The Iron Master (37 page)

Charlotte’s Children

Twenty-two

1799
-
1805

Ambrose Longe was a copy-plate of his father, as if Toby had been aware of early death and sought to live on in his son. The lively little boy who wrote his own newspaper, in answer to the pompousness of
The
Wyndendale
Post
,
became
a lively scholar at Millbridge Grammar School; to which establishment he sallied forth daily, exchanging the loving solicitude of his mother for the discipline of his headmaster. And though he entertained Cicely and the kitchen staff with wicked imitations of Nobmaster Awkward, and twitted Charlotte to observe her reactions, Ambrose respected Jack Ackroyd. Their styles were different, but they learned to like each other very well.

Whether the boy had imbibed radicalism with his mother’s milk or absorbed it from her associates was not certain. But he was a born Radical, even as he was a born journalist. Charlotte could always occupy herself at her desk, provided that her son had pen and paper as well. They would scratch away for hours together in perfect amity, while Cicely sat in her own quiet world and sewed.

Ambrose was just fourteen when the Red Rose and the evening classes blossomed, and at that age when a lad is most curious and in need of adventure. The night-watch, as he called it, began as a private dare that he could hear what was going on without being discovered. Crouched in the shadows of hall or staircase, ready to scuttle silently away should he be disturbed, he played a game which gradually became shocking reality.

The classes were dull, predictable stuff, but the meetings afterwards provided him with more excitement than he had bargained for. Twice a week he took up his post, risking capture from the kitchen, the back parlour or a late arrival at the back door, and noted who came and went and what was said. His mental dossier grew, his eyes and mind were opened, he was enthralled and terrified. A new world was revealed, and he saw that it was good. He even drew a map of the valley to observe how the society was placing its leaders and parties. He knew which inns were friendly and would pass a message or give a warning. He hid the map carefully, under a loose floorboard in his room, and hugged his secret to his heart.

The first coup was brewing in the savage winter of ‘99. The men had been chosen, the place checked, times and movements worked out, and solemn oaths of secrecy taken. Then they produced the handbill which was to be sent to the authorities, and in this Ambrose found a fatal flaw.

He scurried upstairs as the parlour door opened, in a moral dilemma. Disclosure of his knowledge would bring retribution: he did not fear his mother, but the rest of the society were men and he knew that their justice would be of the rougher kind. And yet he knew that so much, and so many, should not be risked for the sake of his own young hide and safety. He resolved to sacrifice himself, though he shuddered at the prospect.

So Charlotte found him sitting on her bed, huddled in her coverlet, and shivering more than the cold night warranted.

‘You are later than usual tonight, Mamma,’ said Ambrose at once, resolving on a direct approach. ‘Is Mr Ackroyd setting your class an examination already?’

Her heart leaped and sank at the sight of her son, and she silently thanked God that Jack had gone home that evening to nurse a heavy cold, else they might have come in together.

‘Why are you not asleep?’ she said fiercely, softly. ‘How dare you wait up like this. You are impertinent, sir, and not too old to escape punishment!’

They were both very white and scared, afraid of themselves and each other. Ambrose’s brief heroism deserted him. He forgot the speech he had prepared and blurted out his boy’s truth with a boy’s desperation.

‘Mamma, you mustn’t send out that handbill as it is. They’ll know who you are if you do. And they’ll put you and Mr Ackroyd in prison, and Cissie and me will have to live at Bracelet with Grandmother, and they will close down the grammar school. And where will poor Polly and Sally go, and William Wilberforce as well? Oh, Mamma, don’t send the handbill!’

And he cast himself upon her, and clutched her, and sobbed in spite of his resolution.

‘There now, my son,’ said Charlotte mechanically, stroking his head. ‘There now, Brosey!’

Appalled by his knowledge of them, chilled by their peril, she dismissed the questions she wanted to ask, the accusations she wanted to make. She drew him towards the fire in the hearth, sat him down on the rug, and questioned him forcefully, directly.

‘What is wrong with the handbill?’

He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his nightshirt, ashamed of his tears, collecting himself. He spoke rapidly, as though reciting a lesson.

‘In the first place it is a professional handbill from an established society, which will challenge them to root you out. But in the second, it is obviously composed by a person of education who is a little too particular as to the spelling and grammar!’

He looked appealingly at her to see how she was taking this criticism. She motioned him, gravely, to continue.

‘Mamma, Mr Ackroyd is known for his radical views, and folk guess at your own, and I have heard them speak of my father’s doings in London and Paris. Surely, it will not be long before the local justices connect these things together and look for an educated Radical source?’

Her face was impassive. His courage wavered, for perhaps he was quite wrong and need not have spoken.

‘All I think … from what I have heard of such matters … is that if the authorities receive an ordinary misspelled note, signed “Robin Hood” — or any similar name which hints at common insurrection … I mean, Mamma, would it not be better that they thought the Red Rose was simply a group of cunning bumpkins?’

She sat, arms folded, feet on the fender, frowning in thought. Then her expression became dear again, even a little humorous.

She said, ‘I once criticised Mr Ackroyd for a similar fault, and never thought to apply it to myself. It is the obvious that always escapes one.’ Troubled, she asked, ‘How much do you know of us, Spy Ambrose?’

‘Pretty well all, Mamma,’ he replied, and his heartbeat became less insistent. ‘I was just spying for fun in the beginning. Not to know anything, if you understand me, just for the daring of it I have a map of the valley under my floorboards, and you can see it if you want to … I have told no one, Mamma. Not even Cissie.’

‘Let that be a lesson to me,’ she said, angry with him and herself. She now looked sternly on him. ‘What is done cannot be undone,’ she remarked, ‘but you must take responsibility for it. Do you know the oath of life or death we make our supporters take, Ambrose? The need for absolute secrecy, absolute loyalty, absolute silence? The punishment that will be exacted for treachery?

‘You wept easy tears a few minutes ago, my son, fearing my imprisonment and a change of home for you and your sister. My dear child, what an understatement of the consequences that would be!’ And she cast up her hands momentarily, and clicked her tongue. ‘They will hang a boy of seven for stealing a sheep, so why should they spare a woman who is guilty of sedition? As for your living at Bracelet, that would be the best you could expect in the midst of great misfortune. The two of you would be watched, suspected, from then on. And you, Ambrose, who have not yet learned how to govern your tongue or curiosity, what trouble you would be in. They would make sure that you held no honourable post, no responsible position, when you were a man. Do you understand me?’

He nodded, and his underlip quivered slightly. She saw that she had conveyed the gravity of their situation, and softened a little in her severity.

‘So,’ she said, touching his shoulder, ‘you had courage enough to tell me, now use your courage to keep silence, and to keep away from our meetings and all talk and thought of them, henceforth. And I will have that map, sir, and burn it this moment upon this fire!’

He saw that he had been forgiven. He stretched out a bare foot to warm it.

‘Was my father a spy, Mamma?’ he asked, watching her face.

‘I do not know,’ she answered soberly. ‘In this business no one — or only one! — knows everything. The less we know the less we can tell.’

‘Mamma, I promise you need fear nothing from me. But, Mamma … ’

‘Ah! Toby’s
but
,’ she said wryly. ‘
But
, will you give me the world? What but, my son, have you to exact of me?’

‘But please can I make up the name for your letter?’ She threw back her head and laughed quietly.

‘Well, that depends, Ambrose. What name had you thought of, while you listened and plotted?’

‘We have been reading the Nun’s Prologue by Chaucer,’ he said comfortably, warming his foot, ‘and learning the history of the Peasants’ Revolt in thirteen eighty-six, and the same name cropped up in both, and caught my fancy. He was the leader of the revolt, you see, and his first name is the same as Mr Ackroyd’s — but would they suspect him because of it?’ he added, suddenly downcast at the thought.

‘I doubt it. That is a little too obvious, and even his enemies cannot accuse him of vanity!’

‘No. Of course it has another meaning nowadays. Thomas Nashe describes him in Nashe’s Lenten Stuffe as a worthless sort of fellow.
Jack
Straw
!’

‘
Jack
Straw!’ Charlotte mused. ‘I do not see why not. But I must ask Mr Ackroyd. And I must tell him who supplied it, and why and how!’

Ambrose looked worried.

‘Yes, it is always the way,’ said Charlotte sadly. ‘The mention of a man’s displeasure instils respect and fear. The whole lifetime of a woman’s misery may be dismissed in a few words of regret. Now, fetch me that map, Brosey!’

He scrambled up from the hearthrug, trailing his coverlet behind him. A boy playing king.

‘Shall I tell you something secret about myself, Mamma?’ he coaxed, part in truth and partly to extend this delicious adult confidence between them. ‘Mamma, I shall never get married, and I shall have a proper newspaper of my very own!’

‘Your father swore the same double oath, and doubly broke it!’

‘No, you are not listening to me! Oh well then, I will change it a little. I shall not be married unless it is to a woman like you, Mamma, who thinks as I do! And even if I cannot have my own newspaper then I shall have a son, or a grandson who will … Mamma, listen to me. Do not make me go to bed until I have told you the best of all … !’

‘And what is the best of all?’ she asked wryly, fondly, pushing the juvenile spy before her.

‘Do you know, can you not guess, what the newspaper will be called?
The
Northern
Correspondent
! On my life, I swear it, Mamma. However long it takes. After you, you see.
The
Northern
Correspondent
!’

His accidental discovery of the Red Rose Society had sobered Ambrose somewhat. The Howarth common sense steadied the Longe in him. He was more restrained now, more far-sighted.

But his father lived on in his ability to enjoy the moment, to revel in the sheer exuberance of being, to survey the mass of humanity with infinite delight.

He knew that the most dangerous people in any household were its servants, however devoted, for they talked. So he began to make sure that they talked of safer matters. His portraits of Nobmaster Awkward, in the majesty of his calling, grew broader and more comical. He presented Jack as an eccentric scholar, full of wild ideals and harmless nonsense, who forgot more than his hat. He gently mocked Charlotte’s spinsterish passion for teaching, the way she played Penelope to her three suitors, with the underlying hint that no man but Toby had ever interested her. For he knew how much Jack Ackroyd meant to his mother, and kept his own counsel out of delicacy to them both. And the three suitors, worthy men, were prime figures of fun in the kitchen. Indeed, Polly could scarcely forbear smiling when she opened the front door, and saw Proctor Stand-up on the threshold, or Solicitous Thirst, or Quaking Shoals. And when the High Street servants tended their morning doorsteps, or took the air as they pegged out clothes on the washing-lines, these caricatures were the heart of their conversation, and helped to protect the real people, as Ambrose intended.

Time assisted him. Millbridge was changing, but Thornton House seemed always to stay the same. Gossip can only be nourished by the new. As Charlotte weathered each small social crisis it became of no more interest than last week’s
Wyndendale
Post
. Folk even covered her behaviour with the respectable cloak of family faults.

‘It’s in the blood, my dear. Old Miss Wilde put up a tombstone to her dog, Walpole, you know, and often said she loved him better than any person, and she
would
have her own way! And though Dorcas is very proper these days she used to have a will and temper fit to match her aunt, and threw her bonnet over the windmill to many that farmer in Garth! Mind you, old Mr Howarth was a very gentlemanly fellow, as are his two sons — and no one could do better than William Howarth, now could they? No, it is the female side that is a trifle odd … ’