Chocolate House Treason

David Fairer

Description

Covent Garden, January 1708. Widow Trotter has big plans for her recently-inherited coffee house, not suspecting that within days her little kingdom will be caught up in a national drama involving scandal, conspiracy and murder...Queen Anne's new "Great Britain" is in crisis. The Queen is mired in a sexual scandal, spies are everywhere, and politicaldisputes are bringing violence and division. The treasonous satirist "Bufo" is public enemy number one and the Ministry isdetermined to silence him. Drawn into a web of intrigue that reaches from the brothels of Drury Lane to the Court of StJames's, Mary Trotter and her young friends Tom and Will race against time to unravel the political plots, solve twomurders, and prevent another.

Sujets

• City (Londres)
• City of London
• Cité de Londres

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 22 août 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838599898
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2019 David Fairer

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 978 1838599 898

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Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Jane Stabler
Contents
*
The Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
The Epilogue
Characters
Historical Note
A Note on the Poetry
The Prologue
*
Kensington Palace, 28 January 1708
The swish of satin and creak of whalebone ceased. Two angry women faced each other across the wide drawing-room, their eyes locked in a single blazing stare. Each was transfixed. The old magnetism between them was still powerful, but now it was working as bitterness and distrust. Neither would relinquish her gaze, and so they stood motionless, held together by an invisible force – the Queen and her subject.
During the interview there had been a lot of tossing of heads and flicking of fans, but gradually their circling of the room had become slower and more wary – and now there was only silence.
The one detectable movement was a hand clutched around a necklace of pearls that hung generously over layers of lace and golden silk. The fingers pressed and rubbed them like a rosary, until suddenly the thread broke. Like tiny firecrackers popping and jumping on the parquet floor, the pearls slid in a cascade to freedom, running in every direction, slipping under the furniture, hurrying towards the door. One of them, as if it acknowledged a lost intimacy, began rolling slowly up to the other woman’s embroidered shoes, where it came to rest.
The figure looked down, but held her ground. Across the room those regal eyes were now red and glistening. The remaining loose pearls were being gripped with whitened knuckles, and the bosom pulsed quickly as the reluctant words finally came, almost sobbing:
‘I am still your poor, faithful Morley… You know this well enough!’
‘No! I see that my years of devotion are nothing to you. All my care for your interest is to be set at nought!’
‘I am more tenderly yours than I can express…’
‘Ha! You say so – but you talk just as you write – professions of love only! You are distant and stubborn, and every day you grow colder. That deceitful interloper has wound herself into your affections. She plays with you – but you refuse to see it!’
The other figure held her pearly fist resolutely to her breast, and straightened her back.
‘How dare you talk so? There was a time when you spoke kindly to me. My beloved Freeman always had licence to tell me her mind freely. But now all I have is your contempt. You presume too much on our friendship!’
‘No, no – you are no more the friend…’
Mrs Freeman’s flaxen head bowed for an instant – it was a cursory gesture –
‘… You have dwindled to a Queen!’
In the silence, Mrs Morley suddenly became the statuesque monarch. She raised her head – very like the profile on her new coinage – and delivered a magisterial reply.
‘Yes, God be praised, Queen of Great Britain . At last the nation is united – and I embody that unity. Let it not be forgotten! I am its nursing mother… though alas, it is all I can nurse now…’
The majestic fist rose and hung in the air, before the fingers released their grip and let the five remaining pearls slip away. They made a last pathetic stuttering sound on the floor, and the grand room seemed suddenly empty and cold.
*
Punch’s Theatre, Covent Garden, 28 January 1708
Meanwhile, a couple of miles away in a large well-appointed room in the south-eastern corner of Covent Garden’s piazza, a theatrical entertainment was in progress. Here a wooden figure hardly three feet high, wearing a gold-painted crown and a sweeping velvet robe studded with artificial pearls, was strutting across a diminutive stage. In one hand the puppet-queen held an exotic fruit, and in the other a metal rod which she beat against her breast. The voice was high-pitched and distorted to a whine.
‘Aaaah! Mrs Church- ill! ’
After a moment of shocked silence, a ripple of laughter swept through the audience. Glances betrayed embarrassed amusement, and paper fans trembled in outraged delight. This was disgraceful – unheard of – treasonable!
‘Alas! Alack!’ the little figure wailed, ‘what will become of meeee… ? How can I bear your scorn? I swear yoooo shall always be my favourite! – of all the Duchesses in London, yoooo are my precious jewel! My Marlborough! My sceptre! My… pineapple! ’
The royal manikin struck the tin sceptre against its head, while the other hand lifted up a miniature fruit instead of the orb of state. The audience gasped at the blasphemy. On the far side of the stage, in an answering gesture, the second female marionette, tiara’d like a duchess, raised a hinged arm and shook it angrily.
‘But you have betraiiied me, Mrs Stuart! Must you toy with my affections? Do you think me made of wood?… Am I nothing to you… but a puppet?? ’
At the Seven Stars in Covent Garden, Punch’s Theatre was putting on a fine show. The place was packed with discerning men of the Town, coffee-house wits, and a good crowd of the female bon ton , who were enjoying a satirical afterpiece featuring the latest conflict in the political world.
Suddenly from offstage a wheezing voice was heard.
‘Your Majessssssty!! My preciousss Anna! My Ssssaint! Do not let that vicioussss… Duchessss… distresssssss you!!’
To delighted applause, a heavily panting Mr Punch pranced onto the stage, led by his protuberant belly, his large nose dipping down toward the big ruff that circled his neck. A golden chain dangled from his shoulders and in his hand he carried, instead of his usual heavy stick, a white staff of office… It was Robert Harley in burlesque!
At once, the figure in the Duchess’s tiara cried out in terror: ‘Ah! Harley is come! Help! Help! Where is the Junto when I need them??’ Her jaw bounced from its invisible wire. ‘Where is my beloved Sunderland? Help me! Help me!’
From the other side of the stage, a second be-robed figure with a rabbit-fur collar and a similar white wand entered, its head carved into the likeness of the Earl of Sunderland. A few moments later, the wooden Harley and the wooden Sunderland, the nation’s two Secretaries of State, were indulging in energetic sword-play, their white staffs cracking against each other.
While the two puppet politicians fought in heroic fashion, the two women shook one another’s heads until the tiara and the crown both rattled to the ground. The duels then became one as each pair struck out at the other. The Queen and Harley yelled Down with the Whigs! and The Junto to the Devil! while the Duchess and Sunderland screamed To hell with the Tories! and Jacobites to the Pit! Much fun was being had on both sides, and very soon the polite audience began to mimic their insults. Within the room, amused murmurs grew into loud derision, and treasonous cries began to echo round the walls.

Thursday
29 January 1708
Chapter One
*
It is often said that a widow of substance can do pretty well anything she likes, and certainly Mary Trotter was beginning to settle into the idea quite happily. She was recently a widow, and fairly substantial, and as the thought of her new-found independence struck her she leaned over the coffee-house bar, spread her hands, squared her shoulders and took a deep, satisfying breath.
Over to her left a crackling sound came from the fireplace, the cavernous heart of the coffee-room, where a large cauldron was simmering contentedly above the flames. Ranged along the edge of the grate was a miniature parade of pots and jugs, their spouts gesturing elegantly, all eager to do their duty. In front of her, around the long oak tables were huddled a few assorted hats and wigs, with sometimes a face visible beneath, and from time to time they nodded or shook, or dipped behind a paper. A general hum of conversation rose and