She would be sitting in the upper window over a linen-draper's shop in St James's Market so he always commanded his chairman to take that route. As his chair came level with the linen-draper's window he would raise his eyes and flush; and she would look at him with wide-eyed innocence and after a few such occasions she too took to flus.h.i.+ng. It was clear that she was as conscious of him as he was of her; and this fact delighted him.

His mother might rage about the fiends who wanted to take her son from her; he would always answer her mechanically. Even when Lord Bute spoke to him he scarcely heard. His thoughts would be occupied by the beautiful young woman in the linen-draper's shop.

The Quakeress of St James's Market HANNAH LIGHTFOOT HAD been about five years old when she and her mother had come to live with Uncle Henry Wheeler in St James's Market. Memories of life before that were vague, something to dream of with horror, to awake from shuddering in the comfortable bed in the room she shared with her mother, for her father's shoemaker's shop in Wapping had been very different from Uncle Henry's prosperous establishment in St James's Market.

She could not remember her father; perhaps life had been easier when he was alive; she had been two when he died. Her mother told her of how her family the Wheelers, always spoken of with awe had not been very pleased with the marriage. Matthew Lightfoot had not been a good Quaker and it had been against the advice of her family that she had married him; they were not surprised that she had lived so poorly in Wapping.

But Matthew had died and Uncle Henry being a deeply religious man and a Quaker had, after giving his sister Mary three years in which to struggle on in expiation of her folly, come to her rescue and offered her a home in his linen-draper's establishment.

So as a child Hannah would lie in the big bed beside her mother and listen to the sounds outside the shop which never failed to delight her the voices raised in bargaining, the lowing of cattle brought to the market for sale; the grunting of pigs, the reedy voice of the ballad singer; the shouts of the pieman; the street traders' songs.

'Won't you buy my sweet blooming lavender Sixteen branches one penny . . .'

Or: 'Three rows a penny pins, Short whites and middilings.'

She would sing the songs to herself quietly because singing was frivolous as she dressed in the warm sun of summer or the cold of winter, for it was bitterly cold in winter. It was not that Uncle Henry could not have afforded a fire; but he believed in the Spartan life. In spite of prosperity they must live simply.

In the bad dreams which grew less as the years pa.s.sed she would hear the sc.r.a.pe of a boat against the stairs; she would smell the slimy, tarry smell of the river; she would hear men whistling tunes or singing river songs, shouts of abuse, the voices of men and women raised in anger as they fought each other. She would remember the vague empty feeling which was hunger; the numbness which was cold not the healthy cold of Uncle Henry's house but the cold which came of insufficient covering, insufficient food. They had stepped over a bridge it seemed to Hannah from hunger and poverty and want to the well-being which came from righteous living thrift and piety. Uncle Henry was like a beneficent G.o.d a knight of old who had rescued them from dragons, and carried them away from the dungeons of despair into the castle of comfort.

Her mother shared her pleasure, she knew. Mary Lightfoot could not do enough for her brother.

Uncle Henry had been a bachelor of thirty-one when Mary and her daughter came to live with him. Mary therefore could be of use to him, for she was an excellent housekeeper and she began to transform his house into a home as no servant could do. Henry was fond of his niece, for she was a charming girl and indeed grew prettier every day. Not that as a Quaker he believed in stressing those charms. The dark curls should be severely strained back from the oval face and neatly braided. The child should be attired in a simple gown of grey cloth.

'Clothes are meant to keep the child warm, sister,' said Uncle Henry, 'not to adorn her.'

'Oh yes, brother,' Mary agreed fervently.

But as Hannah grew a little older she found a great pleasure in beautiful things and when one of the flower-sellers in the market gave her a rose she carried it up to her room and pinned it on her dress. Her great dark eyes seemed to glow more brightly; the pink of the flower toned perfectly with the grey cloth and seemed to bring out the delicate pink in Hannah's own clear skin.

Uncle Henry cried out in dismay when she came down to dinner wearing the rose.

'What is that thou art wearing, Hannah?' he asked, and she thought that the devil must have changed the beautiful flower into a toad or something horrible since that was the only way she could account for Uncle Henry's horror.

She looked down at it. 'It... it is a rose... Uncle.'

'A rose. And what is it doing there?'

'It is just there... Uncle.'

'How didst thou come by such a thing?'

She was bewildered. She had been so pleased to be given the rose; she enjoyed its scent; and the contrast of colour it made on her dress; she had felt happy wearing it. And now it seemed she had done a dreadful thing.

'Old Sally the flower-seller gave it to me.'

'Thou shouldst not have taken it.'

'She wished it, Uncle.'

'The place for flowers is in gardens. G.o.d put them there. He did not mean them to be worn for vanity.'

She had flushed and although she was unaware of this, her beauty was startling. It alarmed Uncle Henry as well as her mother. They would have preferred to see her insignificant.

'Thou art guilty of vanity, niece,' said Uncle Henry. 'I think thy mother will agree with me.'

'Indeed yes, Henry,' whispered Mary Lightfoot.

'This is a sin in the eyes of the Lord. Thou wilt go to thy room. Take off that flower. Give it to me... now...'

She felt the tears in her eyes. For a few seconds she hesitated, almost ready to defy him. Then she was aware of her mother's terror; and she pictured them being turned out of this comfortable house... back to Wapping... the cold, cold room, the smell of boots and shoes... the smell of the river and the vague lightness of hunger. Then with trembling fingers she handed him the rose.

He took it and said to her in a voice that thundered with indignation so that she was reminded of Moses returning from the mountain to find his people wors.h.i.+pping the golden calf: 'Go to thy room. Pray... pray long and sincerely for G.o.d's help. Thou hast need of it.'

She walked slowly up the stairs. The feeling of sin weighing heavily on her.

In the cold room she knelt and prayed until her knees were sore. Then her mother came in and they prayed together.

When they rose from their knees and Hannah's mother appeared to think she had gained G.o.d's forgiveness for her wickedness, she ventured to say as though excusing herself: 'But it was such a pretty rose.'

That gave Mary an opening for one of those lectures which were so much a part of Hannah's upbringing.

'Sin often comes in the guise of beauty. That is why it is so easy to fall into temptation.'

When she was alone Hannah would stand at the window and watch the ladies and gentlemen pa.s.s through the market on the way to the theatre. They were so beautiful but so sinful, for they wore more adornments than a single rose. Hannah feared it was probably sinful to watch such people. There was so much sin in the world that it seemed one must constantly be on the alert for it. There they were, the ladies in their Sedan chairs, and surely their complexions could not have been naturally so brilliant as they appeared; ornaments flas.h.i.+ng in their hair; feathers, diamonds... What a load of sin they must carry on their persons if a simple rose could be so full of iniquity.

But how Hannah loved to watch them! Gentlemen with brocade coats and elegant wigs; footmen running ahead of their chairs to clear the way and while some in the crowd gaped at their magnificence others were too accustomed to the sight to pay much attention, unless it was a person of some note. Then the crowd would cheer or boo, however the mood took them; but they would almost always laugh. There seemed to be such a lot that was gay, amusing, interesting and such fun going on down there. Fun? It was sin. But Hannah was conscious of a quiet rebellion within her. If one sinned in ignorance could one be blamed? She thought not at least it could not be quite so wicked to sin in ignorance. Therefore how much better it was to remain in ignorance.

She would tell no one of the pleasure she derived from looking down on the noisy excitement of St James's Market.

Hannah was ten years old when Uncle Henry decided to marry. What consternation there was in the room she shared with her mother. Mary Lightfoot feared the cosy existence might be at an end. Henry was good to them; but what of Henry's wife?

Five years of living comfortably at least as comfortably as one could live in such close proximity with sin had softened them. Mary was disturbed not that she believed her brother would see her go hungry, he was too good a man for that; but a strange woman in the house would be sure to change something and Mary trembled for the future.

She need not have feared. Aunt Lydia proved a meek and docile wife a true Quaker, a virtuous woman who would no more have thought of turning out her sister-in-law and her fatherless child than she would of taking a lover.

After the first mild difficulties of settling down Mary and Hannah adjusted themselves to the new regime. Uncle Henry was the head of the house good but stern, anxious to care for those under his roof his sister and her child, no less than his wife and his own children. The children began to arrive in due course; George three years after the wedding, Rebecca two years later, Henry two years after that and Hannah two years after Henry. Mary and her daughter Hannah soon found new ways of being useful in the house and Mary realized that their position was yearly becoming more secure. Hannah was nurse to the children; Mary helped her sister-in-law in the house. It proved to be a very satisfactory arrangement.

In spite of having three able-bodied women in the household Henry Wheeler could afford to employ a servant and he took into his household a young woman of Hannah's age.

They called her Jane, and Jane's coming made a great deal of difference to Hannah. Jane was not a Quaker; she liked to laugh and enjoy herself; she remarked to Hannah that she could see no harm in that. Neither could she for the life of her see why it should be more sinful to laugh than to look glum. Hannah listened half fearfully. Jane's att.i.tude to life was everything she had been taught to fear. Yet she did enjoy laughing with Jane when they were making the beds together or taking the children for their airings. Being so much older than her cousins she was thirteen years older than George the eldest meant that Hannah had no choice of a friend except Jane. So it was natural that they should be often together.

It was Jane who caught Hannah at the window. She was not in the least shocked; she came to join Hannah and pointed out the elaborate chair which was being carried through the market. Did Hannah know the gentleman who was being carried? Hannah did not know. Oh, but Hannah knew very little of the world because everyone should know the gentleman in the chair. It was Lord Bute himself. And they said that the Princess of Wales was very partial to him. Had Hannah ever heard that? Hannah had not and she thought that must make the gentleman very happy, which set Jane rocking with laughter.

'It makes them both happy, so they say, Miss Hannah. But whether the Prince is so happy about it... that's another matter. Not that he would complain, considering...'

Hannah was nonplussed and fascinated. It was interesting to learn from Jane that every household was not run like Henry Wheeler's, and that there were scandals even in the royal family.

Jane was surprised by the ignorance of Hannah; and enjoyed enlightening her.

So Hannah began to learn something of the world outside a Quaker household and she could not help it if she were fascinated by it, and secretly she longed to be part of it. If Uncle Henry had had a house in the country where they never saw any life other than their own it would have been different; but it was not so. Here they were in the midst of a noisy, bustling, virile world and yet not of it. St James's Market with its haggling and bargaining was a strange place for a Quaker to live; yet Quakers could be good businessmen and Uncle Henry was undoubtedly that, and if it was unsuitable in some ways it was profitable in others; for as far as trade was concerned it was an ideal spot. In the middle of the Market was the large Market House inside which were the butchers' shambles and outside were the butchers' stalls. Market-days were Mondays, Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days; and on these days the noise of the buyers and sellers filled the house. Then there was The Mitre tavern to which even on those days when there was no market the people flocked in from St Martin-in-the-Fields.

It was not easy to turn one's eyes away from the busy world when it was on one's doorstep.

'It's no life for a girl, Miss Hannah,' said Jane mournfully.

Hannah might tell of how Uncle Henry had rescued her and her mother from the dire poverty of Wapping, but Jane still insisted that it was no life for a girl. Better to be a servant-girl than the master's niece, Jane reckoned. She wouldn't change places with Miss Hannah. There was a mysterious person to whom she referred as Mr H. who was very interested indeed in Jane. At first Hannah had not believed in his existence; he was a dream figure, something to talk about when they were alone together; but it seemed that he was no phantom. Once when they were out with the children Jane took Hannah down c.o.c.kspur Street past Betts the gla.s.s-cutters and as they pa.s.sed a young man slipped out and talked nervously to them.

It turned out that he was Mr H. and he was really 'far gone' on Jane.

On the way home Jane said it was a shame that Hannah had not got a beau. Yes, with her looks it was a crying shame.

And when she returned to St James's Market Hannah surrept.i.tiously looked into the mirror and could not help being pleased with what she saw there. She was a beauty. She only had to look at Jane's pert and pretty face to know that she had something which the serving-girl lacked; and she felt a little sad to think of pa.s.sing all her days in her uncle's house making beds, looking after the children, and growing as old as her mother without ever having been part of the gay and bustling life which went on under her window every day and in particular on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days.

There was great excitement when the King, the Prince and Princess of Wales and other members of the royal family were going to the theatre, the back door of which was in Market Lane; to reach this, the procession would have to cross the Market; and to see them a crowd would undoubtedly gather, for in view of the strained relations between the King and his elder son, it was rarely that they were all seen together.

Uncle Henry was disturbed. One never could be sure what the crowd would do. What if they became wild. 'I think,' he said, 'we will take the linens out of the window. It will be better so.'

'If the linens are taken out the children might perhaps sit in the window on our chairs to see the procession pa.s.s,' suggested Lydia.

Uncle Henry considered this, but really he could see no harm in it.

As the children were growing excited at the prospect, Uncle Henry added a little homily about the worldliness of outward pomp and the difference between the shadow and the substance. But he believed they should be there because loyalty to the throne was something the children should be taught; and there were always intolerant people who could work up emotions about those whose opinions were different from their own.

Yes, they should all sit in the window and watch the royal procession to the theatre.

Hannah was delighted with an opportunity to enjoy something without secrecy.

Lydia had placed chairs in the window in place of the bales of linen. Little George and Rebecca were dancing up and down with excitement and Hannah put a finger to her lips to warn them lest their father decide that too much pleasure must indeed be a sin. Young Henry was clutching his mother's skirts and Hannah's mother was holding in her arms the newest arrival Hannah after her cousin. Mary Lightfoot placed the chair for the master of the house and discreetly took her place at the back of the window.

The Market was full of noise and bustle on that day, for people from Jermyn Street, Charles Street and Pall Mall were all hurrying in to see the royal family pa.s.s by.

And so they came: the King himself, small and testy, looking neither this way nor that, his face deep red tinged with purple, taking no heed of loyal greetings nor abuse. He gave the impression that he was not interested in any of these people who had come to see him; he had come to see the play and if he had to pa.s.s among his people to do so, so much the worse.

And now the Prince of Wales. Frederick was like his father, but much more pleasant; he smiled and acknowledged the people's greetings as he pa.s.sed in his chair; he had the same colourful complexion, the same prominent eyes, the same heavy jaw; but this was less apparent when its owner smiled as Frederick did frequently. And in her chair the Princess, not beautiful but amiable, and a good wife and mother, everyone said, even though there were murmurs about her friends.h.i.+p with Lord Bute.

And then... Prince George, a pleasant, modest-looking boy; the same prominent blue eyes, clear complexion, not yet grown too ruddy and no tinge of purple apparent; the same heavy jaw, but he was young and his expression held not the slightest trace of arrogance. The people cheered Prince George who, when the old King died which could not be long would be the Prince of Wales.

Prince George's chair pa.s.sed very close to the linen-draper's window and as it did so he looked out and his eyes met those of Hannah.

She thought: The Prince is looking straight at me!

That is the most beautiful woman in the world, thought George soberly.

He smiled with pleasure; she found that she was smiling too. Some understanding neither of them were absolutely sure what had pa.s.sed between them.

Hannah thought a great deal about the Prince. The smile had been for her alone, she was sure of it, although no one else had noticed it. Had she been wrong? Was he bestowing such smiles all along the route? Was it part of the royal duties to smile indiscriminately?

Perhaps Jane was right and she was a simpleton. But she had glowed with pleasure and she was going to allow herself to go on thinking he had smiled especially for her.

A few days later she was confirmed in this belief, when the Prince's chair pa.s.sed through the Market close to the linen-draper's shop, and from her window Hannah looked out at precisely the same moment as the Prince looked from his chair. Once more their eyes met and once more the understanding flashed between them.

Hannah was distrait. Could it really be that she was beginning to be caught up in the world outside her uncle's Quaker household?

The interest of a boy who could not have entered his teens could not be expected to change her life; and yet she was at the window whenever possible in the hope of seeing him pa.s.s. He did not come often. How could he without attracting attention? He was always surrounded by important-looking people, but whenever he did pa.s.s that way he never failed to look up at the window for her and when he saw her his face would lighten and he would smile with pleasure.

How strange! thought Hannah. What could it mean? She thought him charming, beautiful in his innocence. He was like a child untouched by the world, perhaps as she was. She must be many years older than he was six, seven, eight even but there was a bond between them, a bond of unworldliness. They were like two children looking at life through a gla.s.s door, aware of it, yet ignorant of it. She had been warned of lascivious men; in fact their glances had often come her way. Her uncle could not protect her from that; she was so attractive and he could not shut her up in a lonely tower until he found a Quaker husband for her.

This was different. This was the pure adoration of an innocent boy, years her junior and he was a Prince. More than that, one day he would be a King.

It was small wonder that she was bewildered.

When Jane married and went to live in c.o.c.kspur Street with her husband, Hannah was desolate. As Mr H. was still an apprentice the only way in which Jane could join him in his master's house was by going into service there. Thus she left her employment in the Wheeler house to join that of Mr Betts, the gla.s.s-cutter of c.o.c.kspur Street.

They did not need another servant, decided Mr Wheeler. Rebecca was old enough to perform small duties about the house and it was good for her to be useful; George could do minor errands for the shop; there were three able-bodied women in the house, Lydia his wife, Mary his sister and Hannah his niece. Therefore what did he want with serving-maids?

So there was no one now for Hannah to chat to in that frivolous but enjoyable way. She heard, of course, that the Prince of Wales had died; and that brought home to her the astounding fact that the young boy with whom she believed she had a secret understanding was now the Prince of Wales. That made the affair so fantastic that she began to believe she had imagined the whole thing. The Prince seemed to have ceased his visits to the Market and life had become very drab indeed. Her days were lightened only by her shopping expeditions to Ludgate where she sometimes lingered in the grocery shop talking to the grocer's son, Isaac Axford. The Axfords were Quakers like themselves; so naturally they did business together. Isaac was half in love with her, she believed; he was three years younger than she was and not in a position to marry, but she had no wish to marry him. There had been a time when she supposed a marriage would be arranged for her by her uncle, and Isaac had seemed a likely partner; after all, being only the niece of the prosperous linen draper, she could not expect a dowry as enticing as that he would give to his own daughters.

Hannah thought of married life in the grocer's shop at Ludgate Hill and it did not attract her. She liked Isaac but only mildly. Yet, but for the penetrating glances of a young boy she might have been contented enough to accept him.

Jane came visiting from c.o.c.kspur Street and the two young women sat in Hannah's room and looked over the Marketplace, together.

Married life was a disappointment, Jane admitted. She was no better off than she had been on her own. Mrs Betts was a good-natured mistress, easy-going and not unfriendly, but there was little money.

And living in the heart of London, seeing the fine ladies and gentlemen in their carriages and chairs, going to b.a.l.l.s and banquets and the theatre did make a young woman discontented with her lot, particularly when she was prettier than some of those painted, bedecked creatures in their silks and brocades and glittering gems.

Jane tossed her pert pretty head and said she was a fool to have rushed into marriage. She fancied she could have had other opportunities and she feared Mr H. would never be anything but an apprentice, for he had no money to set himself up in business.

And what of Hannah Hannah who was beautiful? Was she going to spend her days dressed in a Quaker bonnet and gown, never having a chance to display her charms?

Hannah smiled at Jane's petulance. It was good to be able to chat with her friend again.

Journey in a Closed Carriage THE DOWAGER PRINCESS of Wales was where she liked to be best in the world; in the company of her dear Lord Bute.

So handsome! So clever! What should she do without him? Now even more than ever, for she was by no means old, and since poor Fred was dead there was nothing to keep them apart.

Her lover and her children they were her life.

'Dearest John,' she was saying, 'I was just asking myself what I should do without you.'