Kitty hopped from one foot to the other, a little disappointed that the box held books rather than a dinner service by Josiah Wedgwood, but very pleased because Richard was pleased. “Who is it from?”
“A very old friend, Jem Thistlethwaite. With inclusions from my family in Bristol,” said Richard, the letter in his hand. “Now, if ye will excuse me, Kitty, I am going to sit down on the doorstep and read Jem’s letter. Stephen is coming for dinner, then I will tell both of ye all my news.”
Kitty had planned on bread and salad for dinner that day, but rose to the occasion by producing a salt pork stew with peppered dumplings; the meat was excellent and newly done, for it was their own produce.
When Stephen saw the hat he roared with laughter, insisted upon setting it on Kitty’s head and artistically tying its ribbons. “I fear,” he said, still chuckling, “that the hat wears you, not you the hat.”
“I am aware of that,” she said loftily.
“How are your family?” Stephen asked then, replacing the hat.
“All very well, save for Cousin James-the-druggist,” Richard said sadly. “His eyesight has almost failed, so his sons have taken over the business and he has retired to a very nice mansion outside Bath with his wife and two spinster daughters. My father has removed to the Bell Tavern around the corner because the Corporation is in the throes of another building orgy and has pulled the Cooper’s Arms down. My brother’s oldest boy is with them—a great comfort. And Cousin James-of-the-clergy has been awarded a canon’s stall at the Cathedral, much to his joy. My sisters are thriving too.” A shadow crossed his face. “The only death among those I knew is that of John Trevillian Ceely Trevillian, who died of a surfeit—what sort of surfeit is a mystery.”
“Soporifics and ecstatics, most likely,” said Stephen, who knew the story in its entirety. “I rejoice.”
“There is a lot of general news, and many flimsies to plump the news out. France did indeed have a revolution and abolished its monarchy, though the King and Queen are still alive. Much to Jem’s surprise, the United States of America continues to be an entity, is drafting a radical kind of written constitution and fast regaining its moneys.” Richard grinned. “According to Jem, the only reason the Frogs revolted was because of Benjamin Franklin’s fur hat. What does Jem write?” Richard shuffled the pages. “Ah! ‘Unlike the Americans, who have scientifically calibrated a system of parliamentary checks and balances, the French have decided to institute none. Logic will perforce have to do what the Law does not allow to be done. As the French have no logic, I predict that republican government in France will not last.’ ”
“He is right about that.”
Kitty sat with her eyes going from one face to the other, not really following very much, but delighted that Richard and Stephen were so absorbed in things at the right ends of the earth.
“The King was very ill in 1788 and certain elements tried to have the Prince of Wales installed as regent, but the King recovered and Georgy-Porgy failed to lift himself out of his mire of debt. He still refuses to marry suitably, and Roman Catholic Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert is still his great love.”
“Religion and religious differences,” Stephen said with a sigh, “are the greatest curses of mankind. Why cannot we live and let live? Look at Johnson. Insisted the convicts marry each other but gave them no opportunity to get to know each other first because fornicating is a part of knowing. Pah!” He suppressed the flash of temper and changed the subject. “What of England?”
“Mr. Pitt reigns supreme. Taxation has absolutely soared. There is even a tax on news sheets, gazettes and magazines, and those who advertise in them must pay a tax of two-and-sixpence irrespective of the size of the advertisement. Jem says that is forcing small shops and businesses out of advertising their wares, leaving the field to the big fellows.”
“Does Jem have anything to add to the fact that the first mate and some of the crew of Bounty mutinied and put Lieutenant Bligh in a longboat? ’Tis the mutiny on Bounty everybody is talking about, not the French Revolution,” Stephen asked.
“Oh, I think interest in Bounty arises from the fact that the crew preferred luscious Otaheitian maidens to breadfruit.”
“Undoubtedly. But what does Jem say? ’Tis a huge scandal and controvery in England, apparently. Bligh, they say, is not blameless by any means.”
“His best snippet concerns the genesis of the expedition to Otaheite to bring back the breadfruit, which I gather was intended as cheap food for the West Indian negro slaves,” said Richard, hunting through pages again. “Here we are. . . . Jem’s style is inimitable, so ’tis best to hear it direct from him. ‘A naval lieutenant named William Bligh is married to a Manxwoman whose uncle happens to be Duncan Campbell, proprietor of the prison hulks. The convolutions are tortuous, but probably through Mr. Campbell, Bligh was introduced to Sir Joseph Banks, very occupied with the mooted breadfruit pilgrimage to Otaheite.
“ ‘What fascinated me was the incestuous nature of the final outcome of the expeditionary marriage between the Royal Navy and the Royal Society. Campbell sold one of his own ships, Bethea, to the Navy. The Navy changed her name to Bounty and appointed Campbell’s niece’s husband, Bligh, commander and purser of Bounty. With Bligh sailed one Fletcher Christian of a Manx family related by blood to Bligh’s wife and Campbell’s niece. Christian was the second-in-command but had no naval commission. He and Bligh had sailed together previously, and were as close as a couple of Miss Mollies.’ Say no more, Jem, say no more!”
“That,” said Stephen when he could for laughing, “just about sums England up! Nepotism reigns, even including incest.”
“What is incest?” asked Kitty, well aware of Miss Mollies.
“Sexual congress between people very closely related by blood,” said Richard. “Usually parents and children, brothers and sisters, uncles or aunts and nieces or nephews.”
“Ugh!” Kitty exclaimed, shuddering. “But I do not exactly see how the Bounty mutiny fits in.”
“’Tis a literary device called irony, Kitty,” said Stephen. “What else does Jem write?”
“Ye can have the letter to read at your leisure,” Richard said, “though there is another thought in it worth airing ahead of that. Jem thinks that Mr. Pitt and the Parliament are very afraid that an English revolution might follow the American and French ones, and now deem a Botany Bay place a necessity for the preservation of the realm. There is huge trouble brewing in Ireland, and both the Welsh and the Scotch are discontented. So Pitt may add rebels and demagogues to his transportation list.”
He did not discuss Mr. Thistlethwaite’s personal news, which was excellent. The purveyor of three-volume novels to literate ladies had become so adept at the art that he could produce two a year, and money flowed into his coffers so copiously that he had bought a big house in Wimpole Street, had twelve servants, a carriage drawn by four matched horses, and a duchess for a mistress.
After Stephen left carrying Mr. Thistlethwaite’s letter and the dishes were washed up, Kitty ventured another remark; to do so no longer terrified her, for Richard tried very hard to restrain his God the Father tendencies.
“Jem must be very grand,” she said.
“Jem? Grand?” Richard laughed at the idea, remembering that burly, bulky figure with the red-tinged, pale blue eyes and the horse pistols protruding from his greatcoat pockets. “Nay, Kitty, Jem is very down-to-earth. A bit of a bibber—he was one of my father’s most faithful customers in his Bristol days. Now he lives in London and has made a fortune for himself. While I was aboard Ceres hulk he enabled me to safeguard both my health and my reason. I will love him for it all of my life.”
