The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (20 page)

The Delamain connection with the Stuarts was well known; above all their close relationship with those traitors the Allonby family – Robert Allonby who had been beheaded on Tower Hill and Guy Delamain, his brother-in-law, who had died in exile in France. George was perpetually anxious to shed this painful association with the Stuart cause. He thus became more pro Hanoverian than the King himself, and did everything to make his own antipathy towards the Stuarts clear to all concerned. Had he not expelled his brother Brent, and his more notorious brother Tom, from the house the instant his grandfather died? Had he not hastened to London to establish a house, ingratiate himself with the Hanoverian politicians, with the court itself? No one was more anxious to stamp out any trace of Jacobitism than George Delamain and he was thus regarded, perched as he was at a strategic point in the north of England, as an important recruit by those who intended to preserve the Hanoverian Succession at any cost.

Looking out of the windows as his coach rumbled mile upon dreary mile northwards, George had plenty of time for reflection, for planning the future. There were frequent stops to change horses, and five nights were spent in inns on the way as the roads got worse and more narrow and the journey more tedious.

Yes, he was well pleased with his visit – Dacre had become not only a prospective father-in-law, but a good friend. He was a powerful man. He would help to remould George’s image from that of a farming squire to a land-owner and politician of importance. The part George did not altogether like was the role that had been urged upon him of spy. Even he, a man of few scruples, did not relish having to ingratiate himself with his Allonby cousins to try and discover what was afoot in France. But he had promised not only Dacre but the small circle of serious-minded men, men of power and political importance, who had gathered at Dacre’s house in Covent Garden to discuss the importance of the visit of the Earl of Traquair and the threat of Jacobite invasion.

George, they had pointed out, was a pivot – through no fault of his own he had access to traitorous elements. Why, by getting the information they sought he could not only pay a lasting service to his country but, who knows, maybe elevate himself to the peerage at the same time?

Baron Delamain –
The
Baron Delamain – George rolled the name round his tongue. It suited him well ... Baron Delamain in the county of Cumberland, and Baroness Delamain ... George felt a little less easy when he reflected on the charms, or rather lack of them, in his intended bride. He made no bones about it either to himself or Dacre – it was a marriage of convenience. It suited Dacre and himself that he should take Henrietta for a bride: what the girl herself thought about it was of no concern to either of them.

She would breed well, George reflected. She had ample girth, too much in fact, and good broad hips. The trouble was there was a history of only children in her family, and girls at that ... but still, the woman was merely the vessel, it was the man who decided the nature and sex of the progeny, and everyone knew Delamain men were good breeders, breeders of sons.

Yes, it was time he had a son, got rid of the menace of the whippet Brent taking over the title and estates should anything happen to him. Pity he had recovered from the injury that his folly had inflicted upon him ... hit over the head by a gypsy! Even George, who seldom laughed, smirked at the thought. Thank goodness no one in London knew, or could ever possibly find out, about
that
peculiar piece of idiocy.

The coach rumbled northwards and no one, neither Allonby, nor Delamain nor even the Buckland gypsies in their camp near Carlisle knew what a momentous year 1745 was to be for them, and how fundamentally the fortunes of so many concerned were to change.

9

From the distance Brent Delamain could see the outline of the slate cliffs that meant Maughold Peninsula and journey’s end – or nearly journey’s end. From the beginning he had proved a good sailor. ‘A natural affinity with the sea,’ Ambrose had proclaimed proudly when Brent was the only man still on his legs after a particularly severe voyage from Port Rush. But this comparatively short journey from Whitehaven in Cumberland to the Isle of Man had provided seas such as Brent had never before seen or wanted to again.

Once again he was the only man on his legs and, because the hold was almost empty, the boat had rolled about until at one stage he had thought it would turn turtle, and that would be the end of them.

Now the waters were calmer and the sailors started to stagger up from below, all except the master who had drunk himself into a stupor through sheer fear and was out cold in his bunk. Brent had just been down to see. He would have to bring the ship into the cove himself with the help of the mate, a dour fellow called Quiggan.

The ship rounded Maughold Head and then turned inland following the rugged coast to the harbour at the north end of Laxey Bay. Brent was grateful that it was wide and shallow because he had only been a sailor for three months and his knowledge of navigation was elementary.

They tied up at the jetty at Laxey and, leaving the master in his berth, Brent made for the narrow main street of the town which lay in the shadow of Snaefell, the highest mountain in the Isle of Man.

Brent had been glad to take to the sea and get away from the watchful eye of Sarah Rigg with whom he lodged in Cockermouth. He had proved an adept apprentice and pupil and had soon justified Ambrose’s confidence that the man was no idler but possessed of a good brain as well as a hardy body.

Indeed, a curious and unexpected friendship had grown between Brent and his employer, who proved not only fair and hardworking but curiously honest in his rough-necked kind of way. Brent had discovered how much in awe of his wife Ambrose really was; how he resented his humble ancestry, his lack of manners and how he looked to Sarah to turn him into a gentleman.

It was too late to turn Ambrose Rigg into a gentleman, Brent knew that. As he listened to his outpourings over the port when Sarah had gone to bed, he tried to persuade him that the things Ambrose considered important were not – that using a napkin and developing fine airs were of far less consequence than charity, kindness and honesty and the sort of diligence and business acumen that Ambrose so successfully displayed.

Brent envied him these things and he told him so and, as Ambrose listened to this young lad, his eyes were opened and he developed a sense of self-respect for his own innate attributes that were God-given and not acquired.

Consequently Sarah Rigg, seeing how affected her husband was by his association with Brent, how less respectful towards herself, was eager to have him out of the house and gladly concurred when it was suggested that Brent should leave clerking in the warehouse and take to the sea.

Brent went to sea at a very bad time – mid-February, a month of storms and gales; but he found his sea legs quickly and also a sense of survival. He learned rudimentary navigation and the storing of ballast, and how to stow the sails with the maximum of speed when the storm winds blew up.

He had survived a battering three month’s apprenticeship. Now it was May and the seas were calmer. The trees and hedgerows were abud with new life in the lanes of Cumberland and the Isle of Man, and he felt a lightening of the heart as he climbed up the steep main street of Laxey. His object was to see to the new cargo for Whitehaven of lead and copper ore, products of the mines at Dhoon north of Lazey, the purpose of this trip. At other times he put into the creeks nearer Maughold and Bradda Head to take off zinc and galena. In return he brought timber and wool and food, for the Isle of Man was very dependent on the mainland of England from which it had been ruled since 1300, the Dukes of Athol having recently taken over from the Stanleys who had been Lords of Man for three hundred years.

It was a fine clear day, a breeze blew in from the sea and Brent came to the house of John Collister, a ship’s merchant and chandler with whom he had had commerce before and who was one of Ambrose’s agents on the island.

John Collister, a bluff handsome man of fifty and an ex-sailor who had acquired a wooden leg in the wars against France, was waiting for Brent, sitting at a table piled with bills and ledgers. He got up as Brent came in and called for his daughter Harriet to fetch some ale.

Harriet, wearing her best bonnet and apron was pleased to answer her father’s summons: she always had a glad eye for Brent Delamain whenever he came to Laxey – but he only gave her the most casual of glances, polite but nothing more. Not that Brent was unaware of Harriet’s charms or her obvious intention of bestowing them on him, freely, for the asking. She made it quite clear by the way she flounced in and out or lingered by the door gazing slyly up at him. Once she had even followed him on some pretext or the other; but all to no avail. Since he had wrenched himself from Mary Allonby, Brent was a different man. He was determined to make a fresh image for himself from that of a philanderer and idler: to work hard and preserve his virtue in order to be worthy of Mary.

For a man of Brent’s disposition the work was no hardship, but the maintenance of chastity was, especially with Ambrose forever suggesting a visit to the local bawdy house and making it clear that he frequented the place often himself.

‘Art a puritan lad?’ Ambrose would chide suggesting he had expected better. But it was the only complaint he had against Brent, so he decided to keep a wise counsel, say no more and continue to visit the bawdy house by himself.

Brent and Mary had made up for the force of the separation by an exchange of letters. He had written, on reflection, to explain his behaviour to her and asked her to show the letter to her brothers as a sign of his good intentions. After a short interval Mary had replied indicating her acceptance of the situation and her happiness at the sacrifice Brent was prepared to make to woo her.

From then on they corresponded chastely every week, but they never met. Brent had imposed on himself this condition: their next meeting would be to wed.

He well knew the meaning of Harriet Collister’s glances as she brought in ale and oat cakes. He smiled at her in his detached friendly fashion, willing enough to exchange the time of day with her, but John seemed anxious for her departure and waved her away. His face was serious as he poured out the ale from the jug into a tankard of thick pewter and pushed it over to Brent.

‘Good voyage?’

‘A devil for the time of year. We were very light and bobbed about like a cork.’

‘And Dinward?’

‘Drunk.’

John nodded. Dinward was the master and seldom sober, good sea or bad.

‘Ambrose should get rid of him. He is a menace and a threat.’

‘He is a good sailor when sober, and I am learning fast.’

‘So I hear.’

John got up and, with his tankard in his hand, hobbled over to the window looking through the thick panes which gave on to the harbour. He turned and glanced at Brent as though to say something and then turned away again. Brent knew the signs of restlessness.

‘You have aught to say to me John and cannot?’

John turned round, quaffing his ale from his tankard so that a line of fine white froth remained on his upper lip.

 ‘I know not where to begin.’

‘John, if it is your daughter, I am promised ...’

John gave a hearty laugh and wiped his lip on the sleeve of his coat.

‘Oh, you observe how she hankers after you. No, I told her she had no hope there, a nobleman ...’

‘’Tis not
that
!
I am promised to my cousin. Harriet is a fine lass.’

‘Aye, aye and she’ll get wed soon enough; but it is not of Harriet I speak. Brent ...’ John sat down heavily and put his large hand squarely on his good knee. ‘I wonder which way you are?’

‘Which way ...’ Brent looked at John in bewilderment. ‘Because if I speak out of turn I am undone.’

Collister stared at Brent as though willing him to understand what he was saying, and then Brent did understand. It came to him suddenly and clearly.

‘Which way ... politically?’

‘Aye, aye.’ Collister sat back with a sigh of relief; now he had no need to fear compromising himself.

‘You are only asking me for one reason, John. There is much unrest abroad, much talk
^-
of revolt. You are asking me if I am for the Stuarts?’

‘Aye.’ John gazed at him, mouth half open, eyes glinting.

‘Of course I am for the Stuarts; you know our family.’

‘I know they are divided, that much I heard. That one of your brothers is a popish priest and the other a Whig baronet. It was through the priest that news came of you ...’

‘From Tom? You have heard from Tom?’ Brent jumped up, his face glowing. ‘I have tried so hard to contact Tom since I came to Whitehaven; but he has gone aground.’

‘Not gone aground. He is with the Prince, but the Prince is now surrounded by many men. Most wish him well, but some harm. He has to be careful. It is hard to tell who the traitors are – disaffected Irish soldiers, men of all descriptions and every nationality you can think of surround him. Not all honest men. But now ...’ John leaned forward his eyes gleaming, ‘the Prince has made up his mind to sail.’

‘For England?’

‘For
Scotland.
The recent defeat at Fontenoy by Marshal Saxe of the combined British and Hanoverian force under the command of the Duke of Cumberland has determined the Prince that the time is ripe. He is preparing to sail this very instant.’

‘But surely it is
folly
?’

‘Aye, folly and a grand one at that. All Scotland will flock to such a brave Prince and then all England, too. You will see, in a few months the Stuarts will be again on the throne.’

‘Then how do you know, what part do you ... will the Prince land
here
?’

‘Nay, in the north of Scotland where all is prepared. But men close to Murray of Broughton, one of the Prince’s right hand men, have been in touch with contacts of mine in Scotland and Cumberland. We are to get as many provisions for the Prince as we can from France and Ireland and America, muskets and cannon and gunshot and swords – and smuggle them into England.’