Authors: Philippa Carr
It was midday when he came again. This time he brought me hot soup and a chicken leg. It tasted like ambrosia.
‘You enjoy your food,’ he said.
‘Have you ever heard that hunger seasons all dishes?’
‘Not an original remark, I believe,’ he said.
‘That does not detract from its truth. However, thank you for my excellent meal.’
He smiled and repeated that they were not savages.
‘Is that so?’ I said. ‘Thank you for the information. I might not have known… had I not been told.’
‘You are very foolish,’ he told me. ‘You should be trying to ingratiate yourself with me.’
He was right, of course. My mocking manner was making things worse for me.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Good kind sir, I thank you for the benefits you have bestowed on me. To feed one in my position is gracious of you. I bow before your magnanimity.’
‘That,’ he said severely, ‘is worse than ever.’
I began to laugh and to my amazement he was laughing with me.
I thought: He is enjoying this too. Of course he is. He has a position of responsibility. But I think he rather likes me.
From that moment our relationship began to change. At moments I thought we were like two children playing a game in which I was taking the part of the kidnapped girl, he her guard. There was something unreal about the situation and we were both enjoying it.
He sat in the chair and looked at me.
‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said.
I began to tell him how I had visited my uncle Hessenfield and had come north from my home in the south but he interrupted: ‘Not that. I know all that. I have heard them talk about how you came to York with your Uncle, General Eversleigh, and on to Hessenfield. They thought it was a good opportunity for you to do a little spying for them and
‘You are wrong about the spying but the rest is right.’
I told my story. It seemed very romantic. My beautiful mother… my incomparable father, the great Hessenfield.
‘The great Hessenfield,’ he repeated, his eyes shining. ‘He has always been a hero to us. I was always taught that I must grow up like him.’
‘He was wonderful. I used to ride on his shoulders.’
‘
You
rode on great Hessenfield’s shoulders!’
‘I was his daughter.’
‘And you could bring yourself to spy for the other side!’
‘I keep telling you I did not spy…’
‘You really came up here to work for us?’
‘I did not. I did not. I want none of your wars. I want old George to stay where he is and for everyone to stop shouting about it.’
‘Can this be Hessenfield’s daughter?’
‘The very same.’
I told him how my parents had died and I had been taken by a faithful maid and how Aunt Damaris had come to Paris to find me.
‘Yes,’ he said, surveying me with admiration. ‘I can imagine all that happening to you…’
Then he told me about himself. It seemed very mild compared with my adventures. His father had died at the Battle of Blenheim when he was about five years old.
‘Not for the Jacobites?’ I asked.
‘No. My father was not one. But I was sent to my uncle soon after when my mother died, and I learned all about the cause, so I became a Jacobite and you can mock all you like, but I tell you King James is coming back to rule over us.’
‘You should never be too sure of what is going to happen. You may be wrong, you know.’
‘Soon my uncle will be coming back from Preston with the good news.’
‘And then what will happen to me?’
‘So much will depend on what it is necessary to do.’
I shivered. ‘At least they are not here yet,’ I said.
We talked of other things including horses and dogs. I told him about Damon and he said he had a mastiff. He would show me… Then he stopped. ‘But you are a prisoner,’ he said.
‘You could let me free… just to see the dogs.’
‘What if you ran away?’
‘You could catch me and bring me back.’
‘You are mocking again.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’
And so the day passed not unpleasantly and when it was dark he came up with a fur rug and two candles for me.
Looking back, I realized that that was a very happy day.
Even now it is difficult for me to know what exactly happened to me during those days I spent in the attic. They seemed, even looking back, to have been touched with a mystic light. He came to me every morning with my oatmeal and he would stay during the morning, then go away and return with my midday meal. Before the second day was over we no longer pretended to be antagonistic towards one another. I did not disguise the fact that I greeted him with joy any more than he could pretend he did not want to be with me.
He was called Richard Frenshaw and he told me those who were intimate with him called him Dickon. I called him Dickon. I thought it suited him. Clarissa suited me, he told me. We used to look at each other in silence sometimes. I thought he was the most beautiful human being I had ever seen—with a different sort of beauty from that of my parents. I suppose it was what is called falling in love but neither of us realized it at first, perhaps because it had never happened to either of us before.
We argued incessantly. He put the case for the Jacobites with fervour. I laughed at him and shocked him by telling him I simply did not care which King was on the throne. I only wanted people around me to live happily without fighting or getting angry because others had different views.
I would have found it easy, I think, to have persuaded him to let me escape. I could have asked to see the horses and mounted one and ridden away; I could have got the key of the attic from him. But I would not. I could not let him betray his uncle’s trust. There was something essentially honourable about Dickon.
He brought his mastiff to show me. The dog was called Chevalier after the would-be King. He took a fancy to me and this was an added bond between us. The little maid who had brought up the water for me on the first day knew how it was with Dickon and me. She was a romantic at heart, and, I believe, thought it charming to see the love springing up between us. I began to get special delicacies brought up from the kitchens—and I wanted this episode to go on and on. It seemed more than three days I spent in the attic. It was like a dream. Dickon felt it too—so he told me afterwards.
We were avid to know everything about each other. The smallest detail seemed of the utmost importance. This was the strangest and most beautiful thing that had ever happened to me.
It was on the fourth day that he came to me and I knew that something was wrong from the moment he stepped into the attic. He was paler than usual and his hair was ruffled. He had a habit, I knew, of running his hand through it when he was disturbed.
I went swiftly to him and put my hands on his shoulders. It was the first time I had ever touched him. His reaction was immediate. He put his arms about me and held me close to him. He did not speak for a few moments and I did not ask him to. I was savouring the wonder of being close to him.
At length he broke away from me and then I saw how frightened he was. He said: ‘You must get away from here. They are coming back. They are only a few miles away. One of the men reached here in advance with the news. There has been a disaster at Preston. Most of the Highlanders have surrendered; the rest are in retreat. My uncle will be back soon… and I fear he will kill you.’
This was bringing me back to reality. I should have known that my idyll could not last. Dickon had changed. He was remembering, too.
He looked at me very seriously. ‘You must not stay here,’ he said. ‘You must get away.’
‘We shall have to say goodbye,’ I murmured.
He turned his head aside and nodded. A terrible desolation came over me. ‘I should never see you again,’ I said.
‘No… no… That must not be.’ Then he held me against him and kissed me. He said: ‘Clarissa!’ and went on saying my name over and over again.
Suddenly he was alert. ‘There is no time to lose,’ he said. ‘You must get out of here.’
‘You… will let me go?’
He nodded.
‘Your uncle…’
‘If they find you here they might kill you.’
‘But they will know you have let me escape.’
‘I will make some excuse…’ he muttered. ‘Come… now. They could be here at any moment. You will have to be careful. Follow me… quietly.’
He shut the door behind us, carefully locking it. I followed him down the steps and through the gallery. He went ahead, beckoning to me when the way was clear. We reached the hall safely and went out to the stables. Quickly he saddled a horse.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘You will have need of this. Get to York. There send a message to your family. Perhaps your uncle is still there. There is a coach that goes to London from York. It starts from the Black Swan in Coney Street every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. It takes four days, providing there are no mishaps. Perhaps you could take that. I don’t think they will follow you south. They will have to go to Scotland and join the men there.’
‘Oh, Dickon,’ I said. ‘You have done this for me. I shall never forget…’
I was not generally given to tears, but they were in my eyes then. I saw, too, that he was also trying to suppress his emotion.
‘It will be dangerous on the roads,’ he said. ‘A girl alone
Then he began to saddle another of the horses.
I said: ‘Dickon… what?’
‘I am coming with you. How can I let you go alone?’
We came out into the frosty morning air.
‘Oh Dickon,’ I said. ‘You must not. Think what you are doing…’
‘There is no time for talking,’ he said. ‘Ride… gallop… We must get away from here as fast as we can.’
I knew I was in danger. I believed that they would be capable of killing me if they returned and found me there. There was indeed no time for delay. They were in retreat and would want to set out for Scotland immediately. They would not want to waste time with me and on the other hand they would not want to let me go free. Yes, I was in acute danger. But I knew I had never been so happy in my life.
Our horses’ hoofs rang out on the frosty road, and it was exhilarating riding along beside Dickon. The countryside seemed more beautiful even than in the spring. The black lacy pattern of branches against the sky, the grey tassels of the hazel which shivered in the breeze, the jasmine round a cottage door which was beginning to show shoots of yellow—they all enchanted me. I heard the song of the skylark which was soaring over the fields, followed by the wild cry of the mistle thrush. It was strange that I should notice such details at such a time. It was perhaps because Damaris had made me aware of the wonders of nature.
In any case I was happy. I refused to look beyond the moment. Dickon and I had escaped together; and he had rescued me—at what cost to himself I could only guess.
In the early afternoon he called a halt. ‘We must refresh not only ourselves but the horses,’ he said. We went into an inn which I saw was called the Red Cow according to the sign which creaked over the door.
‘We are brother and sister,’ he told me, ‘if any should ask your business. We live at Thorley Manor. No one will ever question that for as far as I know there is no Thorley Manor. We are visiting our uncle in York. Our grooms with the saddle-bags are going on ahead. Our name is Thorley and you are Clara. I am Jack.’
I nodded. The adventure was growing more and more exciting with every passing moment.
With an air of authority Dickon ordered that our horses should be fed and watered. Then we went into the inn. I am sure I had never known such a happy hour as I spent in that inn parlour. The fire in the great fireplace was warm and comforting and the innkeeper’s wife brought us bowls of pease soup and hot barley bread with bacon and cheese; there were two large tankards of ale to go with it, and never had food tasted so good, even in my needy days in Paris. Paradise was an inn parlour in the Red Cow on the road to York, and I never wanted to leave it.
I regarded Dickon with eyes from which adoration must have shone out. We were both of us so happy to be together, and we did not want to look ahead to what this impulsive action might bring. To him it could mean disaster. He had betrayed his uncle who was his guardian; he had betrayed the Jacobite cause, and he had done it for me.
In the parlour there was a grandfather clock noisily ticking away the minutes. It was a constant reminder of the passing of time. I wished I could stop it.
I said: ‘I should like to stay here like this for the rest of my life.’
‘So should I,’ said Dickon.
We were silent, contemplating such bliss.
‘We shall have to go soon,’ Dickon went on at length. ‘We really should not have stayed so long.’
‘Do you think they’ll come after us?’
He shook his head. ‘No. They will have to go north… to the army there. The invasion of England will come later.’
‘And you, Dickon?’
‘I shall have to be there with them.’
‘Let’s stay here for a while.’
He shook his head but he made no attempt to get up. I gazed at the flames in the grate, making fairy-tale pictures of castles and riders—all beautiful, enchanted like this inn parlour.
I suddenly noticed that the sky had darkened and that a few light snowflakes were floating down past the window. I said nothing, for I knew if I did Dickon would say we must leave at once.
The innkeeper’s wife came in; she was plump, red-faced and smiling and wore a white mobcap on her untidy hair.
‘Wind’s getting up,’ she said. ‘Coming from the North. “The north wind do blow, and we shall have snow,” so they say. You two got far to go?’
‘To York,’ said Dickon.
‘Why, bless my soul. You’ll never make that before dark. You’d be caught in the snow if you try to get there today.’
Dickon went to the window. The snow was now falling fast. He turned to me in dismay.
I said: ‘Perhaps we could stay here for the night. Could we pay?’
Dickon nodded.
‘Why, bless you,’ said the host’s wife, ‘I reckon your father would see to that. Live about here, do you?’
Thorley Manor,’ Dickon told her boldly.