To the north over the Marylebone fields the sky dipped and wheeled again, Betty could see the lights beyond the new mansions they were building on Hanover Square, and below her window on George Street she saw the dirty cobblestones grow luminous, and the foul water in the central gutter sparkle with a greenish tinge. A sedan chair sped by as she watched. The chairmen were running, their faces were aghast, the gentleman inside the chair seemed to be shouting frantically. How ridiculous they were, Betty thought, to be afraid of what Frank had earlier explained as a rare but natural occurrence called by some long Latin name. Yet try as she would, she could not keep her mind on the behavior of passersby, or even the beauty of the lighted sky. Her thoughts returned ever to her misery which seemed to be settled in her breast, like a rat gnawing at her heart.
She had seen Charles but once since his brother’s execution. An unhappy interview which she continually relived in every part.
It was last Friday that she had gone again to Newgate jail, after waiting to see Frank set out for St. James’s Square, where he had business to discuss with the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Robert Walpole. Betty did not dare take her chair again, lest the chairmen should gossip, and she hurried along the streets, shrinking into her furred hood, alone as any common trollop. For which indeed, the warder and the turnkey this time mistook her.
Muggles, at first, refused pointblank to let her enter Charles’s cell. “Ye can see ‘im, in the Press Yard tomorrow, sweet’eart,” said the turnkey, leering. “Many a whore gets in there by ‘ook or crook. An’ no good a-telling me you’re ‘is sister agyne. Sisters don’t clamor ter see their brothers alone, they don’t.” She had kept her temper, smiling at the oaf, and opening her purse. In the end it cost five guineas to see Charles. And where was the money for the next bribes to come from? She had nothing but her pocket money, nor had ever needed more. Frank paid all the bills, and knew in his just methodical way where every penny went to.
When the turnkey let her in the cell, Charles frightened her. He greeted her with apathy, as though he hardly knew her. His skin was flushed, his eyes heavy and too glittering. “Oh, my dear,” she cried. “You’re ill! Oh, I pray ‘tis not jail fever!”
“A touch, perhaps,” he said dully. “But would you expect me to be merry after what has happened?”
“I know,” she whispered, seeing how violently he still suffered from the shock of his brother’s death. “Oh, Charles, I tried to save him. Believe me, I did what I could. I even went to Lady Cowper.”
“Molly Clavering from County Durham,” said Charles in a dead voice. “Dear Lady Cowper, she’s saving all her worthless Northern cousins, but she wouldn’t save James.”
“No,” said Betty. “The King wouldn’t permit it, even had she wanted to. Charles, it’s past now. You must rouse yourself, take heart and think of your own defense! Your trial is coming on in May!” This she had found out by guile, asking innocent questions of the unsuspecting Frank. “We must make plans, think of some new plea which will move them!”
Charles turned his head and stared at her. She saw that he scarcely understood her, and he seemed very ill.
She looked distractedly around the cell, and saw on the floor a hamper. She went to it and found inside, a bottle of claret, cold chicken, and bread. “What’s this!” she cried. “You haven’t eaten, have you? In how long, Charles?”
He sighed. “I don’t remember.”
She made him eat, feeding him morsels of bread and chicken with her fingers, filling a tin cup with claret and holding it to his lips. She found a small flask of brandy at the bottom of the hamper and made him drink some of that too. In a few minutes he was better. The glaze left his eyes, he straightened his big frame, and took her hand.
“Betty,” he murmured. “Dearest Betty --why do you bother with me?”
“You know why!” she said sharply. “More than my honor or my life I want to help you.”
He leaned over and put his cheek against hers a moment, though he did not kiss her, for he knew his breath was foul with fever. “Will you do one thing for me, dear?” he said, staring at the tiny slitted window and its two iron bars.
“You need not ask! Oh Charles, have you thought of a plan? Do you see some way of escape?”
“No, no,” he shook his head. “ ‘Tis not that, Betty. Something very different.” He paused and went on slowly. “I have a child in Northumberland. A little girl called Jenny.”
Betty winced and drew back, feeling as though he had struck her, though he did not notice. “Is it the child of -- of that woman you married?” she said carefully.
“Yes. Meg Snowdon’s child. But, Betty, it was no marriage. Meg and I have never lain together since, and we are naught to each other. I could have it annulled. Or could if I were free. But to what purpose. Since now you are married.”
What sweet balm were these words to her, and yet what anguish too! Still, she felt her long pent hatred of the woman who had taken him from her dissolve, and she could say gently, “What of this child Jenny?”
“She is a marigold, growing in a dunghill,” said Charles in a far-off voice. “If she stays where she is she’ll be trampled. I can’t bear it, nor bear the thought that her future not be settled before I die.”
“You will not die!” cried Betty passionately. “Is it the fever that makes you talk like this?”
“Will you take her, Betty?” Charles went on, turning from the window, and looking at her piteously. “Will you take Jenny, and raise her in your home?”
Betty drew a sharp breath and was silent while her thoughts raced in perplexity. To rear that Border lass’s brat -- but it was Charles’s too! She had said she would do whatever he wanted, yet never envisioned anything like this. And what could she tell Frank? How explain the daughter of Charles Radcliffe, whose name and beliefs Frank despised. Yet the look on Charles’s face now -- humble, beseeching, lost. He who had been always so confident, so debonair.
“This child,” said Betty after a while, “whom you can scarce ever have seen . . . she means so much to you?”
“Yes,” he bowed his head. “I’m sorry I asked you, Betty, I see it was wrong. But I thought -- we have love for each other, you and I -- we have kinship too. I thought that with you, Jenny could -- be -- nearer to me.”
“And she shall be!” Betty cried, no longer able to stand the stricken look in the gray eyes, the futile, helpless motions of his hand on his knee. “Oh, my dearest, of course I’ll take her. Of course I will since you want it so!”
His gratitude, the brightening of his face, the love words he had given her, all these had been reward enough at the time. They had made hasty plans together before the turnkey bade her leave, and she had gone home in a happy glow which soon faded. For after all, what had been gained? Charles’s life was no more secure, and she had saddled herself with a child whose presence could not help but be awkward, and probably dangerous. If Frank knew whose child it was, he would refuse to receive it in his home, of that she was sure. He loathed all Jacobites, and above all he loathed what he had learned of Charles during the latter’s dissipated years in London.
What am I going to do? asked Betty of the Northern Lights. What am I going to do?
Alec had left on Saturday morning for the North; he was to bring Jenny down with him. Charles had had enough ready money for this journey. Simpson, a servant of Lord Derwentwater’s still in London, would attend Charles in Newgate for the present. The child might be here in a fortnight, and must be provided for. To do this would mean lies. A tissue of lies to hide Jenny’s identity. Which lie would best calm any suspicion Frank might have? And he could be not only suspicious but harsh, if a principle were involved. “Your nimble woman’s brain will think of something,” Charles had said, smiling at her with vague childlike trust, which brought her renewed fear. “Charles, you must get well! Eat and drink properly, call a physician, get blooded,” she cried, and he promised.
Indeed he was better, so Simpson reported. She met Simpson
occasionally near the pile of building stone behind the unfinished St. George’s Church, since she did not yet dare go again to Newgate. More subterfuge and lies. Yet her anguished love for Charles grew greater daily, and she found herself as imprisoned by it as ever Charles could be by Newgate walls. If I could pray, she thought, but private prayer was not natural to her. Prayers belonged in church on Sundays, which neither she nor Frank attended any more often than appearances required. So no prayers came, and her thoughts jumbled into a miserable weariness as she watched the flickering sky.
It was the first week in April before Jenny arrived, and by that time Betty had settled on the simplest lie with which to introduce the child into her home. One noon, instead of Simpson, Alec met her behind St. George’s Church, and he had a fair-haired child by the hand. “ ‘Tis she, m’lady,” said Alec in a whisper. “A bonny wee lass she is too.”
Betty stared down at the five-year-old girl, and saw -- with a violent constriction of the heart -- Charles’s features in delicate miniature. Brilliant gray eyes with long thick lashes, a clefted chin, silver-gilt curls, and full pink lips which looked made for laughter but were now trembling, while the round eyes stared anxiously at the lady. A beautiful child, a fairy child, she seemed to the astonished Betty. A very dirty and tattered child too. The bright hair was matted. Jenny’s hands were filthy and chilblained. Her home spun dress was patched, her plaid shawl tattered, her oversize leather shoes were fastened on with thongs.
“Make your curtsey to her ladyship, as I told ye!” commanded Alec. Jenny bobbed her knees, and continued to stare at the gorgeous lady who was but one more of the extraordinary sights she had seen since she had left Coquetdale days and days ago and then gone to sea on a big collier at Newcastle.
“What’s your name, my dear?” asked Betty quietly, giving Alec, who started, a look of warning.
“Jenny,” said the child after a moment.
“Jenny what?” pursued Betty.
“Jenny Snawdon I’m a-thinking, though R-Robbie says ‘tis not, ‘tis --Rad --Rad . . .”
“No, Jenny,” Betty cut in solemnly. “Now remember this. If anyone asks your name, just say Jenny. Nothing more. And you will say you were lost here by the church and I found you. Do you understand?”
“Aye,” said Jenny, puzzled but acquiescent. Her lips quivered harder. “Be I lost, then? Yet I canna be lost because o’ Robbie.”
“Who is Robbie?” said Betty to Alec, casting a nervous glance behind her, though there were no passersby.
“A great gawking lad who shipped with us to London, m’lady. Worked his passage down,” said Alec with some amusement. “He would come.” Alec lowered his voice still further. “He said my master said he might. Moreover the wee lass is fond o’ him, and he o’ her.”
“But that’s dangerous!” Betty said frowning. “Nobody else must know who she is or connect her with me. Too many know now.”
“You may trust Rob Wilson, m’lady,” said Alec. “He’ll not talk, and’ll keep out o’ the way. He wants to find work here in London.”
“Well, then,” she said unhappily, dismissing the unknown youth, “go to your master now, Alec. Tell him I’ll manage to get there soon. And for the love of God, bring me news of him when you can.”
“Aye, m’lady,” said the valet with sympathy, and melted away around the church. Jenny looked after him, and began to cry.
Betty took the child’s hand and murmured comfort, yet it was helpful that Jenny should be weeping when she was led up the steps of the Lees’ George Street mansion, that big tears were rolling down her cheeks when Betty took her into the study, where Frank was writing a report on taxation for Walpole.
Frank looked up from his desk. Between the black curls of his full-bottomed wig, his smooth heavy face showed annoyance and surprise, for Betty never interrupted him and he disliked noisy children. “What this, what’s this?” he asked in his incisive voice.
Betty wisely did not answer. She pushed Jenny forward, and after a moment of astonished inspection, Frank’s eyes softened, as she had expected. “Who in the world is this ragamuffin, Betty?” he said. “And why is she sobbing?”
“The poor little thing is lost. I found her by the church, as I came from the milliner’s.”
“Oh --” said Frank, pushing his paper aside and taking command. He enjoyed dealing with problems. “Well, we’ll soon set that straight. Stop crying, little girl. You’ve nothing to fear. What’s your name?” Betty held her breath and released it when the child said, “Jenny.”
“But you’ve another name too?”
Jenny gave a great gulp. The lady was looking at her steadily, and did not want her to say more; besides, there was confusion about the name, and always had been, for though she was called Snowdon she had always known there was another name which her mother never mentioned. “I divven’t reetly knaw,” sobbed Jenny. “Oh, gin only R-Robbie was her-re!” She covered her face with her hands, and Betty, stooping down, put an arm around the heaving shoulders.
“What a dialect she has,” said Frank. “I can hardly understand her. From the North, of course -- or is it Scotland?”
“We’re na Scots,” wailed Jenny, who had caught the hated word. “We’re o’ the Dale, fra Tosson.”
“Wherever that may be!” said Frank. “Poor child, I suppose she must be lost.” His voice was kind as he questioned Jenny further, and elicited a tale most satisfactory to Betty. Jenny said a man had taken her from “lang lang awa’ on a ship” many days and nights ago, that he had run off in the churchyard just now, and the lady had led her here. The only dangerous moment passed unnoticed by Frank, for though Jenny reported that the lady and the man had talked with each other, she used the Northumbrian word “gobbing” which Frank did not understand. Besides he had made up his mind, “I believe she’s been kidnaped,” he said to Betty. “Doubtless by a gypsy, who meant to sell her in London. So pretty a child would always find a market. Deplorable! That she doesn’t know her name would indicate that she’s a bastard -- the get of some nobleman, I judge, from the fineness of her features. I’ll watch the Gazette and see if there’s notice of her disappearance.”
“And in the meantime, Frank?” said Betty quickly. “May I keep her here? There’s a cot in the attic she can have, and I’m sure she’d be no trouble, would you, dear?”
Jenny shook her head. She had stopped crying, and was finding the arm around her comforting. Nobody had ever held her close like this. And the lady smelled good; she smelled like the wood violets up the burn at home, while the stuff of the yellow dress against Jenny’s cheek was softer than lamb’s wool. She felt the lady’s heart beat fast as she waited for an answer, and Jenny knew suddenly that her own fate hung in balance. The gentleman in the black wig was frowning, tapping the tips of his fingers together. And the lady was afraid, Jenny knew it. She raised her head and looked full at the gentleman, and she smiled. “Nay, I’d ne’er trouble ye, hinny,” she pleaded breathlessly.
Jenny’s smile was like sunlight through clouds; it was a magic of direct communion with a hint of wistfulness. It was a smile which strove to charm, but was unconscious of its great power to do so.
Frank stared and forgot the objections he had been about to give Betty. That there were foundling homes for such cases as this, that the child was filthy, and it was unsafe to expose his own child to lice and disease, that there must be time to weigh the situation.
“She may stay a while,” he said gruffly. “Make sure she’s bathed at once, Betty, and I see she needs decent clothing. Here.” He unlocked the petty-cash box on his desk and tendered Betty a guinea. “Get her what she needs.”
“Thank you, my dear,” said Betty, and thus was Jenny safely settled in the Lee household.
Charles threw off the last remnants of jail fever when he heard from Alec of Jenny’s journey and safe arrival. He listened eagerly to every detail about his child, rejoicing that she was well, and regretting that he could not see her, but even had a visit bee
n feasible he would not have subjected Jenny to Newgate and the sight of an imprisoned father. Yet now that the daze of shock over James’s death receded, Charles became filled with strong desires. He wanted to avenge James -- in this he never wavered. And he wanted to live. These were the first desires, only second to them and of more immediacy was the wish to see Betty. For this he hungered, and saw no reason why it might not be managed soon. Since bribery was the obvious method of arranging prison visits, and he knew that Betty’s purse was straitened, he wrote to Ann, asking about the state of his own finances.
The little Countess was in Gloucestershire, and very ill with grief and pregnancy, but she wrote back a pathetic note, assuring him of her constant prayers, and enclosing a draft for one hundred guineas, which would be honored by Dilston’s London agent, Mr. Robbourne; “though how to find more, or what my son and I would subsist on, were it not for my dear parents, I know not yet,” she added. From which Charles understood that the Government had not decided on the full extent of punishment or how much of the Derwentwater estates would be forfeited. In the meantime here were funds again, and Charles’s spirits rose. He conveyed the news to Betty through Alec, and they arranged a meeting for Wednesday evening, April 11. Always on Wednesday evenings Frank Lee went to St. James’s Coffeehouse to talk politics with the other Whigs who had made this particular coffeehouse their own. Since Lee’s habits were invariable, Betty would thus have at least three hours in which to visit Newgate, and Alec, having hired discreet chairmen from the City, would accompany her through the streets. Muggles and the outer warden had already fixed their garnishes for permitting the visit, and Charles foresaw no difficulties.