one morning to find his treachery a household word. Everyone would shun him. He would have to resign his place at Court and flee the country to avoid arrest.”

  “No, let him be arrested,” said Sir John, breathing fast. “Let him be hung, drawn and quartered on Tower Hill, and then I will rest easy, and my little girl will marry Mr. Dalby, and …”

  “And the Countess of Rame will be a widow, and very rich.” Mr. Farrow raised his glass to Sir John. “To your future happiness.”

  Sir John’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think she would? Sophia? Beautiful creature, but hard to handle.”

  “I think you could have her for the asking, once her husband is out of the way. Now, I shall need some more money.”

  “Haven’t you had enough?”

  “Not for this. We must have at least one piece of paper, one map, or letter, or dispatch out of the Earl’s library to prove our case to the newspapers. I have sounded out a man, a carpenter, who carries out all sorts of jobs in the Earl’s household, and he is willing to pick the lock of the library door, if we will pay him well enough
to do so. We will have to choose our time carefully, for the room is almost always occupied, if not by Mr. Denbigh, then by Mr. Carramine or the Earl. Also, that gallows-faced valet is always on the lookout. But it can be done. The son and heir is dying, and this means extra people in the house, doctors, surgeons, nurses, and visitors. Mr. Denbigh is often up in the sickroom for hours at a time. We will watch and wait, and then. …”

  On the morning of December 6th, the Highlanders marched out of Derby, taking Jasper Tarrant with them. He had lost his hat and boots, and his hands were still tied behind his back, but one of his guards had bound his feet with rags so that he should not fall out of the column for lack of shoes. No one seemed to know where they were going; perhaps to fight Wade at last, or perhaps to meet Cumberland at Lichfield. The men were looking forward to a battle.

  Jasper was on the lookout for Dodge, who would have become alerted to the fact that something had gone wrong when he failed to arrive at the rendezvous. A group of rustics stood at one side of the road, watching the Army march out. Jasper saw that Dodge was standing among them, but made no sign. He let his eye pass over the group to the horizon beyond. Thoughts of a rescue attempt flitted through his mind, and were rejected. What could Mr. Dodge do against so many rebels?

  Presently the Jacobites began to recognize landmarks which they had noted on their way into Derby. They were marching north, not south. They were not going to give battle to anyone, but were retreating. Their mood became ugly.

  That very same morning, Friday, December 6th, the news reached London that the Jacobites were in Derby. Everyone panicked. It was the first time that Londoners had felt in danger, for after all, Derby was in the Midlands, and who knew how soon the rebels might be in London? There was a run on the banks, which began paying out in sixpences to gain time. No one paused to reflect, but rushed about making plans to flee the country, or to arm their households.