Free Taking Liberties by Diana Norman Page A

me.’
    â€˜They wouldn’t want you,’ she said. ‘Job’s blasted comforter, you are.’
    It was unreasonable, she knew. She would have been sent mad by reassurance when there was so little reassurance to be had. But anybody was her kicking boy at that point so she berated Beasley for providing no comfort at all. He was morose—he was always morose—and refused to pretend to be sanguine about the journey’s outcome. He slouched in his corner, allowing his body to flop with every bounce of the coach, looking ill—he always looked ill—and watched her fidget.
    â€˜You’ll ruin that satin,’ he said.
    She kept rubbing her hands over her thighs and knees, up, down, up, down, stretching the delicate material and leaving a mark on it from the sweat of her palms. ‘It’s silk.’
    â€˜Why di’n’t you bring your maid?’
    â€˜Hildy’s mother’s dying. I couldn’t bring her.’ She scored her hands over her knees again and added nastily: ‘You’re all there was.’
    She couldn’t rile him—his own manners were too surly to mind surliness in others—and she was forced to give up. The moment she stopped talking, she heard Philippa calling for her. Desperately she started again: ‘What you done with all your money, anyway?’
    As with all the friends who’d supported her through distress and penury after Philip Dapifer’s death, she’d subsequently tried to make him rich by giving him shares in the mine, but money flew away from him: some into the hands of needy acquaintances; some down the drain that was his publishing business. Last night, to free him for this journey, she’d had to pay off the bailiffs occupying his rooms in Grub Street.
    He shrugged. ‘Government keeps smashing my presses.’
    She said, ‘I don’t blame it,’ not because that’s what she thought but because it was there to be said. Nevertheless, that the government’s antipathy to John Beasley ran as deep as his to the Tories was no surprise. He was against government on principle; he was against any authority.
    Even Makepeace, a natural rebel herself, became impatient at the number and diversity of evils he attacked in his various publications: the King, Parliament—he’d written an article calling it ‘the most listless, loitering, lounging, corrupt assembly in Europe’—the Church, judges, rotten boroughs, pocket boroughs, enclosures, high prices, press gangs, crimp houses, public executions and whippings, the oppression of the Irish and all Roman Catholics (though he loathed popery), the Excise, sweat-shops and workhouses.
    On the American war, he had spread himself, calling for Lord North to recall his ‘butchers’ from their ‘slaughterhouse’, publicizing the fact that the British army didn’t scruple to let its Red Indians scalp the colonists and that ‘Americans have all rights to independence from the dunghill its oppressors have made of their own country’.
    But, despite his calls for revolution, it was impossible, he said, to goad an England that had no revolutionaries of its own into revolution. Despite widespread poverty, despite the fact that the war was not going well, the English refused to rise to his call to overthrow their government. Its middle class infuriated him by indifference and its deprived masses seemed, he said, lulled by the opiate of the Poor Law that kept them alive. Occasionally they might riot but they would not rise.
    His publications were constantly being suppressed and their printing presses destroyed. He’d been in prison four times for debt—she’d had to rescue him—twice for libel and once for sedition.
    He was at liberty now only because John Wilkes, that equally libertarian but outrageously effective hornet, had stung the authorities so effectively on behalf of gadflies like Beasley that they