The Sparks Fly Upward (7 page)

‘Reach House. Along the river.'

‘We'll follow you down, then. Reckon they'll make for the Thames but they ain't violent, not so's I've heard.'

‘What have they done?'

‘Sedition,' the man said, shortly. He shouted at Sanders: ‘Drive on, but go slow.' They heard his saddle creak as he climbed onto his horse.

The carriage turned away and the village smells of horse manure, thatch and the Bun Shop, where Mrs Hand was already mixing her dough, were overwhelmed by that of the Thames, sweeter here than farther down and always better at high tide than any other time. Jenny let down her window and sniffed joyfully at the bitter, misty air. ‘Oh, Ma, waltzes and fugitives in one night. This is life.'

Makepeace was reflective. ‘Sedition,' she said.

Philippa asked, ‘Do you think it's John Beasley, Ma?'

‘I do. Where else does he run when he's in trouble?'

Jenny turned. ‘Mr Beasley? I remember him. Oh dear, will he bring the law on us?'

‘Probably,' Makepeace said, bitterly. ‘I'll give him sedition.'

John Beasley, printer, publisher, anarchist and thorn in the flesh of both Tory and Whig governments, had been a frequent visitor to her house and its mine in the days when Makepeace and Andra had lived in the northeast but his friendship with Makepeace went back to the time of her first marriage—a choppy relationship that had nevertheless withstood the years.

‘He wanted Sally and me to raise the school against Miss Hard-castle, ' Jenny recollected, with awe. ‘He said she was teaching us old wives' tales and should be ducked for garbling history.'

‘He would,' Makepeace said.

‘It may not be him,' said Philippa.

But, more than likely, it was; else why should a fugitive from London make for the Thames at Chelsea when he had all the city's docks to get away in? And Beasley was a publisher of Tom Paine's
The Rights of Man
, which Prime Minister Pitt, alarmed that England might go the way of France, had recently caused to be proclaimed seditious. Already, at Beasley's request, Makepeace had allowed her smugglers to take a group of his friends to France—all of them political offenders escaping imprisonment . . .

And will do again
, Philippa thought, watching Makepeace's shape square its shoulders in the darkness.
Does she know how dangerous it is?

Not only was the law coming down heavily against dissent but the savagery of the Terror had fuelled the ordinary Englishman's old antagonism against France. The very word ‘reform' now suggested nasty, violent and, above all, foreign revolution so that, ironically, those who mouthed it were having their homes burned down while magistrates stood by and watched.

Only two nights ago a mob had broken the windows of a house in Cheyne Walk that belonged to a certain Mr Scott, writer of mild pamphlets advocating universal suffrage. Watching from the safety of their gatehouse, the women had listened to the crack of glass and the howls of ‘No Popery' from the attackers.

‘What's Popery got to do with it?' Jenny had asked, bewildered.

‘I think they're unaware the Revolution abolished it,' Philippa told her.

Compared with some riots, that one had been restrained, the rioters having been dispersed by the cold more quickly than by the Watch. The Scott family had been frightened, no more. But if it were known that one of Mr Pitt's despised ‘Jacobins' was taking refuge in Makepeace's house . . .

Why does it happen to her?
Philippa wondered at a woman who'd been born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. She certainly didn't seek it, merely waded unseeingly into it. Her original problem in Boston, which had led to all the rest, had only occurred because she'd dragged Philippa's father from the harbor whence American rioters had thrown him for being English and, therefore, a representative of their oppressors.

That act of humanity had cost her a home and a country and gained her a husband, none of which had been looked for, as had none of the other predicaments into which she had become entangled and, eventually, triumphed over.

It occurred to Philippa, belatedly, that these things happened because her mother was a victim, not of fate, but of her own character. Another woman might have lacked the courage and capability to fish Sir Philip Dapifer out of Boston Harbor, might not have survived the mental and economic devastation of his later death, might not have had the business acumen to exploit the luck which had subsequently provided her with a piece of ground containing coal. Another woman would not have resorted to using Devonian smugglers to ferry abroad escaping Americans for whom she was sorry, nor would another woman have found those same smugglers so congenial that she joined them in their enterprise.

It's her breadth of friendship, Philippa decided. Makepeace was blind to class and liked or disliked people according to their character. Middle-class ladies were careful to restrict their acquaintances to people of their own status and outlook; they would shun someone as gauche and incendiary as John Beasley, refusing to recognize his innate kindness and loyalty. The fact that, so far, they didn't also shun Makepeace was because she was rich and now accepted by a society above their own, among the headstrong, titled families of England where another eccentric more or less passed unnoticed.

But Ma's not eccentric
, Philippa thought,
she's just . . .
wider
than anyone else.

And here we go again. It would not occur to her to be cautious, either on her own behalf, or mine, or Jenny's. If the hunted man out there in the cold
is
John Beasley, she will take him in. She may take him in even if it isn't. What would Stephen say?

There was no censure in any of this; Philippa's own shoulders had become as square as her mother's. Uncle John Beasley's right to publish a democratic opinion not only went without saying, it didn't even need deliberation. But it was a nuisance that it might get them all hanged.

Makepeace reached up and opened the flap in the carriage front that allowed communication with the driver. ‘How many horsemen behind us, Sanders?'

‘Four.' Sanders was keeping his voice low. ‘Missus?'

‘Yes?'

‘Are they after who I think they're after?'

‘Maybe.'

They could hear his hiss of resignation over the noise of the churning carriage wheels; Sanders and Beasley were well acquainted.

It was cold to have the windows down but Philippa and Jenny peered out of the one facing the river while Makepeace kept watch on the landward side. Despite the advance of London, this was still deep country. Once they'd passed Chelsea Hospital and the red brick terrace of Cheyne Walk, they were among reeds, meadows and copses interrupted here and there by the drives to large, aloof houses. ‘Plenty of places to hide,' said Jenny.

‘He'll keep to the road,' Makepeace said. ‘He's no countryman, our Beasley.'

There was a moon, the mist giving its light the texture of gauze so that objects were indistinct except when lit to the front by the carriage lamps and, to the rear, by the horsemen's poled lanterns, both sending a wavering, passing light on the erratic levee, picking out mooring posts, flashing on water and boats upturned like stranded seals on the slipways.

On Makepeace's side a badger that had been trotting along the side of the road turned away from the sudden glare, showing a disgruntled, striped backside as it disappeared into undergrowth.

They began to breathe more easily. Reach House was just ahead. If that was where the fugitives were making for, they were either already there or would turn up when the lawmen had gone.

Makepeace had chosen somewhere to live that was secluded and had no reminders of the past yet would allow Philippa access to London society. She was never happy unless she overlooked water, so she'd picked a house in an area once favored by distinguished men and women who had also valued the river, good air and privacy. Philippa's researches into the history of this part of Chelsea had uncovered both Anne of Cleves and Katherine Parr managing to survive their marriages to Henry VIII nearby. ‘Though I fear Sir Thomas More—his house is to our north—was less fortunate,' she'd told her mother.

‘What's happened to him, then?' Anything that occurred before the Mayflower set off for the New World fell through Makepeace's grasp of history.

The house was understaffed by the standards of the locality since Makepeace only wanted servants around her that she knew and liked and, in any case, preferred to wait on herself much of the time—a preference that might prove a blessing tonight. Apart from the vegetable garden and frontage, the grounds had none of the manicured neatness of its neighbors and its park was returning to wilderness.

Philippa loved it. It was a kind house; she liked to imagine that Cleves, Parr and More, walking by the riverside, had watched workmen building it for the then Marquis of Berkeley. True, the men hadn't built it very well because its middle had fallen down, leaving only one tower, but its replacement by bowed, Queen Anne rose-colored brick gave the house an architectural irregularity that added an apparent contentment, like a plump wife and tall husband posing together for a portrait.

Joining Makepeace at the right-hand window, she saw the flat, slated roof of their gatehouse a little way off between the trees, a remnant of the old house where Sanders and Hildy now occupied the apartment above its narrow arch.

The carriage jerked suddenly as Sanders pulled the horses from a trot to a walk. Makepeace reached for the flap. ‘What is it, Sanders?'

‘Spotted 'em, missus. Two figures, just nipped inside our archway.'

There was no outcry from the horsemen behind them; only Sanders had seen what he'd seen. But from the gatehouse to the house lay a carriageway circling a large lawn, all of it open. If the constables followed them in, the fugitives would be caught in their lights as well as those from the front windows of the house.

Philippa met her mother's eyes. ‘Block the archway,' she murmured.

Makepeace nodded. ‘Stop in the archway, Sanders. Block it.'

‘Right y'are, missus.'

There was no time to consult, they were turning in, had stopped. ‘Open your door,' Makepeace said, opening hers until its jamb scraped the gatehouse wall. ‘You two get out your side, Jenny stand, Pippy get 'em in.' She leaned from the angled window and raised her voice. ‘Safe home now, lads, thank you.'

‘Reckon us'll see you up to the house,' the leading constable said.

Philippa pushed Jenny out. ‘Stay there.' Jenny's skirts would cover the gap between the carriage door and the ground should any of the lawmen dismount and be in a position to look through it. She flattened herself, squeezed past and came out onto the drive.

And there they were; two shapes caught in Sanders's lamps, crouched and blinking in the center of the lawn like a couple of hideous ornaments. She began gesticulating for them to run towards her but they were confused and she had to go to them. ‘Get in the carriage and lie down. Quickly.'

She could hear her mother bantering with the men in the roadway, offering them liquid refreshment, which, presumably, was what they'd delayed for in the first place. She teased them. ‘But I suppose you ain't allowed to drink on duty.'

By the time the denials occasioned by that remark had died down, Beasley and his companion had wormed their way into the bottom of the carriage. Philippa shut the door on them.

‘How's that wheel now, Sanders?' Makepeace called.

‘Stay on a bit longer, I reckon.'

‘Get on then.'

Philippa took her half sister's arm and together they walked up the drive as if enjoying the night's freezing air, slowing down the cavalcade coming politely behind them.

Hildy had heard their approach and opened the front door on to the steps where Makepeace was already alighting and giving orders. ‘Off to the coach house with you, Sanders, and see to that wheel. Ale for four, Hildy. You lads can come into the hall for your drink, but take your damn boots off.'

Nobody paid attention to Philippa and Jenny as they followed the carriage around to the side of the house where an arch in the wall led to the coach and stable yard.

Jenny was patting her heart. ‘I nearly swooned. How did you know what to do?'

‘Practice. Living with Ma you get used to it.'

‘That you do,' Sanders said.

Both exaggerated for old-times' sake—apart from aiding the group of Beasley's friends who'd wanted to escape to France, Makepeace had spent the last five years in law-abiding grief.

Beasley and his companion were too tired and too cold to talk. Stumbling, they followed Jenny and Philippa around to the kitchen yard and in through the back door. The large kitchen was empty and lit only by the glow of the fire banked down for the night. Beside it, a kettle stood on a trivet. A cloth covered half a goose and some ham. The women immediately started preparing food.

The man with Beasley sat down at the table and put his head on it.

Beasley slouched in a corner. ‘You've grown a fine pair of bubbies since I saw you last,' he said to Jenny. Jenny blushed.

‘Don't you start that,' Philippa told him. He was especially graceless when frightened, but if he'd been scared so had she and Jenny.

Makepeace came in from the hall passage, her fingers entwined through tankard handles. ‘They've gone. Hildy's upstairs preparing the beds in the attic.' She looked without warmth at Beasley. ‘Well?'

‘Didn't know where else to go.'

‘To hell would have been a good idea,' she told him. ‘What is it this time?'