We passed into the unsatisfactory summer when I made an effort to continue with my life as it had been before the great adventure. Christabel and I made a show of taking lessons together but my thoughts were always at Eyot Abbas with my child. Christabel, too, was absentminded; that unhappy look had come back to her and I could tell by some of the bitterness of her comments that she was dissatisfied with her lot.
Once she said: “What will become of me when I am no longer required to teach you?”
I answered: “You could stay with me as long as you wished to.”
“I’d be a sort of Sally Nullens or Emily Philpots, I suppose.”
“You would never be like that. You and I have been friends.” She turned away and I saw her lips move in that pathetic way which always upset me. In spite of her aloofness there was a closeness between us. After all, she knew a great deal more about me than anyone else in the house did.
There was a great scare that year and my mother was very anxious. Ever since the Popish Plot had been the great event of the time, showing us that our comfortable lives could be easily and tragically interrupted, an uneasiness had settled on her.
I knew it concerned my father.
He was a very forceful man and not inclined to keep his opinions to himself. He had grown firmly anti-Catholic, and as the heir to the throne was James, Duke of York and he made no secret of his leanings, she could see trouble ahead. My father was a great friend of the Duke of Monmouth and my mother always said that he was one who was born for trouble.
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Monmouth, son of Charles the Second and Lucy Walter, was the most colourful man at Court … next to his father. He had good looks, which his father lacked, and he had a certain charm; he did not possess his father’s shrewdness and clever devious mind, though he was bold and reckless-brave enough, but careless of his own safety and that of others.
The King loved him dearly, and while Charles lived, Monmouth would be forgiven a hundred indiscretions. Yet those about him feared that he might go a little too far one day. And during that summer it seemed he had.
It was understandable that my mother should view with disquiet my father’s friendship with such as Monmouth. It was not so much that my father was devoted to the man; it was rather what he stood for. My father said he had not lived through the Commonwealth and upheld the Royalist cause for the sake of a Catholic bigot who before long would have the Inquisition installed in England.
He would grow very fierce when he talked of such matters and I noticed that my mother, who normally would have indulged in verbal battle with him, was unusually silent.
When we first heard about the Rye House Plot she became almost ill with anxiety.
It was a foolish plot, doomed to disaster. The plan was to assassinate the King and his brother as they rode back to London from the Newmarket races. The road led past a lonely farmhouse, near Hoddesdon in Hertfordshire, known as Rye House, and from this the plot took its name. It was owned by a man named Rumbold, who was one of the chief instigators.
Two events worked against them. There was a fire in the house in Newmarket where the King and Duke were staying, and they decided that rather than bother finding another lodging they would return to London. Thus they travelled along the road past Rye House Farm before the conspirators expected them.
Meanwhile a letter was found addressed to Lord Dartmouth in which the plan was set out.
Having just emerged from the excitement of the Popish Plot, which had now petered out like a dampened fire, the people were eager to give their attention to another plot. The Rye House Plot was discussed with animation throughout the country. A proclamation was issued for the apprehending of suspects and there was a reward of a hundred pounds to any who succeeded in bringing any of the conspirators to justice.
This was when my mother began to grow uneasy. She was 149
terrified that my father might be involved and that for the large sum of one hundred pounds someone might be tempted to betray him.
I heard them discussing it together.
“I tell you,” he said, “I was not involved. I had no part in it. It was a foolish venture, in any case … doomed to failure. Besides, do you think I would agree to a plot to assassinate Charles?”
“I know of your affection for him… and his for you …”
“And you think I am in the habit of plotting against those for whom I have affection?”
“I know your strong feelings for Monmouth and your desire to see him on the throne.”
“Oh, Bella, you surprise me. I want Monmouth on the throne only if there is a question of James taking it. What I want is what is best for the country … for you … for me … for every one of us … and that is that Charles shall stay where he is for the next ten or twenty years.”
“I could not believe that you would want to harm him.”
They walked together in the gardens arm in arm-not hiding their tenderness for each other on this occasion.
Being so absorbed in my child and my constant thought being how we could be together, I had little time to brood on plots. As long as I knew that my father was not involved I could forget it. There had been an attempt on the life of the King; guilty men had been brought to justice; and that was an end to it.
It was disconcerting to discover that this was no rustic conspiracy contrived by a mere maltster in a country farmhouse. It was revealed that quite a number of rich and influential members of the nobility were concerned in it. Lord Howard of Escrick and William Lord Russell were two of them. Heads began to fall and I could see that my mother was growing more and more apprehensive.
It was not long before the name of Monmouth was beginning to be mentioned.
The King was taking his usual diffident attitude towards the whole affair. My father said that Charles was more interested in intrigues with his mistresses than attempts on his life. His attitude was: It has failed, so why be concerned about it? He was a man who disliked conflict and wanted to live in peace. He enjoyed witty conversation and the company of beautiful women far more than bringing his enemies to justice.
“He is a man,” said my father, “who regards death without concern. His idea of heaven would be a Whitehall where there were no
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plots or tiresome issues. It should be all pleasure which he finds in the women who surround him.”
“Yet they say he can be wily enough in his dealings with France.”
“Ah,” said my father, “he leads the French King where he will, and what is amusing, he also leads him to believe that the leading strings are in French hands. Quite a feat, really. Charles is shrewd, Charles is clever, but above all he is lazy and can never really give quite the same concentration to anything as he gives to the seduction of women. If only he would make up his mind and legitimatize Monmouth.
It seems the sensible thing to do.”
“And now what?” asked my mother. “Monmouth is involved in this …”
“Jemmy would never agree to kill his father. That I know.”
“How will he prove it?”
Monmouth did convince his father that although he had known of the plot he would never have agreed to the killing of his father. Whether the King believed him or not no one was certain. Whether Monmouth would be prepared to commit parricide for the sake of the throne no one was certain either. What was certain was that Charles could not bring himself to execute his own son-traitor though he might be.
The King could not of course ignore what had happened, and as a result Monmouth was banished from Court. When we heard that he had gone to Holland my mother was intensely relieved. My father laughed at her. She was like an old hen, he said, clucking round her family.
But they were close, those two, and I liked to see them thus.
Two people who lived near us were involved in the plot. They had visited us now and then in the past, being near neighbours. It was a shock, therefore, to hear that they had been arrested.
There was John Enderby, who had lived in a rather fine house called Enderby Hall with his wife and son, and even closer to us there was Gervaise Hilton of Grassland Manor.
There was a great deal of talk about it. The properties would be confiscated and doubtless sold to other families. I wanted to call on them but my mother forbade it.
“It might be said that your father sent you. We have to keep outside all this.”
I obeyed her, but I wondered about the families.
They disappeared, and the houses stood there looking more and more desolate as the months passed.
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Time had indeed passed, Carlotta was now over a year old-a very definite personality and growing prettier every day. Those startlingly blue eyes-not quite as dark as Harriet’s-attracted everyone’s attention, and I was amazed that people could say how like her mother she was growing. Harriet was very amused by this.
“Trust Carlotta to play her part,” she commented. “That child will be an actress, mark my words.”
I think Harriet’s interest in the baby had waned a little. One could not expect her to become completely absorbed in a child-particularly someone else’s. Moreover, Sally Nullens mounted guard over the nursery like some fabulous dragon breathing fire on anyone who dared approach her baby. I did not mind this, for I knew that Carlotta would be tended with the utmost care. Any little ailment would be detected at once and dealt with. Sally had become a different woman from that disgruntled, ageing female who had crouched over her singing kettle and rocked herself angrily before her fire. Life had meaning for her now. It was the same with Emily Philpots. Carlotta was not just an ordinary child. She was a saviour. They doted on her, but I knew that Sally would not allow any spoiling which, good nurse that she was, she knew was bad for the child. She had her rules, which must be obeyed, and at the same time nothing was spared in the devotion she bore the child.
Carlotta could not be in better hands and I should have been satisfied, but how I longed to have her for myself!
That Christmas, Harriet and Gregory came to us at Eversleigh, so I had the baby under the same roof, which was wonderful. Harriet did warn me that I must not behave as though there was nothing in life but Carlotta.
“It might set minds working,” she said. “After all, it was rather unconventional to go to Venice to have my child. Try to be a little restrained, dear.”
I knew what she meant when I heard my mother’s comment: “Priscilla will make a good mother. Just look at her with Carlotta. You would think she was the mother-not Harriet.”
Yes, I could see that Harriet was right. I was on dangerous ground.
That was an exceptionally cold Christmas and during January my father said that we were all to go to London. There were invitations from Court and they could not be ignored.
He was looking at Christabel and me rather speculatively and I fancied he was thinking that I was no longer a child. I was sixteen years and would be seventeen in July.
I could see how his thoughts
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were working, and although he was as indifferent to me as ever, he did remember his duty as a father and that would be to get me suitably married.
The idea was repulsive to me. It horrified me. How could I marry without telling my husband that I had a child?
I began to feel very apprehensive.
It was the coldest winter within living memory. There had been a hard frost since the beginning of December and when we arrived in London it was a different city.
The Thames was frozen so hard that salesmen had been able to set up booths on it, making it look like a fair. It had changed the face of the city and newcomers marvelled.
The inhabitants were now used to it and they just went out walking and shopping on the river.
There was a great deal of merrymaking. It seemed to be an occasion to celebrate.
There had never been anything like it and doubtless there never would be again. The ice was as hard as stone; this was proved because they had started running coaches from Westminster to the Temple; and when they roasted an ox on the ice, the fire made little impression.
Some of the Puritans-and there were still many around-declared that the weather would grow colder still and we should all be frozen to death-except the righteous. God had sent the plague and the great fire and this was another warning.
The watermen were dour. This was taking away their trade. Many of them set up stalls and turned into salesmen.
“What is good for one is bad for another,” was the philosophical comment.
My mother, with Christabel and myself, would go and shop on the Thames. The cold was intense but the stall holders were very merry, and we had to be very careful how we walked across the ice. But it was so hard that it was like walking on stone and so much traffic had made it less slippery than it would otherwise have been.
Everyone was watching for the thaw; but so thick was the ice and so long had it been there that it seemed unlikely that it would thaw quickly even when the weather changed.
It was on the ice that we made the acquaintance of Thomas Willerby. He was a middle-aged man with a somewhat portly figure and a round rosy face. He was standing by one of the stalls drinking a hot cordial. There were many sellers of hot drinks on the ice, for they were a very welcome refreshment in such weather.
It so happened that as we passed the stall, Christabel slipped and 153
slid right into Thomas Willerby. The cordial was almost thrown into his face; it missed that, however, and went streaming down his elaborate coat.
Christabel was overcome with horror. “My dear sir,” she cried, “I am so sorry. Oh, dear! It was my fault. Your coat is ruined.”
He had a pleasant face, this Thomas Willerby. “There, there, my pretty,” he said, “don’t you fret. ‘Twas no fault of yours. ‘Tis this unnatural ground we’re treading on.”
My mother said: “But your coat…”
” ‘Tis nothing, lady. ‘Tis nothing at all.”
“If it is not washed off immediately it will leave a stain.”
“Then, my dear lady, there will be a stain. I would not have this lady”-he smiled on Christabel-“worried about a coat. It was no fault of hers. As I say, it is this unnatural ice.”