Bruce Alexander - Death of a Colonial

I thought surely at our dinner in the kitchen that he would make his request to me. But no. As we five sat at table, enjoying the flow of talk from one to the next, not a word was said by Sir John of the meeting which we had attended that afternoon. Annie had fixed a fine dinner of mutton and dumplings. That, Lady Fielding’s tales of happenings at the Magdalene Home, and Clarissa’s commentary upon them were quite enough to keep us entertained for the better part of the meal. Annie, in answer to a query from Sir John, reported upon the progress she had made in her reading lessons with Mr. Burnham. When he heard that she had not long before read through The Governess by Sarah Fielding, he became quite animated.

“Why, the author is my sister,” cried he in delight. “Or was, for she is dead now, God rest her soul. Did you know that, Annie? “

“Sir, I did,” said she, “for Jeremy told me of her when he fetched the book down for me to read. “

“And did you enjoy it?”

“Oh, I did! It was all about a class of girls and their teacher. Since I am myself now a scholar, I was pleased to read of them — even though I am older than they in the story are.”

“Well, I am pleased to hear it,” said Sir John. “I’m glad you read the book and gladder still that you liked it. But I confess to you now, Annie, that I myself have never read The Governess. Years ago my wife, Kitty, God rest her soul, read David Simple and its successors to me. That, alas, is all that I know of my sister Sarah’s writing.”

“Well, then, sir, let me put to you the same question: Did you enjoy it?”

“Ah, well, that’s a difficult question,” said he.

“Why should it be, sir?”

“Because I have no wish to speak ill of my sister — half sister, actually — but the fact remains that there was far too much of sentiment in that book of hers, to the point that it lacked any sort of verisimilitude. Now, this I attribute to the influence of that fellow Richardson, whose romances she openly esteemed more highly than our brother, Henry’s. And that I thought both daft and disloyal.”

With that, Clarissa leapt in with a defense of Samuel Richardson as author and man of sentiment; in the course of it she revealed what I had always assumed — that her bookish mother had named her after Richardson’s heroine, Clarissa Harlowe. Lady Fielding stood solidly with Clarissa, praising both Sarah Fielding and Samuel Richardson and defending sentiment. I, quite naturally, took the side of Sir John. Thus begun, we must have argued round the table for the better part of an hour, at the end of which neither side was declared winner, nor (to be honest) was any conclusion reached. Yet in this way we often passed our time at table — in argument and heated discussion with never a word of gossip, tittle-tattle, or the like.

We three — Annie, Clarissa, and myself — were not to know until years later just how fortunate we were to spend our time in such a household.

As a result of that night’s spontaneous debate, I quite forgot the matter of the Lord Chief Justices letter until much later in the evening. I might not have remembered it at all had it not been for the fact that I found that very letter beneath Sir Johns chair as I was washing up. It had fallen, no doubt, when he dipped his hand in his coat pocket to pull out his kerchief, or some such thing. No matter how it came to be there, however, it would have to be returned to him.

So it came about that directly I had finished in the kitchen, I visited Sir John in that small room down the hall from his bedroom which he called his study. There was room in it for a desk and two chairs — and not much more. I had brought with me a lighted candle in a holder, because I knew from my countless earlier visits there that he would doubtless be sitting in the dark. The candle I carried would save me the trouble of fumbling with flint and tinder — for, of course, I would be asked to read the letter to him when I returned it.

Sir John sat silhouetted against the window. The moonlit sky behind him was like a sheet upon which the darker figure of a man appeared as in a magic lantern show.

I rapped lightly upon the open door.

“Who is there?” said he. “Is it you, Jeremy?”

“It is, Sir John. I have here something of yours.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“A letter — the one given you by the Lord Chief Justice.”

“Where did you find it?” He seemed a bit disturbed, patted his pocket, and found indeed that it was missing — at which he let out a sigh.

“I found it beneath your chair in the kitchen, sir,” said I. “It must have dropped out while you were at table.”

Again a sigh; this one was much deeper than the last. “I fear,” said he, “that I am not altogether as careful with such things as I should be. Lately, in fact, I seem to have become downright careless.”

“Oh, you seem to manage well enough, sir,” said I in a manner rather grandiose, I fear, as if it were within my power to forgive him his faults. My words rang hollow to my listening ears. “In any case,” I added, “here it is.” Then did I lean over and place the letter on the desk before him.

He smiled and nodded. “Thank you, lad,” said he. Then did he wait a space of time, as if in expectation. And finally: “Was there something more, Jeremy?”

In spite of my intention to say nothing, and in contradiction to my vow to maintain my childish dignity at all cost, I then offered to read the letter to him.

“Oh, certainly,” said he with a shrug of his great shoulders. “I suppose I must face what they have in store for me. Waiting will not make it vanish away. But do light a candle and sit down. Let us hear what the Lord Chief Justice has to say to me.”

And so, retrieving the letter from his desk, I settled down in the chair opposite him and placed candle and candle holder on the desk between us. I broke the seal on the letter; though by that time its design was quite familiar, it never failed to awaken within me a sense of awe — the very scales of justice were upon it, after all!

I bent near the desk and candle that I might better read the contents of the letter. Surveying it quickly, I remarked to Sir John that it was writ in Lord Mansfield’s own hand. (The Lord Chief Justice usually dictated his communications to his clerk.)

“No doubt he was forced to serve as his own scrivener by Sir Patrick’s demands for secrecy,” Sir John suggested.

Glancing ahead, I added: “He is also a bit more informal, a bit more himself here.” Glancing up, I noticed fidgeting a bit. “But here,” said I, “let me begin.”

And so I read:

“My dear Sir John:

“By the time this is read to you, my assignment of tasks will have been done, and you must have noticed I had none to offer you. Think not for a moment, however, that you will get off quite do easily. I have saved for you the only real work likely to come from the first meeting of this non -s ensical body which I am obliged to call a commission.

“I would like you to interrogate Margaret Paltrow, the putative mother of the claimant to the Laningham title and fortune, he who says he is Lawrence Paltrow. Actually, her word that he is her son is the only impressive bona-fides that he can offer. Examine her. Question her closely. Perhaps you can persuade her to reconsider her relationship to the claimant.

“As it happens, Margaret Paltrow resides in rather humble circumstances in the City of Bath, and so it will be necessary to travel there to meet her. Yet because we are forced to respect the confidential nature of this mission, I wish you to go there as if on holiday. Take Lady Fielding with you and two servants — no more should be necessary — and stay the better part of a week, or more if you’ve a mind to. I am, in effect, ordering you off on a holiday which, by the bye, you ought to have taken long ago.