The Sparks Fly Upward

by Diana Norman

  He’d done so well. True, he’d not achieved the eminence he might have liked, but he had overcome pain and humiliation to keep himself contentedly afloat in one of the most uncertain of professions.

  ‘There’s no cairtainty it won’t happen again,’ Dr Baines said when Makepeace begged him for it. ‘But we can employ his fright to his benefit; assure him that my regimen of diet and exercise will reduce the risk.’

  ‘How can he exercise on a broken ankle?’

  It appeared that he could and must. There were limbering motions that could be made while he was in bed, and crutches to be used around the garden when he was up and around.

  ‘I’ll no’ have him traipsing to London nor any playhouse,’ the doctor told her, ‘Tranquillity in the Lord’s sweet air is the order of the day.’

  From that moment the entire household was put on a diet of boiled fish and greens so that Aaron’s nose should not be tortured by the smell of roast red meats rising, houri-like, from the kitchen. Philippa, who’d begun to be influenced by the growing movement for vegetarianism, would have been pleased but, as well as her care for Aaron’s health, Makepeace’s satisfaction lay in the restriction it would give to Murrough’s gluttony. However, neither that night at dinner, nor any subsequent night, did he complain. Indeed, it looked as if the presence of the man might even prove an advantage; he seemed content to relieve herself and Jenny by sitting with Aaron, talking and reading in between the patient’s bouts of sleep.

  With her first panic over, she was now able to investigate Philippa’s sudden departure for the north.

  ‘He did what?’

  ‘The dorty sod smeared the lass with his own sleck,’ Hildy said. ‘That Kitty Hays was there.’

  ‘I’ll kill him. Why?’

  Hildy shrugged. ‘Ah’ve not fathomed it yet. Summat about leading his missis astray.’

  ‘Philippa?’

  ‘Ah said the syem, but afore Ah could get the sense o’t, she was packed and off, all hell for leather.’

  ‘The bastard frightened her away?’ That sounded even less like Philippa.

  ‘Naa, naa.’ Hildy considered. ‘Ah’d not say she was feared, more determined like. Like she was set on summat.’

  ‘Something that meant going up to Raby?’

  Hildy shrugged.

  Makepeace’s questioning of Chadwell, the newest recruit to her staff, cast little light on the reasons for Philippa’s departure but somewhat more on the cause of Fitch-Botley’s attack. Such illumination took time since Chadwell tended to dwell with appalled relish on the sights he’d seen during his two visits to the capital. Somewhat tactlessly, considering his situation, he put the blame for his and Lady Fitch-Botley’s exposure to them on Philippa, as he did his own punishment and Georgiana’s at the hands of Sir Charles.

  ‘Her poor Ladyship’s flighty, I admit, but she’d never’ve gone to them places on her own account, not never. Nor she wouldn’t’ve written they things if Miss Philippa hadn’t put her with that newspaper chap—and him, well, talked like a woman he did, looked a bit like one, too. Shockin’ it was. I seen Sir Charles angry but I never seen him in the rage Her Ladyship’s scribblin’s brought him to. Cut her across the face he did and as for me . . . see these stripes?’ He pulled down the back of his collar to show the scars left by the lashes of a whip.

  ‘What newspaper chap? Show me them weals one more time, Chadwell, and I swear I’ll give you more to go with ’em. Where did you go? And why?’

  To the why, she got no more than that it was something to do with papers. As to where . . . ‘Grubby place ’twas, name and nature.’

  ‘Grub Street? Was it Grub Street? Which number?’

  It might have been Grub Street but as to the number Chadwell’s memory failed him.

  ‘Well, I’m going to London tomorrow and you can take me there.’ Aaron seemed to be progressing well enough to be left to Hildy, Jenny and Murrough, and she needed to see Mr Hackbutt about John Beasley’s defense.

  On the way, she called in on the Fitch-Botleys. Chadwell was too afraid of another lashing at the hands of his former master to take the trap within view of the house so, as had Philippa and Kitty Hays a few days previously, Makepeace walked up the carriage drive, determined to get an explanation and an apology for what had been done to her daughter.

  She received neither. She was kept standing in the pleasant entrance hall while the footman went upstairs with her request to see either Sir Charles or Lady Fitch-Botley. A male voice, deliberately pitched to reach her, said, ‘I’ll have nothing to do with any relative of that harpy. And you may tell the person below that, in any case, I do not receive tradeswomen.’

  On the way to London, Makepeace only once interrupted the reverie that occupied her. ‘Tell me, Chadwell,’ she said. ‘Does Sir Charles use coal or wood for his fires?’

  She received little more satisfaction at the chambers of her old friend Mr Hackbutt than she had at the Fitch-Botleys’. Philippa, it seemed, had already done all that could be done for John Beasley at this stage. And, no, she could not see Mr Beasley in the Tower; he and the others were not allowed visitors other than their legal representative—and even that, grudgingly.

  Mr Hackbutt extended himself on the government’s perfidy in suspending habeas corpus, then asked after Philippa. ‘I thought she looked peaked when she was here—a trip to the north is maybe just what she needs.’

  ‘Did she mention why she was going?’

  ‘No, she finished her personal business here and set off.’

  ‘What personal business, George?’

  Mr Hackbutt wagged a finger. ‘Now, now, missus. Miss Philippa is my client as much as you are and just as entitled to confidentiality.’

  At Grub Street, Gervase Lucey was delighted to see her and more forthcoming. He was devastated to hear of Georgiana Fitch-Botley’s mistreatment at the hands of her husband. ‘The brute. Poor dear thing, such talent. And I was depending on her for The Passenger ’s next editorial, the matter of women’s rights has attracted a deal of attention—not all of it complimentary, but at least it sells.’ He cocked an eye at Makepeace. ‘I suppose, dear Missus, that you couldn’t ...’

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ Makepeace told him. ‘Don’t believe in it and can’t put two words together if I did. Was that why Philippa came here? So’s the Fitch-Botley female could write for The Passenger?’

  ‘Oh, no, dear. Initially it was to find a forger. Didn’t she tell you?’

  ‘I was away. A forger?’

  ‘My dear, I was as surprised as you. There she was, bless her, butter absolutely refusing to melt in her mouth and it was by-the-way-do-you-happen-to-know-any-good-forgers-dear-Mr-Lucey. Apparently, she intended to send counterfeit travel passes to a friend of hers to enable his escape from France.’ Mr Lucey tapped his chin. ‘At least, I think it was a him, might have been a her. What was it, Jamie?’

  ‘A him.’

  Mr Lucey smiled fondly. ‘Jamie knows. Jamie took her to the Scratcher, didn’t you, Jamie? Scratcher’s our local forger and quite excellent in his villainous way. There were some difficulties but I believe the business was eventually conducted to the satisfaction of all parties, wasn’t it, Jamie?’

  ‘I’d better go and see this Scratcher,’ Makepeace said, drawing the strings of her cloak.

  ‘He’s gone,’ Jamie told her.

  ‘Almost immediately afterwards,’ Mr Lucey confirmed. ‘He and his doxy, off to Australia or America or somewhere.’

  ‘Tell her about the man,’ Jamie reminded him.

  Mr Lucey flapped his hand as if snapping shut an invisible fan. ‘Forget my own head next. A man came here enquiring about the ladies—quite the gentleman or I should not have entertained him—and Jamie is convinced that he’d followed them and was up to no good.’

  ‘Nor he weren’t,’ Jamie said.

  ‘We speculated about it, didn’t we, Jamie? A French spy? A government spy? However, in view of poor Lady Fitch-Botley’s experience, one m
ust now conclude that it was some creature of her husband’s, if not her husband himself.’

  It was the more likely explanation; Fitch-Botley tracking his wife. Not for the first time, Makepeace thanked God that both her husbands had valued her freedom as highly as their own.

  Further questioning gained little more information so, with promises to inform them of the date of Beasley’s trial once it was fixed, she took her leave.

  Before going home, she stopped in Chelsea to conduct some business and, finally, called on Kitty Hays. Who was not pleased to see her.

  ‘It’s no good, Mrs Hedley, I’m sorry, but I’ll have nothing more to do with it.’

  ‘Do with what?’

  Mrs Hays, a woman Makepeace had often derided as ‘mannish’ had now gone so far in the other direction that her face peered through the flounces of her cap like a mouse drowning in a bucket of bubbles. Her neckline was low and the clinging muslin of her gown followed lines that, Makepeace thought, had been better left undefined.

  ‘With the Society. I see now how foolish it was and I have confessed all to Arthur—and been forgiven, I am glad to say.’

  ‘Would that be the Condorcet Society?’ Philippa had tried to interest her in it and failed.

  ‘That man.’ Kitty shuddered at the name. ‘How wrongheaded we were. Arthur says that if Philippa does succeed in bringing him to England, he will inform the authorities.’

  Condorcet. Of course. She’d never met the man but Philippa put him only a little lower than the angels and had been distressed at his fall from Republican grace. Of course. And the Marchioness de Condorcet who’d spent a summer with them—an exceptionally nice woman. That’s why the girl had wanted the travel documents—to send them to her friends.

  And why shouldn’t she? Makepeace became angry. ‘Is that why Fitch-Botley covered my daughter in shit?’

  Kitty’s over-exposed bosom waggled as she shuddered again. ‘Oh, no, he didn’t know about that and it’s to be hoped he never will. It was terrible, terrible. No, he was angry because Philippa encouraged Ginny to write those awful things in the newspaper. It was Philippa all the time, you know, Mrs Hedley. I’m sorry to say it, but she was the one who led us astray. Arthur says she brought it on herself. Arthur says he wouldn’t have used Sir Charles’s methods but he’d have corrected her, too.’

  ‘Does he?’ Makepeace gathered herself for departure. ‘If I were you, I’d advise him not to try.’

  Aaron had survived her absence without being set back, though he was beginning to complain about boiled fish—which his sister took as a good sign and, as a celebration, said he could dine on boiled chicken instead. But it was typical of life, she thought, that as one concern began to ameliorate it was replaced by another. After they’d dined, she and Jenny repaired to the parlor, leaving the actor to his port and cigar and herself free to discuss the disquieting thought that had occurred to her.

  She recounted the events of the day. ‘Jenny, do you think . . . I suppose Philippa has gone to Northumberland?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, Ma? Where else would she have gone?’ It was an unusual experience for Jenny to see her mother uncertain.

  ‘She wouldn’t . . . this sounds ridiculous and, no, she wouldn’t . . . I was wondering whether we should write to your Aunt Ginny, see if she’s arrived at Raby . . . it just crossed my mind she might have gone to France.’

  ‘France?’

  ‘Marie Joséphine thinks she has.’

  ‘Why? Marie Joséphine was with me when she went; we’d gone to a sale of work.’

  ‘She says she feels it.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s French.’ Jenny spread out her hands palm upwards, casting the heated imagination of the French into the air, where they belonged.

  ‘Well . . . yes, very well, it’s silly—but if she wanted to make sure the Condorcets got away . . . No good-byes to anyone, it seems queer.’

  Jenny’s face assumed the self-satisfaction of the young who, unexpectedly, have the right of it over an elder. Kindly, she took her mother’s hand. ‘Philippa has gone to Northumberland, Ma, and it has nothing to do with French passports or what that horrid Fitch-Botley man did to her.’

  ‘Hasn’t it?’

  ‘No. She’s gone because she’s in a taking over her wedding to Stephen and because Lord Ffoulkes is coming back with his bride earlier than expected. They may all arrive together and, poor dear, it’s too much for her. We were in this very room when I got her to admit that she loves Andrew, always has and always will. I am sure she has gone to Raby to walk the moors—you know she takes comfort from them—and clear her head whilst she decides what to do.’

  Makepeace, convinced, sighed and nodded.

  Jenny sat back, smiling. ‘France, Mama. What an idea. You might go galloping off in such a manner but Philippa has a more circumspect character. No, her intention was to send the papers to Condorcet via Babbs Cove and Gruchy. She told me so. Now that’s done, she’s at liberty to consider her future.’ Jenny sighed. ‘And she is in agonies over it, poor lamb. I know her.’

  And Makepeace, who was not sure that she did, bowed to her middle daughter’s greater wisdom.

  SHE had further business in the village the next morning. Having been virtually in a purdah of mourning for the last three years, she was only recently fully acquainted with Chelsea. She liked it. Though it was becoming popular as an address for an increasing number of London’s professional class, its population was still not above a thousand and the rows of cottages behind the main street had not yet been pulled down to provide homes for the gentry. Bare-footed children played in its lanes, women hoed vegetables in their front gardens. Cows traipsing daily from byres to the water meadows and back again kept up an odorous, bespattered link between it and deep country. Stags were known to come leaping down the village street with Lord Cremorne’s staghounds on their heels, duly followed by Lord Cremorne.

  The Chelsea bun bakery attracted customers from miles around but the sophistication of its shops, unusual in such a rural place, was due to the proximity of the two, almost conflicting, institutions—the Hospital for Wounded and Superannuated Soldiers and the Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens, the last of which, to the relief of Chelsea itself, was situated on the extreme eastern boundary of the parish and could be shrugged off as not belonging to it.

  The hospital was a matter of pride; its great red brick Wren frontage added nobility to the waterfront panorama. Those of its five hundred pensioners who were still ambulatory were usually treated to a pint of porter when they hobbled down to the village green to smoke away their tobacco allowance, their scarlet coats and black tricorns looking as if the grass had sprouted benches of poppies.

  The suggestion by an overenthusiastic parishioner, who purveyed cabbage to the hospital, that the village should put up a statue to Nell Gwynn for kindly persuading King Charles II into building it for his veterans, was turned down, however. Chelsea felt that there were some sorts of kindly persuasion that need not be commemorated.

  Nor was Ranelagh approved of, except by those it employed and such shops as sustained a profitable visit from the gloriously accoutred, ‘Oh how quaint’-shrieking gaggles of its guests who had drunkenly mistaken the way back to London and who were known locally as ‘they damn pic-nickers,’ not because they indulged in the new craze of eating supper on Ranelagh’s lawns—as they did—but because they were prone to pick flowers from people’s gardens in the middle of the night and nick trophies like door knockers and vegetables and subsequently throw them away, leaving behind a trail that suggested a troupe of high-spirited and destructive baboons.

  Makepeace, like everyone else in earshot, had suffered disturbed nights from the noise of the fireworks with which Ranelagh accompanied its entertainments, and regarded the place, never having been there, as an English Sodom and Gomorrah.

  Today, however, having called at the lord lieutenant’s apartments in the hospital’s west wing in order to borrow a pair of padded crutches for Aaron,
she contrived to let fall that an open invitation to a subscription masquerade they were giving at the gardens the following night in aid of the army would not come amiss. The lord lieutenant and his lady were pleased to extend it; Makepeace was one of the institution’s benefactors.

  It was a pretty drive home. The weather was beautiful; still frosty at night but with daytime sun bringing out blossom on the black-thorn. Rooks were busy adding twigs to nests that looked as if the elms had sprouted dark untidy fruit.

  She spent it wondering whom to ask to accompany her and Jenny to Ranelagh; they required an escort. Aaron could not, obviously, and she didn’t think she could stand another evening with the Reverend Deedes.

  She pulled up the horse in order to get down from the trap and examine the primroses speckling the bank of the stream that ran along the road. It would be nice to pick some for Aaron but they were still only in the tiny pale furled umbrellas of bud and had not yet developed the achingly sweet, elusive scent, the epitome of spring, that they would gain later on, so she left them to grow.

  Back at Reach House, Hopkins came forward to help her down but, before going in, she couldn’t resist using the crutches and swung herself along, past the kitchen garden to the walled yard at the back where Constance was hanging out the washing, pegs in her mouth, the stretch of her young body as she reached up to the line being dreamily watched by the tutor Luchet who lounged against a mangle, book in hand like a Hilliard miniature.

  Undoubtedly, it was springtime; to Makepeace’s certain knowledge he’d fallen in love three times at the inns on the way back from Bristol, once with a lady traveler and twice with serving wenches.

  ‘Don’t you ever do no teaching?’ Makepeace demanded of him.

  He was unperturbed. ‘Madame, the world is my schoolroom. I read poetry to this lady.’

  ‘She’s busy.’ To Constance, she said, ‘And don’t you encourage him.’