Philippa Carr: Song of the Siren

“Pilkington!” said Harriet. “Not Beth Pilkington!”

“She was Mistress Elizabeth Pilkington.”

“I wonder, was she tall with rather strange-coloured eyes—topaz colour she used to call them? In the theatre we said they were ginger like her hair. Good Heavens. Fancy that! If Priscilla would have allowed her to, Beth Pilkington would have bought Enderby. She was a considerable actress. I played with her during my season in London.”

“I see it now,” I said. “She was an actress. She said she had a son.”

“I never saw him. I believe she had a rich protector. He would have to be rich to satisfy Beth’s requirements.”

My mother looked uneasy and said she thought it was going to be a hard winter. She disliked what she would think of as loose talk before Damaris and me. Leigh, who was always protective towards her, came in to help and talked about what he intended to do with some of the land he had acquired. My grandfather looked sardonic and I thought he was going to pursue the subject of Beth Pilkington, but Arabella gave him a look which surprisingly subdued him.

Then the talk turned to politics—beloved by my grandfather. He was fierce in his views—a firm Protestant and never afraid to state his feelings. These views of his had nearly cost him his life at the time of the Monmouth Rebellion, in which he had taken an active part and come before the notorious Judge Jeffreys. It was rarely mentioned in the household but I had heard of it. It upset everyone very much if that time was ever hinted at. However, he was safe enough now. Protestantism had been firmly established in England with the reign of William and Mary; although there was always a faint fear that James the Second might try to return, and I knew that a lot of people secretly drank to The King Across the Water, meaning James, who was sheltering in France as the guest of the French King.

Now there were whispers that King William was ailing. He and his wife, Mary, had had no children; and when Mary died, William had not married again. He was a good King though not a very likable man, and when he died there was a possibility that James might attempt to come back.

I knew this was a source of anxiety to both my mother and grandmother. They had a woman’s contempt for wars in which men liked to indulge generally to no purpose, as Harriet said.

Someone mentioned the death of the little Duke of Gloucester, the son of the Princess Anne, sister of the late Queen Mary and sister-in-law of the King. The little Duke had lived only eleven years.

“Poor woman,” said Arabella. “What she has gone through! Seventeen children and not one of them to live. I hear she is heartbroken. All her hopes were centred on that child.”

“It’s a matter of concern to the country also,” said my grandfather. “If William is not to last long, the only alternative is Anne, and if she does not produce a child what then?”

“There’ll be many eyes turned towards the throne during the next year or so, I’ll swear,” said Leigh.

“You mean from across the water,” added Thomas Willerby.

“Aye, I do,” agreed Leigh.

“Anne has many years left to her. She is thirty-five or thereabouts, I believe,” said Priscilla.

“And,” said my grandfather, “she has shown she cannot bear healthy children.”

“Poor little Duke,” said my mother. “I saw him when we were in London once exercising his Dutch Guards in the park. He was a real little soldier.”

“A sad creature,” said Harriet. “His head was too big for his body. It was clear for a long time that he couldn’t last long.”

“Eleven years old and to die! The King was fond of him, I think.”

“William has never had much affection to spare for anyone,” said Leigh.

“No,” agreed my grandfather, “but a King’s duty is not to spare affection but to rule his country and that is something William has done with commendable skill.”

“But what now, Carleton?” asked Thomas Willerby. “What now?”

“After William … Anne,” said my grandfather. “Nothing for it. We can hope that she produces another son … this time, a healthy one.”

“If not,” said Benjie, “there may be trouble.”

“Oh enough of all this talk of strife,” cried Harriet. “Wars never brought any good to anyone. Is this Christmas talk? Let us have a little more of the season of peace and goodwill and less of what will happen if … If is a word I never did greatly like.”

“Talking of wars,” said my grandfather with a malicious glance at Harriet. “There is going to be trouble over Spain. What do you think”—he glanced towards Leigh and Benjie—“of the grandson of the French King taking the crown of Spain?”

“Dangerous,” said Leigh.

“Not good,” agreed Benjie.

“Now what has Spain to do with us?” said my grandmother.

“We can’t have France in command of half of Europe,” cried my grandfather. “Surely you see that.”

“No, I don’t,” said Arabella. “I do believe you like trouble.”

“When it’s there, we’re not so stupid as to turn our faces from it.”

Harriet waved her hands to the gallery and the minstrels started to play.

My grandfather looked at her steadily. “Have you ever heard of an Emperor who took his fiddle and played while Rome was burning?”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Harriet, “and I have always thought he must have been devoted to the fiddle.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?” said my grandfather. “Let me tell you this, that in the life of our country things happen which at the time seem of small importance to those who are too blind to see their real significance, or who are so bemused by their desire for peace that they look the other way. And what affects our country affects us. A little boy has died. Prince William, Duke of Gloucester. That little boy would have been King in due course. Now he’s dead. You may think it is unimportant. Wait and see.”

“Carleton, they should have called you Jeremiah,” said Harriet mockingly.

“You get too excited about things which may never happen,” put in my grandmother. “Who is going to lead the dance?”

My grandfather rose and took her by the hand. I was not the least bit interested in this talk of conflict about the throne. I didn’t see how it could affect me.

How wrong I was, I was soon to discover.

It was the following day. We were all seated at table again when we had a visitor.

Ned Netherby had ridden over from Netherby Hall and he was clearly distraught.

He came into the hall where we were gathered.

“You’re just in time for dinner,” my mother began.

Then we were all staring at him, for he had obviously ridden over in great haste.

“Have you heard?” he began. “No … evidently not …”

“What’s wrong, Ned?” said my grandfather.

“It’s General Langdon.”

“That man,” said my grandfather. “He’s a Papist, I truly believe.”

“He obviously is. They’ve caught him. He’s a prisoner in the Tower.”

“What?” cried my grandfather.

“He was betrayed. He tried to drag me in,” said Ned. “Thank God he didn’t.”

My mother had turned pale. She was avoiding looking at Leigh. I could sense the terrible fear which had come to her.

No, I thought, not Leigh. He won’t get caught in any plots.

“That’s why he was here a little while ago,” went on Ned Netherby. “He was trying to recruit … an army, I suppose. He’s been discovered, caught. It’ll be his head, you’ll see.”

“What was his plan, do you think?” said Carl.

“To bring James back and set him up on the throne, obviously.”

“The rogue!” cried my grandfather.

“Well, it’s come to nothing,” said Ned. “Thank God I kept out of it.”