by Peter McAra
Dear Mr Harry,
I don’t know as you will have lately learned of poor Eliza Downing’s misfortunes, but after much thought, I have decided to write to you and tell you of her fate. Through no fault of her own she was arrested for unlawful assembly, in the same manner as those poor men of Tolpuddle, who was protesting about their wages being cut. What family could live on seven shillings a week, and those men working through rain and snow and winter winds to make their master’s fields ready for grain to be sowed in spring?
It seems the men of Marley were afeared they might also have their wages cut, and so they came to Eliza, seeing as she be so clever at ciphering, and matters of the law and all. So Rufus Hunter, as works as a ploughman, came to see her at the end of his day’s work, to ask what he could do. And someone heard her talking to him in the night, and told Sir John. And what did he do but call the constables to arrest her. So now she is in the cells beneath the courthouse awaiting the next assizes, and the village folk are sore worried that when she is brought to trial she might be sent to Botany Bay like the poor men from Tolpuddle. And she a decent, kindly maid who never made trouble for anyone.
Mr Harry, I choose to write to you to tell you of Miss Eliza because I know you two were friends for a goodly part of your young lives, and I pray that you might wish to tell your father that she does not deserve such a fate. I beg you, do not tell a soul I wrote this letter, and burn it when you have read it.
Your friend for always,
Martha Hawkins
Harry folded the letter and drew a long breath. He must go to Marley. At the least, he must see Eliza. It was sad that she had never replied to the needy letter he wrote as a newly arrived student at Oxford. For a man raised since birth to be strong, resolute, spare with words, and never to bow to the weepings and handwringings of the weaker sex, he had poured out his heart in that letter.
Mayhap the letter had never reached her. God forbid that his father had intercepted it and read it. But then his father, if any man could stoop so low, might indeed have done so.
He pondered as to when and how he should go to Marley. On his desk lay papers and notes he had collected for an essay he must write on the dreaded Renaissance, to be submitted before the term’s end. To hell with it. If he failed the subject, was ejected from his degree studies, it mattered little. The journey to Marley was far more important.
He walked from the college, baggage in hand, as dawn shed enough light for him to see the road to the inn where the coaches stopped. Soon enough, he boarded a coach which would see him in Marley four long days hence.
Dusk settled over the hills of Morton-Somersby as Harry walked from the inn to the Great House.
‘You are home, my son.’ His father greeted him from his study. ‘Yet the term is not yet over. Why, pray?’
Eliza Downing, Father. I learnt that she awaits sentencing for a crime she could never have committed. I beg you, drop those charges.’
‘My God! You spend a fortune journeying from Oxford to grovel before that…trollop!’
‘She is not a trollop, Father. She is perhaps the most intelligent, the kindest, prettiest woman I shall ever know in my lifetime. And for her to be transported beyond the seas is unconscionable.’
‘My son.’ The old man cleared his throat, put down his near-empty glass of port. Then he looked into the middle distance, evidently having chosen to control his temper.
‘The wench — she is but a peasant wench, and I won’t hear otherwise — has plotted against me. Her devilment might have ruined me if Amos Blunt had not caught her at her game, whispering into my workmen’s ears, telling them to revolt like those fools from Tolpuddle. They are transported to the colonies now. Good riddance to them.’
Amos Blunt, rat catcher. Louisa. Harry’s brain began to weave a plot as he drew breath to answer his father. From the first day the two girls had met, Louisa had hated the golden-haired sprite with the stellar intelligence who had stolen into their schoolroom, then dominated it. Before his father had despatched him to Oxford, Harry had overheard interesting kitchen gossip. Amos had been seen close to Louisa in situations which could only be seen as compromising. And more frequently of late. She would very likely have used Amos to spy on Eliza, creating false evidence if he must.
Good luck to his ugly, vicious-tempered sister if she took advantage of the little rat catcher’s male urges. But for her to use him to plot against Eliza? It was as if a pair of slimy insects with poisonous bites had invaded a princess’s chambers. And they had succeeded in poisoning her, unless Harry could intervene.
He rose early next morning and rode into Marley. Already a gathering of village folk had massed round the old stone courthouse. As he watched from a low hill a hundred yards distant, a cart pulled away from the building and onto the road. He stared at the cart. It was enclosed with stout wooden walls except for its rear, which was closed by a net of bars. It must be a prison cart, likely brought from Dorchester to take criminals to the London hulks.
He tied his horse to a tree and walked towards the road to intercept the cart. The driver cracked his whip and the cart gathered speed. Harry broke into a run, too late to see it pass by. As he stared into its barred rear, he saw a woman standing, bracing herself against the rocking by holding the bars as she stood. Her face was haggard, tear-stained, but her golden hair shone as it cascaded to her shoulders. It could only be Eliza. He ran through the crowd, struggling to catch up with the cart. But as it left the village, it pulled away. As he strained to take a last look at the prisoner, he saw her let go the bars and move inside. Could this be the last time he ever saw the woman he would always love?
Harry pulled up breathless as the cart disappeared, its driver urging the horses into a gallop. Like as not, he wanted to clear the village in case a mob of angry people tried to block the road. Indeed, there had been shouts of protest as he drove through the crowd.
‘Eliza Downing. A saint!’
‘Now she be transported beyond the seas. For helping poor Rufus.’
‘The cursed gentry! May they all rot in hell.’
As Harry walked back to his horse, he learned from further murmurings that Eliza had indeed been sentenced to transportation. For the rest of their short, miserable lives, the villagers would hate the landowners. A few short years before, the French had marched against their gentry, fed them to Madame La Guillotine, created a republic. The same passion might well sweep across The Channel in a year or two. What should a man like himself, born to the gentry, do if that were to happen?
As he sat in his chambers that evening, Harry pondered his future. He must accept that Eliza was gone; gone to a place beyond the seas. And he was done with Oxford. Of what use was higher learning to a man who would likely spend his days in the isolated splendour of the Great House?
A few evenings later, father and son sat together in the conservatory, taking a sherry before dinner. Harry had seen it as the time when he must confront his father.
‘My son.’ The elderly man drained his glass, refilled it from the decanter. ‘You are not returned to Oxford, yet the term continues, and you have been here for a week and more.’
‘I am finished with Oxford, Father.’
But — ’ Harry watched his father’s jaw harden.
‘Pray tell me, what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?’
‘Why, follow in my father’s footsteps. As eldest sons must do.’
‘Mmm.’ Now John De Havilland leaned back in his chair, contemplating his glass but not drinking from it. ‘Then you must wed. Soon.’
‘Why must I wed, Father?’ Harry’s manner flagged all too clearly that he already knew the answer well enough. All noble families became preoccupied with succession when their children reached marriageable age, if not before.
‘You know very well, my son. Despite my instructions, you have ignored Miss Agatha Thurber. Now that you have quit Oxford, you may make haste with your courting. The pair of you will make a fine match.’
‘Since you put it that way.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the neighbour’s estate. ‘I grant you, she is not as handsome a woman as might be. But I understand she is well mannered, obedient. And no doubt interested in finding a man who will carry out his husbandly duty.’
Harry turned away lest his father see the revulsion which darkened his face like a storm cloud. His father had come from a line of gentlefolk. All Harry’s life, the man had shown more interest in the quality of his herd than in the intellectual welfare of his children. Indeed, his decision to put Eliza into the schoolroom had been an adventurous departure. And it had sown in Harry’s heart a love which would dominate his life. Now, his sole preoccupation must be as to how he could rescue Eliza from the horrible morass into which she was about to be thrown.
‘You are silent.’ Harry did not answer. John De Havilland cleared his throat.
‘I repeat, you must marry Agatha, Harry. You must begin to court her forthwith. You will recall the ball Thurbers are to host with the express intention of having you court their daughter. That ball is now but a fortnight away. We expect you to woo her at that ball, then become betrothed soon afterwards. Very soon afterwards. If you do not, it will be but a matter of time until her parents look about for another swain. And I could not abide that he should buy land from a stranger. Not when we need his money if we are to keep those cursed bankers at bay. After all, Thurber has but one child, and that a girl. For hundreds of years, the land that he has lately bought and made into his estate has been destined to fall into our hands, my son. Now the time has come. You are the chosen one. Now go to it.’
‘But I cannot abide Agatha Thurber. She is small, surly. Her hair is… I should rather die than — ’ Harry must flee the Great House, somehow subsist without his father’s largesse.
‘Enough!’ John De Havilland drained his glass, filled it again. ‘From this moment, I forbid you to travel. As I have told you often enough, we are near bankrupt. I shall not give you any more money than you need to live an ordered life in this house. As from today, you shall not travel beyond the village without my express permission. And if you choose to defy me and leave, I will cut you off without a shilling. Your sister will be more than happy to win your inheritance.’ It was as if his father had read Harry’s mind. Now he was trapped in the Great House like a monkey in a cage.
‘I understand, Father.’ He stood and walked from the conservatory. Somehow, he must escape from that cage.
CHAPTER 15
A month later, having lived each day like a prisoner who grips the bars of his cell, dreaming of escape, Harry dutifully attended the ball arranged by the Thurbers. It had been scheduled expressly for the purpose of matching Harry and Agatha, according to Harry’s father. For most of the night, Harry evaded Agatha, dancing with any other young woman he could entice onto the floor. Then, towards the end of the evening, Agatha cornered him as he stepped outside for an urgent dose of solitude and quiet.
‘My papa has discussed with yours the prospect of blending our two estates into one, Mr Harry,’ she said, slipping an arm through his as they walked the length of a pillared colonnade in the moonlight. ‘What say you to that?’
‘If he wishes, so be it.’
‘But…if we…if you… I mean that if you and I were to…wed, it would happen very, er, conveniently.’
Harry held his silence, sensing the grip of Agatha’s gloved hand on his wrist. As they came under the glow of the festive lanterns hung about the garden, he looked down at her and flinched. Bedding the plain young woman with the permanent frown and drooping mouth would forever be beyond him. Yet his father had explained the situation to him in words that left him no choice. By attending the ball, he had accepted his fate.
As they walked, he prayed that she would relax her grip on his arm. It had become a manacle, growing ever tighter as they walked. When they returned to the ballroom, he made an excuse and left, ignoring her fuming tirade.
As he rode home, thoughts of Eliza dominated his mind for the thousandth time. How could he face a life shackled to Agatha Thurber when he loved Eliza? No. There must be a way to find Eliza, bind her to him for life. But how? He remembered his father’s promise to cut him off without a shilling to his name if he were to leave the Great House. How could he come by some money — the sooner the better? Many people in this world had begun with nothing and amassed fortunes quickly, especially in these times of change. Industries of all shapes and sizes were expanding throughout the country, indeed in Europe and the New World as well. But how to take that first step to wealth? Perhaps those fortunate nouveau riches had won at cards, then invested their winnings wisely. Cards. Did not men gather at the inn to play cards?
Next evening, a little after dark, Harry pulled up his horse at the inn door and handed the reins to the stableboy. He had never been inside the inn before. Now he stood in the doorway, peering into the gloom.
‘Hello, good sir.’ A gentlemanly voice hailed him from a corner beside a smoky fire. He smiled in the direction of the voice. Three men sat at a table littered with playing cards. Pewter mugs stood before them. As he watched, a maid carrying a jug walked to the table, filled their mugs, accepted a coin from one of them, curtseyed and left.
‘Won’t you join us, sir?’ one of the men asked. His voice carried the friendly tone of one who had been drinking for a while, but who was mellow rather than drunk. Harry hesitated.
‘We need another,’ the speaker said. ‘To make a four.’ Harry focussed his gaze into the gloom, still wary. ‘We’re gentlemen, sir,’ the voice continued. ‘Join us for an ale. We mean no harm. We are lawyers, come to do the King’s bidding. A matter of certain land titles.’ Harry weighed the pros and cons. The men looked and sounded like easygoing gentlefolk, enjoying an ale and a game of cards. And the light in their corner was low. He stepped towards them.
‘I’ll buy you an ale,’ he said, flagging his acceptance of their company.
‘Nay, good sir.’ Another spoke. His words carried the good-natured slur of a gentleman who had drunk his fair share. ‘Be seated and deal the cards. We need a little new blood in our game.’ Another beckoned the serving wench. She arrived, placed a mug beside Harry, and filled it from the jug. He slipped a coin to the wench and she left. Harry remembered playing poker with Eliza. Mr Harcourt had taught them the elements of the game, saying it would polish their mathematical skills. He watched as they finished a hand, then introduced himself.
‘Good cheer, sir,’ one said, clanking his mug against Harry’s. I am Andrew, and this is George. And Robert. A toast to our meeting.’
‘We’ll play a round of poker,’ George said, sliding the pack towards Harry. He reached for the pack, recalling that Mr Harcourt had often referred to the mathematical odds applicable to a collection of four suits, each of thirteen cards. The words combination, permutation, flashed into Harry’s brain. What did they mean? Simply that he could calculate the odds of winning with every card he played. He fanned his hand of cards as he held it close, and watched as the others did the same. Within minutes, George had won.
‘What say you to a little wager, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘A guinea a hand?’ The men nodded, pulled wallets from their waistcoats, laid their coins on the table as if they were pennies. They must be well-to-do. Their dress, their manners, said as much. They seemed honest enough. And they had accepted Harry as an equal, trusted him with money that would have been a tempting sight for a petty thief. Harry would play along. He slid a guinea from his near-empty pocket and set his mind to calculating the odds that he might win a hand with the cards she held.
Too soon, he had won the hand. The men looked down into their now empty mugs. Harry took the hint. He gestured to the wench, who filled the mugs and took the guinea he offered with a grateful smile and a low bow.
In a couple of hours, Harry had won eighty guineas. By now his friends were showing signs of wear. George slumped forward, snoring as his head eased onto the table. Robert stood.
‘I go to splash my boots,’ he slurred. ‘No more cards for me. Thank you for your good company, Harry.’ With a smile, Andrew rose, bowed in his direction, then began to unbuckle his belt as he lurched after his friend.
Harry waved, slid from his bench, and headed for the door. His pockets bulged with eighty golden guineas as he waited for his horse at stables. Perhaps a useful sum to make a cautious play on the London Stock Exchange.
CHAPTER 16
The Swan, a floating prison for upwards of three hundred convicts, had been built to carry coal from Newcastle to London. Now moored at the London docks, she floated square and squat at anchor in the wet chill of the early morning, her short bowsprit pointed upwards like a button nose, giving her the air of an elderly matron of the seas. As the light dockside breeze played through her rigging, she lurched and creaked like an old woman with rheumaticky hips. The convicts filed up the steep gangplank, most clutching bundles of clothes and food — gifts from those ashore. Their leg-irons clanked a dirge that paced their shuffling progress. Once on board, as many as could crowded onto the deck, jammed against each other to the point of breathlessness.
The air was foul. Most of the prisoners, all women, had lain in their hulks for weeks or months without benefit of bathing or clean clothes — many coughed and wheezed with illnesses contracted during their detention. Not a few doubled up and moaned, tormented by the grip of the flux. The crowd on the dock shouted farewell messages to their mates on board.
‘Don’t lie with no savages, Poll. Thine ugliness might fright them unto death.’
