Devil Water (31 page)

It was the first week in April before Jenny arrived, and by that time Betty had settled on the simplest lie with which to introduce the child into her home. One noon, instead of Simpson, Alec met her behind St. George’s Church, and he had a fair-haired child by the hand. “ ‘Tis she, m’lady,” said Alec in a whisper. “A bonny wee lass she is too.”

Betty stared down at the five-year-old girl, and saw -- with a violent constriction of the heart -- Charles’s features in delicate miniature. Brilliant gray eyes with long thick lashes, a clefted chin, silver-gilt curls, and full pink lips which looked made for laughter but were now trembling, while the round eyes stared anxiously at the lady. A beautiful child, a fairy child, she seemed to the astonished Betty. A very dirty and tattered child too. The bright hair was matted. Jenny’s hands were filthy and chilblained. Her home spun dress was patched, her plaid shawl tattered, her oversize leather shoes were fastened on with thongs.

“Make your curtsey to her ladyship, as I told ye!” commanded Alec. Jenny bobbed her knees, and continued to stare at the gorgeous lady who was but one more of the extraordinary sights she had seen since she had left Coquetdale days and days ago and then gone to sea on a big collier at Newcastle.

“What’s your name, my dear?” asked Betty quietly, giving Alec, who started, a look of warning.

“Jenny,” said the child after a moment.

“Jenny what?” pursued Betty.

“Jenny Snawdon I’m a-thinking, though R-Robbie says ‘tis not, ‘tis --Rad --Rad . . .”

“No, Jenny,” Betty cut in solemnly. “Now remember this. If anyone asks your name, just say Jenny. Nothing more. And you will say you were lost here by the church and I found you. Do you understand?”

“Aye,” said Jenny, puzzled but acquiescent. Her lips quivered harder. “Be I lost, then? Yet I canna be lost because o’ Robbie.”

“Who
is Robbie?” said Betty to Alec, casting a nervous glance behind her, though there were no passersby.

“A great gawking lad who shipped with us to London, m’lady. Worked his passage down,” said Alec with some amusement. “He
would
come.” Alec lowered his voice still further. “He said my master said he might. Moreover the wee lass is fond o’ him, and he o’ her.”

“But that’s dangerous!” Betty said frowning.
“Nobody
else must know who she is or connect her with me. Too many know now.”

“You may trust Rob Wilson, m’lady,” said Alec. “He’ll not talk, and’ll keep out o’ the way. He wants to find work here in London.”

“Well, then,” she said unhappily, dismissing the unknown youth, “go to your master now, Alec. Tell him I’ll manage to get there soon. And for the love of God, bring me news of him when you can.”

“Aye, m’lady,” said the valet with sympathy, and melted away around the church. Jenny looked after him, and began to cry.

Betty took the child’s hand and murmured comfort, yet it was helpful that Jenny should be weeping when she was led up the steps of the Lees’ George Street mansion, that big tears were rolling down her cheeks when Betty took her into the study, where Frank was writing a report on taxation for Walpole.

Frank looked up from his desk. Between the black curls of his full-bottomed wig, his smooth heavy face showed annoyance and surprise, for Betty never interrupted him and he disliked noisy children. “What this, what’s this?” he asked in his incisive voice.

Betty wisely did not answer. She pushed Jenny forward, and after a moment of astonished inspection, Frank’s eyes softened, as she had expected. “Who in the world is this ragamuffin, Betty?” he said. “And why is she sobbing?”

“The poor little thing is lost. I found her by the church, as I came from the milliner’s.”

“Oh --” said Frank, pushing his paper aside and taking command. He enjoyed dealing with problems. “Well, we’ll soon set that straight. Stop crying, little girl. You’ve nothing to fear. What’s your name?” Betty held her breath and released it when the child said, “Jenny.”

“But you’ve another name too?”

Jenny gave a great gulp. The lady was looking at her steadily, and did not want her to say more; besides, there was confusion about the name, and always had been, for though she was called Snowdon she had always known there was another name which her mother never mentioned. “I divven’t reetly knaw,” sobbed Jenny. “Oh, gin only R-Robbie was her-re!” She covered her face with her hands, and Betty, stooping down, put an arm around the heaving shoulders.

“What a dialect she has,” said Frank. “I can hardly understand her. From the North, of course -- or is it Scotland?”

“We’re na Scots,” wailed Jenny, who had caught the hated word. “We’re o’ the Dale, fra Tosson.”

“Wherever
that
may be!” said Frank. “Poor child, I suppose she
must
be lost.” His voice was kind as he questioned Jenny further, and elicited a tale most satisfactory to Betty. Jenny said a man had taken her from “lang lang awa’ on a ship” many days and nights ago, that he had run off in the churchyard just now, and the lady had led her here. The only dangerous moment passed unnoticed by Frank, for though Jenny reported that the lady and the man had talked with each other, she used the Northumbrian word “gobbing” which Frank did not understand. Besides he had made up his mind, “I believe she’s been kidnaped,” he said to Betty. “Doubtless by a gypsy, who meant to sell her in London. So pretty a child would always find a market. Deplorable! That she doesn’t know her name would indicate that she’s a bastard -- the get of some nobleman, I judge, from the fineness of her features. I’ll watch the
Gazette
and see if there’s notice of her disappearance.”

“And in the meantime, Frank?” said Betty quickly. “May I keep her here? There’s a cot in the attic she can have, and I’m sure she’d be no trouble, would you, dear?”

Jenny shook her head. She had stopped crying, and was finding the arm around her comforting. Nobody had ever held her close like this. And the lady smelled good; she smelled like the wood violets up the burn at home, while the stuff of the yellow dress against Jenny’s cheek was softer than lamb’s wool. She felt the lady’s heart beat fast as she waited for an answer, and Jenny knew suddenly that her own fate hung in balance. The gentleman in the black wig was frowning, tapping the tips of his fingers together. And the lady was afraid, Jenny knew it. She raised her head and looked full at the gentleman, and she smiled. “Nay, I’d ne’er trouble ye, hinny,” she pleaded breathlessly.

Jenny’s smile was like sunlight through clouds; it was a magic of direct communion with a hint of wistfulness. It was a smile which strove to charm, but was unconscious of its great power to do so.

Frank stared and forgot the objections he had been about to give Betty. That there were foundling homes for such cases as this, that the child was filthy, and it was unsafe to expose his own child to lice and disease, that there must be time to weigh the situation.

“She may stay a while,” he said gruffly. “Make sure she’s bathed at once, Betty, and I see she needs decent clothing. Here.” He unlocked the petty-cash box on his desk and tendered Betty a guinea. “Get her what she needs.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Betty, and thus was Jenny safely settled in the Lee household.

Charles threw off the last remnants of jail fever when he heard from Alec of Jenny’s journey and safe arrival. He listened eagerly to every detail about his child, rejoicing that she was well, and regretting that he could not see her, but even had a visit been feasible he would not have subjected Jenny to Newgate and the sight of an imprisoned father. Yet now that the daze of shock over James’s death receded, Charles became filled with strong desires. He wanted to avenge James -- in this he never wavered. And he wanted to live. These were the first desires, only second to them and of more immediacy was the wish to see Betty. For this he hungered, and saw no reason why it might not be managed soon. Since bribery was the obvious method of arranging prison visits, and he knew that Betty’s purse was straitened, he wrote to Ann, asking about the state of his own finances.

The little Countess was in Gloucestershire, and very ill with grief and pregnancy, but she wrote back a pathetic note, assuring him of her constant prayers, and enclosing a draft for one hundred guineas, which would be honored by Dilston’s London agent, Mr. Robbourne; “though how to find more, or what my son and I would subsist on, were it not for my dear parents, I know not yet,” she added. From which Charles understood that the Government had not decided on the full extent of punishment or how much of the Derwentwater estates would be forfeited. In the meantime here were funds again, and Charles’s spirits rose. He conveyed the news to Betty through Alec, and they arranged a meeting for Wednesday evening, April 11. Always on Wednesday evenings Frank Lee went to St. James’s Coffeehouse to talk politics with the other Whigs who had made this particular coffeehouse their own. Since Lee’s habits were invariable, Betty would thus have at least three hours in which to visit Newgate, and Alec, having hired discreet chairmen from the City, would accompany her through the streets. Muggles and the outer warden had already fixed their garnishes for permitting the visit, and Charles foresaw no difficulties.

On the Tuesday evening before this so-longed-for project, Charles decided to take advantage of the recreation permitted to the higher-class prisoners. Recreation which consisted of mounting to a large gloomy dungeon called the “Castle,” where there were tables, benches, and a bar which served bad gin and worse beer for exorbitant prices.

The warder on the stairs unlocked the door for Charles, who stood a moment on the threshold, momentarily halted by the stench made by twenty unwashed men, by vomit, and by the stone latrine in a corner niche. Nor at first, in the fight of five guttering candles, could he see exactly who was there. They all looked around and saw him: a tall handsome figure in a black mourning suit, his head held proudly, his flaxen wig tied with a black ribbon. There was a hush, then a low murmur of sympathy.

Charles Wogan, the young Irish captain, rushed forward extending his hand. “Ah, Radcliffe, ‘tis good to see ye back with us again. And I speak for all. I needn’t tell ye how we’ve sorrowed with ye since -- since--” He broke off, unable to mention Lord Derwentwater’s fate, while from the others came a chorus of embarrassed aye’s and throat-clearings.

Charles said “Thank you” and sat down on a bench by Thomas Errington. He could now distinguish the company, and saw with relief that Tom Forster was not present. There were the Scots, old Mackintosh and three of his clan, sitting with the Irishmen, Wogan, Talbot, and Gascoigne -- and Colonel Oxburgh. Oxburgh glanced at Charles, then looked away. He touched the crucifix at his throat, and stared silently again at the stone floor.

Charles next identified the other Jacobite prisoners present. Two Lancastrians whom he barely knew, and “Mad Jack” Hall of Otterburn, an eccentric Northumbrian who had never attracted him, now talking to Will Shaftoe of Bavington. Jem Swinburne sat on a stool watching three prisoners who were not Jacobites, as they cast dice, and cursed fluently in a thieves’ cant largely unintelligible. These prisoners were a highwayman and two house robbers, all elegantly dressed in laced coats and ruffles. Young Swinburne was chained by his left ankle to an iron ring on the stone floor -- a restraint due rather to his madness than his crime; none of the other privileged prisoners were fettered. Jem crooned to himself as he watched the robbers, and dabbling his fingers in his beer mug, flicked the suds on his sunken cheeks.

“Poor Jem,” said Charles to Errington, “when I think of the wit and mirth he used to have at Capheaton --” Charles bit off his words. He had not come here tonight to brood over the past, nor yet, if possible, to worry over the future. He had come for what diversion he could find, and he rapped on the table and called to the frowzy convict drawer to bring him a drink. “Where’s the rest of our company?” he asked briskly of Errington. “Where’re the Claverings, and the young Widdringtons?”

Errington sighed. His meager conscientious face had sharpened during these weeks of imprisonment, and though he had fortitude and had never permitted himself to regret the moment at Beaufront when he had thrown in his fate with Lord Derwentwater, he had a vivid realization of what would probably be in store for him. “The Claverings are pardoned,” he said. “The Widdringtons are withdrawn from here in custody of a messenger -- Lady Cowper has much influence with the Lord Chancellor, her husband.”

“So it would seem,” said Charles grimly. He took a mouthful of the fetid gin the drawer had brought him, and spat it out in disgust.

“I have a record here,” continued Errington, “of the disposition of various other prisoners captured at Preston.” He took a notebook from his pocket, and read methodically from a list of names. Charles listened in growing dismay. In Chester and Lancaster and Liverpool, many of their original company had been executed already. Including the gentle George Collingwood, whom James had loved. A hundred or so of the wretched Highlanders and some Englishmen had been transported as convicts to Jamaica and Virginia, there to be sold into slavery. Many had died in the various prisons. Here at Newgate, George Gibson and Richard Butler were dead of jail fever, as well as Ned Swinburne. And the rest?

“Awaiting trial, as we are,” said Errington, putting away his notebook.

“A pox on all this!” Charles cried violently. He jumped up. “Gentlemen, the drink is vile, but such as it is, you must all have one with me! You too, gentlemen,” added Charles to the three robbers, who had turned around hopefully. “If you’ll drink to King James and his rights!”

The highwayman stood up and made a bow. “We’ll drink to the devil and the Black Mass if it suits your fancy, sir!”

After a half hour of concentrated effort most of the company had become roistering-drunk. Charles led the singing, which passed from Jacobite ditties to the bawdiest catches he could remember. The warder looked on indulgently, having been given a tin cup full of gin for himself. When there was a knock on the door he had some ado to insert the key. A stout figure pushed past him and entered the room.