Devil Water (12 page)

Charles and Betty watched the coach trundle off between the trees.

“Blessed Mary and the saints,” said Charles on a long breath. “I can’t think yet.” He jerked his head several times, and fingered a lump behind his left ear. “I’m something addled.”

“Oh, Charles,” Betty cried, throwing her arms around him. “He
hurt
you! What a fearful thing this has been. Oh, what are we going to do?” And she began to cry.

“Don’t,” said Charles, the dizziness waning. “Don’t weep, Betty. We’re safe enough now. Just a matter of a long walk back to town.”

“But
can
you?” she whispered. “Charlie, you were so
brave!
To think how you routed that villain!”

Charles was aware that his victory had been caused by rage, good luck, and the feebleness of his opponent, but her praise was sweet. He pulled her arm through his and they began to walk back along the country road. In a few minutes they reached the tiny tavern Charles had noticed earlier. There was a candle in the window, and Betty said, “Could we go in and rest for a while -- get warm?” Her voice shook, and Charles forgot his own misery.

“Poor little coz,” he said. “You must be frozen, and in those satin shoes.” Betty’s feet were, indeed, soaked from the icy puddles.

A slatternly landlady at length answered their knock. She listened sceptically to the tale of a highwayman, while scowling at the bedraggled young couple, then Charles showed his purse and she finally installed them by a fire in the empty taproom. She brought in some mulled ale. The warm liquor revived them both. They sat side by side on the settle, and began to talk.

“ ‘Tis clear enough now,” said Betty. “That bitch gave her orders to Paulet and the blackamoor page when she called them aside before supper, pretending there was a message from the Duke.”

“Yes,” said Charles slowly. “Juba had ample time to arrange all her connivings, to alert her servants -- and the broken axle on your mother’s coach -- a lie! We fell headlong into her schemes. My only wonder is what punishment Paulet had orders to deal me. Would he have killed me, do you think?”

Betty shuddered. “I doubt that even the Duchess would put murder on her soul.”

Charles nodded. “Maybe not. I was to be wounded, no doubt, and you left stranded alone in the dark. And whatever we said later, the Duchess could deny, saying that an encounter with a highwayman had so befuddled our memories that we knew not what happened.”

“This she can
still
say -- and will.” Betty shook her head. “Who’d believe our tale against that of the Duchess of Bolton? Oh -- she concocted a pretty revenge.”

“And so can I!” cried Charles violently. “I’ll find a way to make her smart, I’ll --”

“Charles!” Betty interrupted, putting her hand on his. “I pray you, please don’t. You’d run into more danger, and you’re leaving for the North on Monday, anyway. Forget this outrageous attack, in which you -- you were not, in the beginning, quite guiltless.” Her voice thickened, and she averted her head. She extracted a lace handkerchief from her bosom and wiped her eyes.

Charles stared at her. Until tonight he had never thought of her as anything but a sharp-tongued, lively girl, with a passion for teasing and pranks. He was startled by this shaky disheveled Betty, obviously much concerned for his safety. And there was the strong, new bond of danger shared and surmounted.

“Betty,” he said after a moment. “You’re sorry I’m going North?”

“Of course, you great booby, except you’ll be safe from the Duchess, and any other angry ladies you may have insulted here.” Betty blew her nose, and turned to Charles with something of her usual briskness. “You’ve lost your peruke,” she said, “and that cravat’ll never again be fit for society.”

Charles paid no attention to this. He took another drink of ale. “Would you mind being betrothed to me?” he asked on one quick breath, staring elaborately into the fire. “I -- I’ve reason to think James and your parents wouldn’t object. I mean -- I don’t either if you want to. I think we’d get along.”

“La!” said Betty, the color flaming up under her freckles. Her heart began to beat as hard as it had when she struggled with the footman. “Truly, sir, you confuse me. I don’t know what to say.”

Charles did not either, being somewhat horrified at what he had already said. He took her plump little hand and kissed it. The hand trembled, and he saw that Betty’s lips were trembling too. So he kissed them. The kiss was pleasant, though it inspired none of the sensations he had felt with Meg and, initially, with the Duchess. The kiss was safe, warm, companionable. There was respect too, an element notably absent in the other kisses he had given. “So now we’re betrothed?” he asked shyly.

She swallowed. “I suppose so, Charles. I’m fond of you, I must confess.” Fonder than he was of her, she knew, but time might remedy that, and in any case one did not expect wild romance in marriage.

“Are you warm enough now?” he asked with solicitude, enjoying a new proprietorial feeling. “Do you think you can walk back to London?”

Charles and Betty arrived in Bloomsbury Square at about four in the morning. They found the house ablaze with candles, James pacing up and down the hall, and Dr. Radcliffe ministering to Lady Lichfield, who was in hysterics.

Both youngsters were too cold and weary to correct the story the Duchess had already given. Her coach had returned to Ormond House just before the ball finished. It had been waylaid, it appeared, by a ferocious gang of highwaymen; the servants had been overpowered, Charles and Betty abducted for ransom, no doubt. The bullet-smashed windowpane lent credence to the tale. Which was not unique. Lord Dorchester’s coach had been held up last week, and Lady Salisbury’s a month ago. The news-sheets had been full of the scandalous laxity of the Watch.

Charles satisfied his distraught elders by some confused account of their escape, and changed the tenor of Lady Lichfield’s cries by adding that he and Betty had plighted troth to each other, and hoped this met with approval. It did. James shook his brother’s hand, Lady Lichfield kissed him and her daughter, Dr. Radcliffe brought madeira in which to drink a toast. The young couple finally went to bed, in a haze of rejoicing and congratulations.

Charles told James the true story of the highwayman next day, and found that his brother agreed with Betty. “It is wiser to forget this despicable matter since no real harm was done. I need not point out that this’ll be a lesson to you, Charles. You played the fool and got burnt. But good has come of evil, since the adventure precipitated an understanding between you and our cousin Betty. She’s a fine girl.”

“She is,” Charles agreed humbly. “And I find I’m very loath to leave her. I fear for her in this wicked town.”

James smiled. “You needn’t. She’s going back to Ditchley Park with her mother. Mr. Petre can marry you there by special dispensation in the summer. But I want you with me in Northumberland first.” He sighed. “Frank won’t go, and I’m bound to admit a northern winter wouldn’t help his chest. He and Uncle Tom will stay in the good Doctor’s care. But I’d not like to go home without either of my brothers.”

“Nor shall you, my lord,” cried Charles. “You can ever count on me. And I swear I’ll never give you cause for disquiet again.”

On Sunday Betty and Charles were formally betrothed. James produced a cabochon ruby ring and Charles put it on Betty’s finger. The young couple were then sent to the music room to amuse themselves, while Lady Lichfield and her lawyer, James and
his
lawyer, Roger Fenwick, all conferred in the library over the initial proposals for the marriage settlements. Betty was to have a jointure of £800 a year, and a manor in Berkshire. James offered to give Charles some of his Cumberland estates in addition to the £3000 left Charles by their father’s will. Lady Lichfield’s lawyer and Mr. Fenwick haggled a bit, as in duty bound, but the interview was harmonious. James was generous, and Lady Lichfield delighted that the strain of husband-hunting was over and she could retire to the peace of the country.

There was also harmony in the music room. Happiness had beautified Betty. She sparkled and laughed and flirted with Charles, who warmly responded. When Lady Lichfield came to summon her daughter she found the two playing a hideous jangling duet on the harpsichord, while Charles nuzzled Betty’s ear and she giggled and ducked her head.

“Foolish children,” said Lady Lichfield smiling. “I see that Betty will need every minute of your separation to learn proper decorum. I shall hope to give you a model of wifely dignity, Charles.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said grinning. “Betty pleases me as she is, and I long for the day in which I may claim her.”

James and his French valet, Mr. Petre, Roger Fenwick, and Charles all set off on Monday in a hired post chaise. Often during the long uncomfortable ride north Charles thought about Betty. At York he even wrote to her, a laborious blotted effort which started with a catalogue of the sights he had seen. James, unlike Thomas Erring-ton, encouraged sightseeing. Then Charles finished his letter with a shameless copy of one of his father’s courtly poems, which was supplied by James.

My Goddess Lydia, heav’nly Fair
As Lilies sweet, as soft as Air;
Let loose thy Tresses, spread thy Charms,
And to my love give fresh Alarms.

Charles did not think it made much sense, but James assured him that young ladies expected love poetry, and Charles was anxious to please Betty, and increasingly willing to be guided by James.

The brothers stopped a few days in Durham to visit their elderly aunt, Lady Mary Radcliffe, and she took them to call on Lord Crewe, the powerful Bishop of Durham, whose wife’s father was distantly related to the Radcliffes. There was hardly a great family in the North which was not related in some degree, it seemed. James was pleased. It confirmed the feeling of roots for which he longed.

Finally on a cold, cloudy January morning their chaise reached Gateshead.

The foggy air was yellow and acrid with smoke from the collieries. The Durham Road passed near the Park Pit, where Charles had met Black William Cotesworth on that far-off September day. It he continued to look he would soon see the row of pitmen’s hovels where Meg had lived. Charles did not look. He was as unwilling to be reminded of his affair with Meg as he was of that with the Duchess. Both seemed incredible and shamed the many good resolutions he had made. From now on he would be a worthy and noble Radcliffe as James was. He would perfect his sketchy education by studying the Classics with Mr. Petre. He would fulfill his religious duties, and help James with the estate responsibilities. He would make himself into a dependable upright husband for Betty. Tenderly he thought of her laughing face, her plump wholesome body, of her voice and the little airs she had which showed her high breeding. Both she and he had royal blood in their veins, though Betty’s ancestry was of longer noble lineage than his, Charles thought with humility. And she’ll turn Catholic for me. I know she will, Charles thought with an added glow. Betty had as much as said so, during their last intimate moments of farewell.

Charles was so delighted with these happy reflections that he did not notice the crossing of Tyne Bridge into Newcastle. “Here’s the town, my lord,” said Roger Fenwick on an apologetic note. “Not much of one after Paris or London, I fear.”

“It certainly seems extraordinarily dark and smoky,” remarked Mr. Petre with a sharp sigh. His high-beaked nose twitched and he sneezed. What a pity that the young Earl’s inheritance should lie in these freezing gray northlands. Nor could one hope for civilized welcome today in the shape of good food, wine, or beds. The last nights on the road had taught him that. The priest savored his comforts and was beginning to think that his agreeable chaplaincy might soon develop into a penance. He frowned at the nearly deserted streets, the huddled smoke-grimed houses and said,
“Cest morne.”

James spoke quickly. “It
won’t
seem dreary, sir, when we’re used to it up here. In any case it’s home, and in one’s home, I’m sure one sees few imperfections. Where’s my town house, Fenwick?”

“On Newgate Street, my lord,” answered the young lawyer. “Not worth looking at today since it’s been untenanted for years, of course.”

“To be sure,” said the Earl. “And we must hurry on to Dilston.” He spoke the name of his castle as some spoke the name of a lover, the priest noted bleakly. A curious name, said to be a contraction of Devilston, and located on the Devil Water. Bizarre fancies the ancient Radcliffes must have had, in fact all these Northerners, the priest amended to himself as Roger Fenwick, usually taciturn during all the months he had been of the Earl’s entourage, suddenly cried, “There’s Denton Hall, my lord, on the right. It was haunted by a ghost named Silky! She always kept an eye on her family there -- the Rogers -- and also on the pits nearby. She warned time and again the colliers o’ danger, but some years ago Silky got offended; she’s gone further north to Belsay Castle. Since she left there’s been naught but trouble at Denton. The old squire’s turned lunatic, and the colliery caught fire. ‘Tis still bur-rning, you can see the glow yonder.”

They all looked through the window and saw a black cloud and sullen wisps of flame on a great desert of turf.

“What a taradiddle, Mr. Fenwick,” snapped the priest. “I never thought to find you superstitious.”

“ ‘Tis
not
superstition but tr-ruth,” said Roger resentfully. “Not being of our blood
you
may meet none of the ‘presences’ up her-re, but I’ll be bound his lordship will.”

James stared at the young lawyer, who had hitherto been eminently sensible. Even Fenwick’s speech had changed during this tale of Silky. It had broadened, the Northumbrian burr had crept in.

“I’ve no wish to meet a ghost,” said James smiling, “unless ‘tis part of my duties. Is there one attached to Dilston?”

“Aye, my lord. Some say ‘tis of a nun who was murdered by the Scots. There was a nunnery nearby in olden days. Some say ‘tis the ghost of a Radcliffe who was slaughtered for defending his king at the Battle of Hexham Levels, which happened on your estate. King Henry Sixth, that was, during the Wars of the Roses.”