Authors: Philippa Carr
I must see Sabrina, who had grown since I left; messages were sent over to the Court and to the Dower House. They would all be coming over to Enderby. This was a great occasion.
Lance stayed the night and received the thanks of every member of the family for bringing me home safely. They listened spellbound to my story which I told them in detail for I saw no reason to withhold anything except of course my love for Dickon and his for me.
‘Thank God for this Dickon,’ said Damaris. ‘Oh, my darling, you were in great danger.’
‘Damned Jacobites,’ growled Great-Grandfather Carleton. ‘I’d string up the lot of them. As for that Pretender… hanging’s too good for him.’
So I was back in the bosom of my family and it seemed strange to be sleeping in my own bed again.
Christmas came. Damaris kept telling me how delighted she was that I was home in time for the celebrations. Besides, this was no time to be travelling about the country. There could be civil war, and what a disaster that would be, and all because some people wanted to put this Pretender on the throne.
She was sure the loyal army with men like Uncle Carl commanding it would soon put a stop to all that nonsense—but there might be trouble first.
Jeanne was delighted that I was safely back. She wept and crooned over me.
‘Oh, Mademoiselle Clarissa, you are the one things happen to,’ she cried. ‘It is the way with some. There you are snatched from England… brought to France, living in a grand house and then in a cellar. Rescued from that… you see how it goes. Oh, how ’appy I am that you are with us again! “Christmas,” I said, “What is Christmas without the little Clarissa?” I have
la petite Sabrina…
yes. I have the little one. But for you there is something special… Do you know…’ She touched her heart. ‘Something in here…’
‘Jeanne,’ I said solemnly, ‘I shall always love you.’
Then we wept together.
I could not join wholeheartedly in the festivities. All the time I was wondering where Dickon was and whether I should hear from him. We did hear scraps of news about the Pretender. He had left Bar-le-Duc, where he had been living—for he was no longer welcome at the French Court—and, disguising himself as a servant, had travelled to St Malo where he had tried to take ship to Scotland. This he failed to do, so he made his way to Dunkirk. It was at that time the middle of December but, accompanied by a few attendants he managed to find a ship to take him to Scotland and landed at Peterhead three days before Christmas.
This news filled me with dismay for I felt certain there would be bitter fighting, and if there was, Dickon might well be in the thick of it.
The days passed and there was no news. The family had been amazed to hear that I had a half-sister. It was something they did not want to discuss openly though, because they deplored the fact that my parents had not been married and they found it rather shameful that Hessenfield should have had another illegitimate daughter.
I thought a great deal about those days in Paris when Aimée must have been living not so very far from me, and chatting with Jeanne was the best way of recalling them. Naturally she remembered so much more of our life there than I could. I asked her a great many questions and I began to feel that I was back there living it all again.
I made her tell me about the life at the
hôtel.
‘Did you ever hear of Aimée and her mother?’
‘Never,’ declared Jeanne. ‘But never… never. My lord was always with your mother when he was in Paris. He did go away now and then… it was all rather secret. He went to and from Paris to the Court at Saint-Germain. But never did I hear that there was another woman.’
‘Are you sure, Jeanne?’
Jeanne nodded emphatically. She closed her eyes and lifted her head to the ceiling. She was casting her mind back in time.
‘I remember it well,’ she said, ‘I remember Yvonne, Sophie, Armand… he was the coachman. And there was Germaine… she was above herself… what you might say too big for her boots. Germaine, she thought she should not be there… she should be a lady in her carriage… not a servant in such a house. Then there was Clos… who cleaned the boots and grates and whatever he was told to do. A happy boy he was… always a smile. Then there was Claudine, another such as Germaine… only not quite so haughty. Oh, I remember them well. There was one day when my Lord and Lady Hessenfield were away at Saint-Germain and Germaine dressed up in my lady’s clothes. We laughed and laughed. She did it all so well. Only trouble was she didn’t want to take those things off… she didn’t want to go back to work.’
‘And was I there at the time?’
‘You might have been with my lord and lady… or you might have been in the nursery.’
‘I don’t remember any of them except you, Jeanne.’
‘Mon Dieu!
You were only a baby. I’d take you out sometimes… perhaps to the druggist to get something for my lady… something sweet-smelling to scent herself with… or to the glove-makers to collect gloves. Little errands like that. I’d orders never to venture with you into the forbidden places… never to the Pont-au-Bled or the Rue du Poirer. I remember one morning a man in a carriage drive by—some young lover chasing his mistress’s carriage—and you were spattered with mud. I had to get one of the brushers-down at the street corner to deal with you. I couldn’t take you back like that and I’d have to get that mud off you the minute it went on or it would eat into your clothes…’
‘When you talk, Jeanne, it brings it back to my mind.’
‘Well, there’s much that’s best forgot. We came through it all, didn’t we? I often wonder what became of Germaine. She had a lover… and she was proud of him. He lived somewhere on the Left Bank. I remember once she stayed out the night with him. Clos let her in in the early morning. Monsieur Bonton did not know. Do you remember Monsieur Bonton? He led us all, you might say. He was reckoned to be one of the best chefs in Paris and it was said that the King himself would have liked him for his kitchens. But that was just talk, maybe. But we all feared him. He had the power over us. One word from him and we could be sent off…’
‘Jeanne, it seems so strange to me that there should have been this woman… Aimée’s mother.’
‘He would have been finished with her by that time.’
‘No, I don’t think so. She had a letter from him which said he wanted Aimée taken care of. He must have been seeing her.’
‘Who can say with men? The best of them have their secrets and often that secret is a woman. It is just men,
ma petite.
We must never be surprised by what they do.’
I supposed she was right, but I found it difficult to accept.
With the coming of the New Year there was a great deal of talk about the Pretender. He was to be crowned at Scone and the Jacobites were persuading their women to give up their jewels to make a crown for him.
There were rumours—that was all. On the pamphlets which had been circulated James had been represented as godlike—tall, handsome, noble and full of vigour, determined to win what was rightfully his. It seemed that the reality was quite different. James had no charm of manner; he did not know how to attract the ordinary man; he had no conversation; moreover he was melancholy and seemed more ready to accept failure than inspire victory.
The truth was that he lacked the gift necessary for leading men. The Earl of Mar, who was the real spirit behind the rising, sought in vain to imbue him with the qualities essential for the success of the enterprise. It was hopeless, and even Mar had to realize that he was involved in a lost cause. The only people who were ready to support James were the Highlanders and it was soon apparent that the wise course of action was to retire while it was possible to do so and await the opportunity to rise again.
The loyal troops of King George were on the march and there was only one thing for James to do, which was to go back to France. At Montrose he and the Earl of Mar embarked on a vessel and sailed towards Norway, hugging the coast until they came to Gravelines, where they landed. That was the tenth of February. The enterprise was over.
‘Thank God,’ said Priscilla. ‘Let us hope they will never consider such a foolhardy expedition again.’
‘Well, it is all over now,’ echoed Damaris.
Alas, it was not over. There had been many captives and it was not to be expected that they would be dealt with lightly. Lessons had to be taught and learned.
Prisoners had been taken and many of them were being brought to London to be sentenced. I was overcome with anxiety.
Uncle Carl came home. He would stay a while, he said, now that the little trouble in the North was over.
‘Your friend Frenshaw is one of the prisoners,’ he told me. ‘He won’t escape execution. Hessenfield is in trouble too. By Gad, Clarissa, you were in the very heart of it up there.’
‘Thank God she got away,’ said Damaris.
I longed to know what had happened to Dickon. I must find out. I was anxious about my Uncle Hessenfield. I had grown fond of him.
Lance arrived. He said he had come to see me. He spent a long time talking to Uncle Carl, but it was Lance himself who broke the news to me.
He asked me to walk in the gardens with him. It was warmish for February and he remarked that there was a sniff of spring in the air.
I soon discovered why he had come. ‘Clarissa,’ he said, ‘this is going to be sad for you but I think you should know.’
I whispered: ‘It’s Dickon… isn’t it?’
‘He’s here… in London.’
I caught my breath. ‘Can I…’
He shook his head. ‘He’s one of the prisoners. He was taken with his uncle. There’s no hope for them. They’ll all be condemned as traitors.’
‘But he is only young and…’
‘He was old enough to fight against the King’s troops.’
I caught his arm and looked up at him pleadingly. ‘Something can be done… something
must
be done. Remember he saved my life.’
‘I do remember that. If I could do anything, I would. But they are doomed, all of them. People cannot commit treason against the King and be allowed to escape punishment.’
‘Dickon is different.’
‘I know Dickon is different for you, Clarissa. But not to His Majesty’s judges. I wondered whether to tell you that this is about to happen… or to say nothing.’
‘No, no. I want to know what happens to him. Lance, could you take me to him?’
‘That is quite impossible.’
‘Could you not
do
something?’
Lance bit his lip as though considering, and my hopes rose.
‘Lance,’ I cried, ‘you could do something. I know you could. You can do it… if anyone can.’
‘You have too high an opinion of my powers. There is nothing I can do. Your Uncle Carl is in a high position in the army…’
‘I will ask him,’ I cried. ‘And he is here now.’
‘Don’t let him think…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It would be a good idea if you gave the impression that you wanted to save this young man’s life because he probably saved yours. If there was anything that your Uncle Carl would call “romantic nonsense” he would be less inclined to save Dickon. The last thing Carl or any of your family would want is an alliance with a disgraced Jacobite family. Perhaps it would be better if I spoke to him.’
‘No, no. I want to be there.’
‘Very well,’ said Lance, ‘but be careful.’
Uncle Carl listened thoughtfully.
‘You see, Uncle,’ I said, keeping a curb on my emotions, ‘he saved my life. I feel for that reason we ought to do something for him.’
‘It’s true, of course,’ Lance added his voice to mine. ‘Is there anything you could do?’
‘I should not think so for one moment,’ replied my uncle.
‘But,’ persisted Lance, ‘it is worth a try.’
‘I should have to go to London.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Lance.
I loved Lance in that moment. He had made my cause his. He understood how I felt and he was on my side. I felt optimistic because of his support.
‘We could leave tomorrow. They’re getting a fair trial.’
‘A word from you might go a long way. After all, there is his youth.’
‘I doubt that will be considered,’ said Uncle Carl. ‘Anyone who is old enough to fight is old enough to pay the penalty for treason against the King.’
‘Well, we can try,’ said Lance.
I could see that Uncle Carl thought it was a lost cause and although Dickon had saved me he was not eager to make the journey to London for his sake. But Lance persuaded him. There was something good and kind about Lance. I had seen it when he spoke up for the coach people who were about to be denied their dinner. He could put himself in other people’s place and see from their point of view. It was a rare gift, I imagined, and most people who had it were too selfish to do anything about it.
The next morning Lance and Uncle Carl left for London. I wished that I could have gone with them but Lance said they would be quicker without me and they must get there before the trial started.
I want to forget the days which followed. They were some of the most wretched I had known up to that time.
I was desperately afraid, for I had gathered from Lance’s attitude that there was very little hope. I waited every day for news. I could not eat; I could not sleep; and Damaris was worried about me.
‘My dear Clarissa,’ she said, ‘you must not fret so. It’s true he saved you but he must have gone back to fight with them…’
‘He believed it was right,’ I cried. ‘Don’t you know what it means to believe in something!’
There was no comfort anywhere and for a whole week I fretted.
‘You’ll be ill if you go on like this,’ said Damaris.
At last Lance came alone, for Uncle Carl was kept hard at work in London. I knew as soon as I saw Lance’s face that all was not well.
‘Lance… Lance…’ I cried flinging myself into his arms. He held me tightly for some seconds. Then I wrenched myself free and looked full at him.
‘Tell me,’ I begged. ‘Tell me the truth.’
‘He is not to be executed. We managed to avert that.’
‘Oh Lance… Lance… thank you… thank you.’
‘But…’ he hesitated, and I felt I was going mad with the suspense.
‘He is being transported to Virginia.’