The Correspondence of Mr Humphrey Pars
29th November 1772
PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE
The Cock Inn
Stony Stratford
29th November 1772
Mr Ozias Pars
Marsh Cottage
Mawton
My Dear Ozias,
I pray you are all in good health and in better spirits than your poor brother. Tonight he sits in the Cock Inn at Stony Stratford, a den of Southern thieves, where the landlord has presented me with a bill of £3-7s-6d for one night’s lodging for three persons and their servants. I do not jest! The closer we get to the great metropolis, the more boldly we are fleeced. In a mere week of travelling I have handed over more than twenty-five guineas to such vultures.
Little more than a day passed before our homely brick farms and soft Cheshire meadows made way for The Midlands of this country, a far less beauteous place, disfigured by wild irregularities of landscape not able to be cultivated. Indeed there is no land of such quality as Pars Fold, though I do try to put that loss from my mind.
Thanks only to my own diligent efforts, we made good time along the roads until my inferior map led to our losing our way around Stone, and, as a consequence, our carriage broke its axletree. I feared a fever from the soaking, but thanks to God’s Mercy I am spared any consequences. After tedious repairs we found our road again and proceeded via poor inns to Lichfield, and there the jade demanded we stay only at the grandest place, namely the famous George, as she claims to need respite from the rolling carriage and low-class inns. No sooner was I settled in the excellent Newspaper Room than I was interrupted by a man with a letter that had followed me about the roads this week past. My heart quailed to see it was sent by Sir Geoffrey’s man at Wicklow, written two weeks since. Brother, this was his import:
‘It is grave news I must tell, Pars, that Sir Geoffrey arrived here in a most dreadful condition, having fallen down in a fit on the sea voyage to Dublin Bay. It seems the ship’s captain had sent his servant to make enquiries after his lordship stayed so long in his cabin and found him lying on the floor in disarray. At first the question was raised as to what Sir Geoffrey had eaten, for he had been violently sick, but it was found he had taken nothing since coming on board. Now, after a full examination by Sir Geoffrey’s own physician, it is found he has been stricken by an apoplexy. Pars, I must reluctantly inform you that our master can neither speak nor move his limbs and is in no condition to be moved. He is being tended as well as can be, though the softening of the brain leaves him insensible to his surroundings.’
My hand shook as I read it, plagued as I was by a single question: is my master close to death, and what then are the consequences?
I sought her out. The girl was at the card tables, disfigured by paint and sporting more blubber above her bodice than a halfpenny streetwalker.
‘My Lady,’ I said, ‘I have grave news from Ireland. Sir Geoffrey is struck down by an apoplexy and may not recover.’
‘Sir Geoffrey?’ she uttered slowly. ‘My poor husband.’ She tried to mimic a sad face but did not fool me. ‘I suppose it is of no great consequence. Old men are often sick.’
‘He is more than usually sick, My Lady. It is a softening of the brain.’
She looked about herself, fearful of being heard.
‘You mean—’ There was a hearkening look to her upraised face; an expression I do not care to remember. She twisted the Mawton Rose that hung upon her breast, that grew suddenly flushed with agitation.
I could not answer, for I truly did not know how low my master had sunk.
‘Tell me at once if there is further news.’
‘And should I alter our plans, My Lady?’ I fixed upon her brazen countenance.
She returned a challenge. ‘I am sure it is of little consequence. I will continue to Italy as before.’
Hark brother, at the jade’s callous nature. I swore then that I would no longer be her protector. Aye, I would do my duty, I would command my little band. But she is unworthy to bear my master’s name.
The next day being Sunday, I gathered my little regiment of servants and told them most gravely of their master’s distress. Together we made haste to the city’s ancient cathedral, where a proper Anglican service was decently performed, and we prayed most heartily for Sir Geoffrey’s recovery (even the blackamoor did decently shut his eyes).
Yet as I wait here in Stony Stratford and ponder Sir Geoffrey’s ailment, grave reflections plague me. Reading the letter again, I understand that my master was smitten the very day he departed from his bride. God forgive her if she has harmed my innocent old master. Have you ever heard of such a sorry tale?
I pray you do keep these true accounts of mine safe in your box, Ozias, for I mightily fear the trouble that may yet be brewing. Indeed, the account of an innocent witness may one day be called for and you must keep my correspondence safe under lock and key.
I will write once more from the great metropolis.
I remain your resolute and stoic brother,
Humphrey Pars