Bruce Alexander - An Experiment in Treason

I sat up straight, blinking, and then nodded my reply.

“I’ve no idea how you managed to sleep, the way we were bouncing along on those country roads, ” said Mr. Donnelly. “You’ve a talent for it, I do swear.”

“A talent for what?” My voice cracked as I tried it for the first time in hours.

“For sleeping,” said he.

“Perhaps I do, but so few are my opportunities to exercise it that I lear it may eventually be lost.”

At that he merely chuckled.

“Did you sleep? ” I asked him.

“Oh, I dozed, little more than that. Unlike most, the movement of the coach upon the road tends to keep me awake.”

We were now across the bridge and into the maze of Hghts. The driver swung left into Thames Street, following a line of hackney coaches. It must not have been long past dark, for there were indeed a flood of vehicles in the street. At such a time, in such a season of the year, London was at its most handsome — certainly the best-lit city in all of Europe; visitors came from all over to admire the oil-burning street lamps that gave light even on the darkest, foggiest nights. The blinking lights of the coaches and carriages added their bright pinpoints to this vivid picture, as did the torches that lit the door of each tavern, inn, and eating-house along the way. I was altogether fascinated.

“Tell me, Jeremy,” said Mr. Donnelly, “are you disappointed in our expedition to Portsmouth?”

Pulling myself away from the coach window, I gave that a moment’s thought.

“Disappointed in the failure of the experiment, yet not sorry to have been present.”

“Nicely put,” said he. “I should say I felt the same. I was, how-ever, disappointed in the behavior of our supposed host — but at this point, the less said about that the better.”

With that I concurred, and our conversation then drifted aimlessly to Dr. Franklin’s political position, a question much discussed during those days. Was his first loyalty to England, or to those colonies which paid him a salary to represent their interests in London? As an Irishman, Mr. Donnelly knew something of divided loyalties, yet he made no reference to his personal feelings in the matter — that would have been quite unlike him.

This took us to Number 4 Bow Street, where the driver came to a halt, and we climbed down. Mr. Donnelly paid off the driver down to the last penny and appeared ready to bid me a good night and make his way home.

“Why not come up? ” I offered. “Though they’ve likely eaten dinner, there’s sure to be enough left over to feed us both. You’ll have the chance to meet our new cook, Molly Sarton.”

He confessed he had no wish to go home and try potluck for one, nor even less visit one of the rowdy dives surrounding Covent Garden; and so he happily accepted the invitation. We marched up to the top of the stairs and into the kitchen. There at the table sat Molly Sarton and Clarissa Roundtree, who served as Lady Fielding’s secretary.

We were in luck. Dinner had been eaten, yet I was expected, and the stew left over for me was more than enough for two. So said Molly, in any case, as she poked up the fire to warm the pot. I sensed an immediate spark between the surgeon and the cook when I introduced them. As she stirred the stew, he stood nearby, telling her of our bootless journey to Portsmouth, yet making of it a great long joke, wherein he himself was the butt of the story. It was evident that he was attempting to charm her. She laughed. She smiled. She glanced neither left nor right but gave to him all her attention.

“Goodness,” whispered Clarissa to me, “they’ve certainly hit it off, haven’t they?”

A word about Clarissa: She and I had come to Sir John Fielding’s household by way of similar paths. While I was popularly thought to be a “court boy” (one snatched away from a life of crime and put to useful work). Sir John perceived in my appearance as prisoner before him that I stood falsely accused. He opened his home and his heart to me, an orphan, and had treated me ever after more as a son than a servant. For her part, Clarissa was the daughter of one who would sure have been hanged or given transportation had he not been murdered by a criminal far more cruel and ruthless than he. She had escaped from the parish workhouse of Lichfield and would have, in the ordinary course of things, been returned there. Yet Lady Fielding, who had never had a daughter of her own, had formed such a great attachment to her that she would in no wise allow her to be sent back and she persuaded Sir John to allow Clarissa to stay on as her secretary. That was, if you will, a couple of years past, and it has taken Clarissa and me nearly that long to establish a modus Vivendi. Now, however, we seemed to have done so. Indeed, our recent trip to Deal, during which we spent a good bit of time together, seemed to have sealed our friendship. In any case, I hoped that this was so.

“Where is Sir John?” I asked her. “Up in that little room he calls his study?”

“Oh no,” said she, “he responded to a sudden call from Mr. Bilbo and went off to see him in the company of Mr. Bailey.” She hesitated. “Bailey’s his name, isn’t it? The great, tall man who is chief of the constables?”

I nodded, yet still was I puzzled: “Mr. Bilbo is usually at his gaming club at this hour of the evening.”

“Well, no longer, for it seems that he has sold it.”

“Ah, so it has happened at last just as I feared it might.”

“You know something about this?”

“I believe I met the buyer — a Mr. Slade.”

“I know not if he were the one. I heard Sir John say to Lady Fielding that there were a number who were interested in buying the club from Mr. Bilbo, but one who had an advantage over the rest.”

“And what was that?” I asked her.

“He had offered the most money”

“Indeed that sounds like the sort of remark Mr. Bilbo would make.” Then did I frown and puzzle away at a question which I finally did put into words: “But why sell now? I don’t understand.”

“You don’t? ” Clarissa asked with a knowing smile. “Then try this. Lord Mansfield sent word to Mr. Bilbo that the trial date for Lady Grenville has finally been fixed.”

“So the French ambassador was finally unable to bring her back to France?”

“It seems,” said she, “that our friend Marie-Helene must stand trial in an English court. All would have been well had she not bombarded English soil.”

“When must she surrender to the court?”

“I’ve no clear idea of that. In a day or two, perhaps. I should not be surprised if Mr. Bilbo asked Sir John to come and advise on what, if anything more, could be done to keep her out of court.”

And if she appeared in an English court, she — a native of France — would be convicted, as Clarissa and I both knew. Marie-Helene, Lady Grenville, had undeniably been engaged in the smuggling trade with her husband; thus much was known by all. The matter was complicated, however, by the fact that Sir John’s great friend, Black Jack Bilbo, had fallen quite hopelessly in love with her and, to keep her out of Newgate, had given his promise that he would deliver her up for trial when the magistrate required. Now, it seemed, he must keep his promise. I wished to ask Clarissa how Sir John was taking all this, but there our discussion ended, for Molly Sarton called me over to collect my bowl of mutton stew.

“Well, Jeremy,” said Molly, “you and Mr. Donnelly indeed had yourselves quite an adventure, did you not?”

“Mr. Donnelly has told you all, has he?”

At that she laughed. “Oh, I’m confident that he hasn’t. Still and all, from what I have heard, it sounds like the sort of lark my late husband used to love. ” She did lower her voice to add: “Though not near so dangerous.” Then did the smile fade from her face. “Ah, you men,” said she with a sad shake of her head.