Authors: Jean Stubbs
The Iron Master (49 page)
‘Don’t you fret, ma’am,’ said Polly briskly. ‘I can act as daft as a brush, if I want. They won’t get nothink out of me.’
Together they lifted the boards which hid the box, and Charlotte got it safely out. Then, with Polly watching for signs of lodgers or servants, they conveyed it downstairs to the parlour, and hid it in a cupboard.
‘We must light the fire,’ said Charlotte. ‘No, not now. That would seem suspicious, for the weather is hot. This evening. Late. Lay it for me, Polly, and then put the fire-screen back.’
In her new mood of confidence she helped her maids to finish off the colonel’s room later that day. And even picked flowers from the garden, to put in a little silver vase upon his chest of drawers. Then she busied herself in the way which most calmed and ordered her mind, writing letters to those about her one to Dorcas, promising that she should ride down to see her and would stay the night if she wished; one to Zelah, to say that she would be coming to Bracelet the following week and hoped to call on her, and asking after her sister-in-law’s health, for Zelah was once again with child; a simple letter to Dick and Alice, saying that she would like to visit them when the harvest was over. Though she did not know this, she was setting herself aright by returning to her beginnings.
The hour drew close when all but herself were abed. Alone, serene, she lit the parlour fire and sat upon the hearthrug watching it burn up bright She fetched the box from the cupboard. She was standing with it in her hands when the door burst open and Colonel Ryder stood there, officers behind him.
‘Do not touch those papers, madam,’ he said commandingly. ‘I believe them to be King’s Evidence.’
His order halted her only for a second. In the instant that she realised she had been trapped, that they must have crept down and waited at the keyhole, hoping to catch her in the act, she flung back the lid and seized the papers at the top. The soldiers leaped to intercept her, but she threw the box at them and thrust the list which named both committee and leaders deep into the heart of the fire. She was conscious of pain, of crying out, and still she held the burning papers in the flame until they pinioned her arms behind her. Then she faced the colonel, victorious in this attempt at least, and sought to shield Jack Ackroyd. For he would live and learn from these events, and go on as she was not destined to do.
‘I am guilty of forming, organising and directing the secret society of the Red Rose, known by its password,
Jack
Straw
,’ she said as steadily as she could, but her fingers were piercing her in their trouble. ‘You have no need to look further, Colonel Ryder. You will find that I have knowledge of such societies in the past. My husband, Tobias Longe, was a well-known Radical and active member for parliamentary reform.’
‘We have a considerable dossier on you, Mrs Longe,’ said the colonel. You have been watched these past six months. But we could find no evidence against you, until you sought to burn those papers.’
As though she had sent him a message in her trouble, Jack rose from his desk where he was working late, and went to the window overlooking the High Street.
She was even now coming down the steps of Thornton House for the last time, wrapped in her old mantle, one hand bandaged, escorted by two officers. Behind them, Colonel Ryder carried the metal box of King’s Evidence which could hang her by the neck until she was dead.
Unhurriedly, he reached for his own greatcoat. Though it was summer, the prisons were notoriously damp, and God knew how long it would be before they came to trial. He put all the money he had into a leather bag, and pushed it into his pocket. He looked round his room, engraving it upon his memory. He looked across the High Street at Charlotte’s window. Then he ran down the stairs and caught up with the little group as it marched towards the jail.
Charlotte said instinctively, ‘No, Jack!’
But he addressed himself to Colonel Ryder, briefly, almost peremptorily.
‘Sir, I am Jack Straw!’
And put out his hand to touch her wounded one, so that she should know they were together even in this.
In the royal duchy of Lancaster, late that summer, a man could not find a room for love or money. Every inn was bursting, every lodging-house crammed from attic to basement, and all charging the most monstrous prices. Solicitor Quirk, who booked accommodation for the four judges and their retinues, said he had never known anything like it. The Wyndendale Rising had fetched upon itself the full panoply of the law. A Special Commission was descending from London to conduct exemplary trials and order exemplary hangings, for the good of the nation; bringing with it five distinguished barristers for the prosecution, a flock of witnesses, and such necessary fleas as courtroom artists and journalists. For the defence, on the other hand, stood only three lawyers of fair repute who had demanded their fees before they went into court; and a mere handful of people who could testify to the former good character of some of the prisoners. Over a hundred honest men and true had been sifted to find twelve jurymen. And the sheriff’s chaplain was busy polishing his sermon, which he had based upon the stricture ‘Put the Evil away from the Midst of Thee’ (
Deuteronomy
13:5) and would preach in St Mary’s Church before the trials began.
Though Lancaster’s history was long and embattled it did not give the appearance of a medieval town, owing to the amount of building done in the reign of the three Georges. Penny’s Hospital and the Quaker meeting-house were coming up to their century, but the Town Hall with its vast Tuscan portico, the majority of fine houses and Glasson Docks were no more than thirty years old. Even the castle, rising from its rock above the broad river, had been re-modelled to contain a Shire Hall and a jail within the last decade. So the first impression on the visitor was that of a stately modern place.
This graciousness would have delighted Dorcas Howarth at any other time, but now seemed like the face of cold indifference. Her journey to Lancaster was the conclusion to a bitter battle between mother and son. For, as head of the family, William preferred to take the protection and defence of Charlotte entirely upon himself. Within an hour of hearing the news from Lord Kersall, he had resigned his public offices, sought advice as to a sound lawyer, bribed the Millbridge jailer to make Charlotte more comfortable, sent in Dr Hamish Standish to dress her hand, and talked to her for a long while in the attempt to understand why she had behaved in such a fashion. All this he wanted to spare Dorcas, but she would not let him.
She had browbeaten Tom to drive her into Millbridge to visit Charlotte, and come home white and shaken from the ordeal. She had taken William’s refusal to let her attend the Lancaster trial very badly, sending Tom back into Millbridge to book a seat upon the mail-coach, and weeping all afternoon when there was not one to be had. Whereupon Nellie wound her shawl round her head and shoulders and hurried to the Hall, to convince William and Zelah that Dorcas was prepared to walk to Lancaster and sleep out of doors sooner than give up the idea of going.
‘Then thee must take her with thee, William,’ said Zelah, understanding.
‘But she could die of the effort, let alone the trouble!’ he said, aghast.
‘I’m feared she’ll die if she stops here,’ said Nellie, crying and wiping her eyes on the corner of her shawl. ‘Best let her die the road she wants, Mr William.’
So on the appointed day William’s coach was fetched round from the stables and packed with every comfort and delicacy. And at Bracelet Nellie and Tom helped up the indomitable Dorcas, complete with her case of home-made medicines and ointments, her Bible and prayer-book, and a small trunk of clean clothing. In sorry triumph she sat opposite her son, the ironmaster, who contemplated her with love and resignation. She soon fell asleep, and the coach rolled out of Millbridge on to the great turnpike road, and headed for the north. Its boot was filled with gifts for Charlotte from Kingswood Hall, Thornton House and Kit’s Hill. A traitor Charlotte might be in the eyes of the world, but to the Howarths she was still one of them, and the family closed ranks to protect her.
William and Dorcas made the sixty-mile journey in easy stages. She slept much and spoke little, conserving her energy for the trials ahead. But once, when they had dined and refreshed themselves at a particularly fine old hostelry, she said with a gleam of pleasure, ‘Why, we have not had such an adventure together since we travelled to Birmingham!’ Then she remembered the joy of that journey and the sorrow of this one, and her little satisfaction vanished.
A friend of William had offered them private lodgings in Church Street, where every member of the household strove to anticipate their wants and treat them with sympathetic kindness. But Dorcas sat long at her bedroom window that first night, gazing towards the ancient castle and picturing her daughter lying alone in darkness there.
Though William’s money had provided her with all the amenities a prison could offer, prison could not be disguised. There was a dank odour in the cell which clung to Charlotte’s clothes, tainted her flesh, pervaded the air, and it caused her lawyer to keep a scented handkerchief in his hand, and hold it now and again to his nose. Mr Pacey was a shrewd and agreeable fellow who would go far in his profession. He treated Charlotte with the courtesy due to a lady who has a rich and generous brother, but he was coming close to exasperation with the prisoner herself.
‘Will you please to understand, madam, that you are confusing the issue with abstract notions of truth and justice,’ he urged, ‘and are like to lose your life if you insist upon this course! Pray let me plead for your gentle upbringing and gentler sex,’ and here he cleared his throat and spoke in a mellifluous voice. ‘A good wife is her husband’s mirror, madam, reflecting his thoughts and moods, his aspirations and beliefs. She is an echo of. his own ambition, his closest companion, his most trusted counsellor. Should we blame her, therefore, if her womanly tenderness is turned into channels she would not have followed, left to herself? If that charity for the unfortunate, so amiably displayed by other female members of her family, should become in her an abiding obsession? If, in a word, she were misled, should we hang her for it?’
He paused, head upon one side, bird-like in his contemplation of an invisible judge. His voice deepened.
‘In every other respect, Mrs Longe, you have been exemplary. A devoted daughter, a loving mother, a loyal friend. I believe you to have been carried away by your own virtues. It is your virtues that shall plead for you, and the weakness — the natural weakness — of your sex!’
He became practical and brisk.
‘Now, madam, Mr Ackroyd is quite properly pleading guilty and will take full responsibility for this Jack Straw business. I have spoke with him, and he is anxious to give you every advantage. He will modify his evidence so that the length of time you were together and your knowledge as to the complete workings of this secret society are somewhat smoothed over. You will seem more sinned against than sinning. If we present your case in the way I suggest, and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the court, I think we may be reasonably sure of a light sentence.’
She sat, hands manacled, head bent. She looked unutterably weary, possessed by a sadness which diminished her to a small grey woman on a hard chair.
‘Will you consider these things carefully, Mrs Longe?’ he asked.
Charlotte said quietly, ‘Sir, I shall consider nothing but speaking the truth as I know it, and leaving my case to be decided as justice perceives it.’
Mr Pacey allowed himself a sigh of frustration. Charlotte lifted her head and regarded him with considerable irony.
‘I do not wish Mr Ackroyd to distort his evidence, nor you to distort my character, sir, in the manner you have described to me. You may see it as a chivalrous gesture on your part, but I find it to be a vile calumny. I shall refute it utterly. Dear God, that you should make such a poor fool out of me! Why, how should I live after, having denied the very principles by which I lived at all?’
He said, as persuasively as he could, ‘Then, madam, will you remain silent while I speak for you?’
‘No, sir,’ said Charlotte. ‘I shall not.’
The interview seemed to have given her strength, for her voice now sounded resonant and she sat more upright. Mr Pacey shook his head, and bade her good-day.
But to William he said, ‘Sir, your sister is too human to have the makings of a saint, but she may well become a martyr!’
‘Then what do you propose, sir? For I expect you to do something for her.’
Mr Pacey judged his man accurately.
‘Well, sir, we may roughly divide the trials into five sections. (Though I beg you to consider this as a reasonable guess rather than a definitive promise!) There are those whom they will hang: the male leaders of Jack Straw and Ned Ludd. They will be heard the first day. Then there are those who will be hanged or transported for life: such as used violence, are of poor character, or were seen to be in the thick of the trouble. That is the second day. On the third day there will be a mixture of good-hearted fools, and these will be sentenced to some years of transportation or imprisonment. The fourth day will see some imprisoned, and some pardoned. We shall save Mrs Longe to the last. She is the only woman, and for such a strong-minded woman she seems uncommonly gentle. If we could silence that articulate tongue, sir, meaning no offence, we might get her off entirely! However, she will appear when justice has been done and all are weary, and they wish to be merciful and go home again.
‘I suggest, sir, that we leave her character to her witnesses: her personal maids, a friend or two, who will paint the picture we want. Then I shall say what she will allow me to say on her behalf, and hope she will not spoil my impression. And we shall be careful to keep away from dangerous ground as far as possible.’
‘That does not sound much,’ said William slowly, ‘and there is much at stake!’
‘It is all she will let me do, sir. If you can persuade her differently then pray do so!’
The newspapers were less charitable to Charlotte. The fact of her being the only woman on the committee gave rise to gross speculation as to her morals and intentions. Cartoons depicted her dressed as a French revolutionary, knitting at the foot of the guillotine, while heads flew into the air labelled, ‘Democracy!’ ‘Freedom!’ King!’ ‘Country!’ ‘Church!’ and suchlike emotive words. In London, her past as a writer for the Radical press, her friendship with Mary Wollstonecraft, her marriage to Toby Longe were all dredged up and furbished to fit the present image. Stories circulated which people loved to read, and her family would have loved to deny, and grains of truth swelled up into full wheat-stalks of falsehood. The Tory press denounced her entirely.
In Wiltshire, the Jarvis Poles endured anonymous letters, knowing looks, and explicable coldness. They also discovered their true friends, and the strength which lies at the heart of a united family.
In London, Ambrose Longe and all those who belonged to a Radical press began to hammer home the opposite point of view.
The
Wyndendale
Post
and its chief influence, Lord Kersall, had been neatly gored by a dilemma. Were they to be vindictive about the Red Rose Society they would increase the number of questions as to why it had gone on so long, and thereby hurt the valley’s reputation. For was not the headmaster of its boasted and respected grammar school the leader of this society? Was not Charlotte sister to one of its richest and most powerful industrial magnates? Were there not a number of highly respected citizens on its committee? And yet, if they did not rant and rage and call upon heaven to witness their horror, would it not seem that they condoned these rebels? So they compromised: playing down the Red Rose Society and venting their spleen upon the weavers and Luddites.
‘You will, of course, naturally deny that there was any immorality on your part, should the prosecution — most unfairly — take the attitude of the popular press, Mrs Longe?’ said Mr Pacey in some anxiety.
‘I shall certainly deny the general charge of immorality,’ Charlotte replied. ‘But if they specifically mention Mr Ackroyd I must witness to the heart’s affection, sir.’
He would have liked to have hidden his face in his hands for a moment.
‘With regard to other libels,’ he said carefully. ‘You would deny you were an atheist, for instance, I hope, madam?’
‘I am not an atheist for I believe in God, and in the merciful salvation of God. But I have not been to church for a long while, so I dare say they would read that as being the mark of an unbeliever.’
‘How would you read it, madam?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘That the preacher at my church was a hypocrite, and the members of the congregation more so, sir.’
She was, he saw with terror, improving in her spirits: more than capable of producing the speech that would damn her to perdition.
‘Let us hope, Mrs Longe,’ he said without hope, ‘that these questions do not arise.’
Dorcas visited her daily, smuggling in comforts, seeming to gather strength from the sight of Charlotte eating a fine pear and wiping her fingers on her handkerchief, or wearing a clean gown. She did not ask for details of the personal or political past, accepting that it was alien to her and would remain so. That she could love her daughter so deeply as to put aside all question of morality amazed and puzzled Dorcas. And Charlotte was humble in the face of such devotion, contriving to speak cheerfully of small things, so that great ones should not bruise it.
