Wedlock Part 3

By now desperate to lay his hands on Mary's tantalising riches, on 1 May Bowes threw a dinner party in Grosvenor Square to which he invited a few trusted friends, including Mary's surgeon John Hunter, a cleric named the Reverend Dr John Scott, and a pliable lawyer from Newcastle called William Gibson. Retiring to the drawing room after a generous dinner, where he continued to ply his guests with copious quant.i.ties of alcohol, the genial host casually asked his fellow diners to witness himself and Mary signing a legal doc.u.ment. Hunter, quite probably chosen for his acknowledged distaste for reading - he was dyslexic - would later admit that he never read the doc.u.ment. Mary herself would swear that she had no recollection of signing her name but admitted that she frequently signed papers at Bowes's command and often when befuddled by beatings. Signed in the dim light of candles, the five-page parchment revoked Mary's prenuptial deed and gave Bowes control, during his lifetime at least, over all income and profits from his wife's entire estate.49 Once again Mary found herself devoid of all possessions, income and rights. Nearly a year after Bowes had first devised his tortuous moneymaking scheme he had finally got his hands on the Bowes family fortune. Once again Mary found herself devoid of all possessions, income and rights. Nearly a year after Bowes had first devised his tortuous moneymaking scheme he had finally got his hands on the Bowes family fortune.

There was much call on the funds. Forcing Mary to lace her corsets tightly to conceal her blooming figure as they visited moneylenders in the City, Bowes raised 24,000 by selling annuities - a popular way for cash-poor life tenants to obtain capital - which a.s.signed future rents from the Gibside estate to various brokers.50 With the proceeds he appeased the most urgent of his own and Mary's creditors - Bowes always detested settling debts unless it was absolutely unavoidable - then paid a hefty 12,000 in compensation to George Gray. Seemingly satisfied with his windfall, the once ardent suitor embarked for Bengal the following year only to die there two years later. With the proceeds he appeased the most urgent of his own and Mary's creditors - Bowes always detested settling debts unless it was absolutely unavoidable - then paid a hefty 12,000 in compensation to George Gray. Seemingly satisfied with his windfall, the once ardent suitor embarked for Bengal the following year only to die there two years later.51 Having despatched Mary's erstwhile lover, Bowes now faced the delicate problem of his illegitimate child. Having despatched Mary's erstwhile lover, Bowes now faced the delicate problem of his illegitimate child.

Even the most constricting of corsets and generous of gowns could no longer disguise Mary's condition to the ever-vigilant scrutiny of servants and acquaintances. So as the bon ton bon ton fled the hot and pungent capital in their annual exodus for the countryside that May, Bowes and Mary packed their belongings and rattled out of Grosvenor Square on the pretext of a holiday on the Continent. Informing one of his political allies in Newcastle that he was embarking on 'a Journey to the South of France' on the advice of his physicians to treat a 'cough & pain in my side', Bowes promised he would soon be returning to 'my friends in the north'. fled the hot and pungent capital in their annual exodus for the countryside that May, Bowes and Mary packed their belongings and rattled out of Grosvenor Square on the pretext of a holiday on the Continent. Informing one of his political allies in Newcastle that he was embarking on 'a Journey to the South of France' on the advice of his physicians to treat a 'cough & pain in my side', Bowes promised he would soon be returning to 'my friends in the north'.52 But instead of heading east towards Dover, the couple's carriage turned west along the King's Road towards the quiet pastoral retreat of Hammersmith. But instead of heading east towards Dover, the couple's carriage turned west along the King's Road towards the quiet pastoral retreat of Hammersmith.

With contraception unreliable and unpopular, and attempts at abortion both precarious and taboo, many women had no alternative but to go ahead with unexpected pregnancies. Just as Eliza had scurried into the wilds of County Durham to give birth to her illegitimate child, so women of all cla.s.ses, from prost.i.tutes to d.u.c.h.esses, were forced to arrange clandestine deliveries for their unplanned babies. Among the medical fraternity, several 'man-midwives' were well-known for their circ.u.mspection in attending secret births. William Hunter, the physician brother of the surgeon John Hunter, was as infamous for his discretion in delivering the offspring of illicit aristocratic liaisons as he was famous for supervising the births of the fifteen royal princes and princesses. So William had helped Lady Diana Spencer give birth secretly in 1767 to the daughter of her affair with Topham Beauclerk and with the couple's collusion the following year he gave evidence of the event to enable her husband, Viscount Bolingbroke, to secure a divorce.53 A year later William similarly attended Anne, d.u.c.h.ess of Grafton, the daughter of Bowes's coal-owning partner Henry Liddell, when she gave birth to the child of her affair with John Fitzpatrick, the Earl of Upper Ossory. And although he was generally the soul of discretion, at dinner parties William would boast of having once delivered twins to the daughter of a well-known peer in the bas.e.m.e.nt of her family home while her parents maintained complete ignorance upstairs. He even arranged for the unwanted babes to be deposited in the Foundling Hospital. Yet such clandestine births were highly risky - not least for the medical men involved. One man-midwife who was called to a birth in Bristol in 1755, was escorted blindfolded to a luxurious mansion where he was asked to deliver a woman whose face was kept covered throughout. Three weeks later the hapless pract.i.tioner was found dead. A year later William similarly attended Anne, d.u.c.h.ess of Grafton, the daughter of Bowes's coal-owning partner Henry Liddell, when she gave birth to the child of her affair with John Fitzpatrick, the Earl of Upper Ossory. And although he was generally the soul of discretion, at dinner parties William would boast of having once delivered twins to the daughter of a well-known peer in the bas.e.m.e.nt of her family home while her parents maintained complete ignorance upstairs. He even arranged for the unwanted babes to be deposited in the Foundling Hospital. Yet such clandestine births were highly risky - not least for the medical men involved. One man-midwife who was called to a birth in Bristol in 1755, was escorted blindfolded to a luxurious mansion where he was asked to deliver a woman whose face was kept covered throughout. Three weeks later the hapless pract.i.tioner was found dead.

Laden with their scant belongings, accompanied by a few, if any, servants, Bowes and Mary drew up outside a remote cottage on the north bank of the Thames beyond Chelsea. Bowes would later describe this simply as 'a house in Hammersmith' which he had rented as a secret hideaway for Mary's expected delivery. His surgeon Jesse Foot, in his usual grandiloquent style, referred to it as 'a house the Margravine of Ansbach had left, quite secluded from the busy prying eye of curiosity'. Here, Foot added, in a snide allusion to husbands being cuckolded, 'Bowes might hear the cuckoo . . . without its being unwelcome to the married ear'.54 The most probable candidate for the isolated riverside abode was Craven Cottage, a simple two-storey thatched villa which had recently been built as a pastoral retreat by Lady Elizabeth Craven, the future Margavine of Brandenburg-Ansbach-Bayreuth. The most probable candidate for the isolated riverside abode was Craven Cottage, a simple two-storey thatched villa which had recently been built as a pastoral retreat by Lady Elizabeth Craven, the future Margavine of Brandenburg-Ansbach-Bayreuth.55 Just a year younger than Mary, Lady Craven had already established a reputation that was at least as scandalous. The daughter of the Earl of Berkeley, she had married William Craven in 1767 whereupon both indulged in flagrant extra-marital liaisons. After winning the lottery in 1776 or 1777, Lady Craven had bought or built her secluded villa with the proceeds and invited friends such as Boswell and Walpole to visit. With its six bedrooms plus servants' quarters, and 'fine view of the river', it would be described by another visitor, Lady Mary c.o.ke in 1781, as 'pretty as everything upon the Thames must be'. Just a year younger than Mary, Lady Craven had already established a reputation that was at least as scandalous. The daughter of the Earl of Berkeley, she had married William Craven in 1767 whereupon both indulged in flagrant extra-marital liaisons. After winning the lottery in 1776 or 1777, Lady Craven had bought or built her secluded villa with the proceeds and invited friends such as Boswell and Walpole to visit. With its six bedrooms plus servants' quarters, and 'fine view of the river', it would be described by another visitor, Lady Mary c.o.ke in 1781, as 'pretty as everything upon the Thames must be'.

Bounded by the river to the south, meadows to the east and high walls on the remaining two sides, the riverside retreat provided the perfect location for Mary's clandestine delivery. Concealed from inquisitive city eyes, Mary spent the summer days in her arcadian isolation awaiting her first contractions while Bowes tormented her with his petty restrictions and violent outbursts. When she went into labour in August, it was not William Hunter but his brother John who was called upon to a.s.sist the birth, along with Dr James Ford, a physician with a lucrative West End obstetrics practice.56 Both were sworn to secrecy. Unplanned and unwanted, kept hidden from society and from her siblings, the baby, Mary's third daughter, was also named Mary and took the Bowes surname. Her only child conceived out of wedlock, this bubbly, mischievous, cheeky infant would become Mary's most precious child as well as a favourite with her siblings. Both were sworn to secrecy. Unplanned and unwanted, kept hidden from society and from her siblings, the baby, Mary's third daughter, was also named Mary and took the Bowes surname. Her only child conceived out of wedlock, this bubbly, mischievous, cheeky infant would become Mary's most precious child as well as a favourite with her siblings.

The following month, with the newborn baby probably despatched to a well-bribed wet-nurse, the couple travelled north to Gibside where Mary pretended she was a respectable seven months pregnant. The pair attended church at Whickham two Sundays running in October, doubtless to create the impression that the birth was imminent and very likely with Mary's gown padded to suggest a bulge, for there was nothing Bowes enjoyed better than play-acting. In a characteristically abusive letter to his father on 14 November, Bowes claimed that his physician friend John Scott was close at hand since Mary was 'so very near her time'.57 When the supposed time arrived, Bowes despatched an urgent request to two physicians who arrived breathless at Gibside Hall - just a little too late. a.s.sured that the baby had been born healthy and that the mother was now asleep, the medics accepted their fees and left. When the supposed time arrived, Bowes despatched an urgent request to two physicians who arrived breathless at Gibside Hall - just a little too late. a.s.sured that the baby had been born healthy and that the mother was now asleep, the medics accepted their fees and left.58 The bouncing baby, now almost three months old, was duly baptised in a private ceremony in Whickham Church on 25 November, her birthday given as 16 November 1777, and her arrival announced in the London magazines the same month. The bouncing baby, now almost three months old, was duly baptised in a private ceremony in Whickham Church on 25 November, her birthday given as 16 November 1777, and her arrival announced in the London magazines the same month.59 Mary would always vehemently deny any suggestion that her beloved third daughter was illegitimate for to make such an admission would almost certainly condemn the child to a lifetime of social stigma and tarnish her prospects of a decent marriage. With its characteristically unenlightened approach, eighteenth-century law regarded illegitimate children as nonent.i.ties, so that they were unable either to inherit or to bequeath property.60 Straitened parishes, which were obliged to support illegitimate offspring, might force their parents to marry and the father to provide maintenance, sometimes after whipping the errant couple through the village streets. Mothers, who were inevitably regarded as the chief bearers of guilt, could be sent to houses of correction to atone for their crime. Usually dismissed from their employment and unable to find further work - even when their employer was the father of the expected child - many working-cla.s.s mothers were unable to support their illegitimate children and were therefore forced to surrender them to the Foundling Hospital or work-house. Children born out of wedlock to the aristocracy and gentry fared considerably better. Following the example of successive monarchs, many wealthy parents acknowledged their 'natural' children; some of them rose to positions of significant power. Yet as social att.i.tudes to marital infidelity hardened towards the end of the eighteenth century, even high-born illegitimate children found themselves struggling against a tide of prejudice. Straitened parishes, which were obliged to support illegitimate offspring, might force their parents to marry and the father to provide maintenance, sometimes after whipping the errant couple through the village streets. Mothers, who were inevitably regarded as the chief bearers of guilt, could be sent to houses of correction to atone for their crime. Usually dismissed from their employment and unable to find further work - even when their employer was the father of the expected child - many working-cla.s.s mothers were unable to support their illegitimate children and were therefore forced to surrender them to the Foundling Hospital or work-house. Children born out of wedlock to the aristocracy and gentry fared considerably better. Following the example of successive monarchs, many wealthy parents acknowledged their 'natural' children; some of them rose to positions of significant power. Yet as social att.i.tudes to marital infidelity hardened towards the end of the eighteenth century, even high-born illegitimate children found themselves struggling against a tide of prejudice.

Little Mary's birthday would therefore always be celebrated within the Bowes family in November. At one point her mother anxiously begged the Gibside agent to check the parish register and was relieved to hear that 'Miss Bowes his [sic] properly registerd in Whickham Church Books'.61 Yet there was really no doubt that the baby had been secretly delivered that summer, as rumours were quick to suggest. The following year a typically vindictive satire detailing the latest society intrigues would accuse Mary of enduring a 'ten months pregnancy at least' before giving birth 'without the Midwife's vulgar aid'. A year later a political ballad would allege that Bowes 'contrives also to have his Yet there was really no doubt that the baby had been secretly delivered that summer, as rumours were quick to suggest. The following year a typically vindictive satire detailing the latest society intrigues would accuse Mary of enduring a 'ten months pregnancy at least' before giving birth 'without the Midwife's vulgar aid'. A year later a political ballad would allege that Bowes 'contrives also to have his children children brought into the world with brought into the world with teeth teeth, after the manner of Richard III Richard III'.62 Bowes himself would have none of Mary's compunction about the child's welfare. For all that he had accepted the baby as his daughter he would later maintain that she had been born six months into the marriage and her Gibside delivery had been a concoction. John Hunter would reluctantly admit under oath that he had delivered Mary's child six or seven months after her marriage but refused to speculate on whether the father was Bowes, Gray or even George Walker. Her maid Isabella Fenton would likewise confirm that the child had been born in August and said it was 'common conversation' among the servants that the father was Gray or Walker. Bowes himself would have none of Mary's compunction about the child's welfare. For all that he had accepted the baby as his daughter he would later maintain that she had been born six months into the marriage and her Gibside delivery had been a concoction. John Hunter would reluctantly admit under oath that he had delivered Mary's child six or seven months after her marriage but refused to speculate on whether the father was Bowes, Gray or even George Walker. Her maid Isabella Fenton would likewise confirm that the child had been born in August and said it was 'common conversation' among the servants that the father was Gray or Walker.63 Yet as she doted on the latest addition to her family at Gibside, Mary now faced the real threat that she would lose her other five children. Evidently alarmed that Bowes had seized the family fortune and might likewise exercise control over its young heirs, the children's uncle, Thomas Lyon, had begun court proceedings to remove the youngsters from the care of their mother and stepfather. Applying to the Court of Chancery in June, Lyon had lodged a pet.i.tion demanding that custody of all five children be granted to himself and his fellow guardians David Erskine and James Menzies.64 Since the bill was put forward in the names of the eight-year-old earl, his brothers George, five, and Thomas, four, and sisters Maria, nine and Anna, seven, the children themselves were effectively asking the court to remove them from their mother's care. With rights for children an alien concept in eighteenth-century legal circles, they were almost certainly not consulted. Tenuously arguing that Mary's right to guardians.h.i.+p of the children had been rendered void by her second marriage, Lyon - as the children's 'next friend' in customary court language - insisted that the children be delivered into the care of the three remaining guardians. Giving full vent to years of resentment, Lyon bl.u.s.tered that Mary had now married 'improvidently and much below her dignity and fortune' a man who possessed 'very small and Inconsiderable Estate or fortune in his own Right'. By reason of her second marriage among 'many other accounts' Mary had therefore proved herself 'improper and not fit to have the Care and Management of the persons and fortunes' of her five children. That Lyon's princ.i.p.al concern was the children's future inheritance and the 50,000 now due for their education and maintenance was plain from his repeated references to their ent.i.tlement to the Gibside estate. Since the bill was put forward in the names of the eight-year-old earl, his brothers George, five, and Thomas, four, and sisters Maria, nine and Anna, seven, the children themselves were effectively asking the court to remove them from their mother's care. With rights for children an alien concept in eighteenth-century legal circles, they were almost certainly not consulted. Tenuously arguing that Mary's right to guardians.h.i.+p of the children had been rendered void by her second marriage, Lyon - as the children's 'next friend' in customary court language - insisted that the children be delivered into the care of the three remaining guardians. Giving full vent to years of resentment, Lyon bl.u.s.tered that Mary had now married 'improvidently and much below her dignity and fortune' a man who possessed 'very small and Inconsiderable Estate or fortune in his own Right'. By reason of her second marriage among 'many other accounts' Mary had therefore proved herself 'improper and not fit to have the Care and Management of the persons and fortunes' of her five children. That Lyon's princ.i.p.al concern was the children's future inheritance and the 50,000 now due for their education and maintenance was plain from his repeated references to their ent.i.tlement to the Gibside estate.

Having blithely left four of the children in the care of their grandmother and the dubious Stephenses for most of the past year, and taken little interest in her eldest son, it was only now that Mary began to realise how much she valued her young family. Perhaps softened by her recent experience of maternity, perhaps frightened at her enforced loneliness, or simply attaining the maturity she had previously lacked, she now embarked on a desperate battle to keep them. Bowes, of course, had his own reasons for valuing the children, well aware that unless he produced his own heir to the Gibside estate his best hope of maintaining control over its profits was by controlling its present heirs. But it was already too late. Refusing Lyon's immediate demand to deliver the youngsters into his care and relinquish all rights to them, Mary and Bowes stalled the repeated requests of Lyon's lawyers for a response to the Chancery bill. Playing for time, which was always a generous commodity in Chancery suits, Mary could have had little doubt that ultimately the courts would tender no sympathy for a mother's rights.

Of course, as Lyon so pertinently alleged, and Mary was acutely aware, in reality Bowes was neither a responsible steward of Gibside nor a respectable stepfather to its heirs. Virtually a captive in her own home, with only her baby daughter and watchful servants for company, she was powerless to prevent Bowes neglecting the magnificent gardens and woodland. Equally, as the rumours over the likely father of her baby swirled around the Durham countryside, Mary knew that it was Bowes who had already been unfaithful on at least two occasions - and probably more - in their first year of marriage.

Bowes's reputation as a Lothario was already well established in the north-east, as the snide asides about his familiarity with Newcastle's brothels demonstrated. How much Mary had gleaned of her husband's previous dalliances is unsure. Certainly she had learned of his involvement with Anne Ma.s.singberd - if not the full extent of their relations.h.i.+p - soon after her marriage, since which time Mary had exchanged letters with Bowes's former mistress. Distraught to hear of her ex-lover's reported injuries, and even more so of his subsequent marriage, Anne had continued to bombard Bowes, and later Mary, with her pitifully tragic letters. Guilelessly revealing her infatuation, as well as her credulity, she a.s.sured Mary: 'You are my dear Madam possess'd of a Treasure, the heart of the most amiable of Men, which may you ever retain unmolested.'65 By the summer, however, even the gullible Anne had begun to doubt Bowes's honesty, wretchedly telling him that 'my Eyes now begin to be opened, the dream is almost over & wth. it my sad life must end, for to outlive the idea that you have By the summer, however, even the gullible Anne had begun to doubt Bowes's honesty, wretchedly telling him that 'my Eyes now begin to be opened, the dream is almost over & wth. it my sad life must end, for to outlive the idea that you have some some truth & sincerity in you is impossible.' It was not long before Anne was fully woken from her dream - or nightmare - for a friend who met her in Scarborough in August reported with satisfaction that, 'Miss Ma.s.singberd is here, & seems to have pretty well recovered the loss of Captain Stoney.' A few months later thirty-year-old Anne was married - to the forty-six-year-old Reverend William Maxwell, the Irish friend that Bowes had deputed to duel on his behalf that summer - and soon after she left her family home to begin married life in Ireland. If Mary's suspicions had not been aroused by Anne's gus.h.i.+ng correspondence, clear evidence of her husband's voracious s.e.xual appet.i.te arrived by letter that same summer. truth & sincerity in you is impossible.' It was not long before Anne was fully woken from her dream - or nightmare - for a friend who met her in Scarborough in August reported with satisfaction that, 'Miss Ma.s.singberd is here, & seems to have pretty well recovered the loss of Captain Stoney.' A few months later thirty-year-old Anne was married - to the forty-six-year-old Reverend William Maxwell, the Irish friend that Bowes had deputed to duel on his behalf that summer - and soon after she left her family home to begin married life in Ireland. If Mary's suspicions had not been aroused by Anne's gus.h.i.+ng correspondence, clear evidence of her husband's voracious s.e.xual appet.i.te arrived by letter that same summer.

As she had awaited the first birth pangs beside the river in Hammersmith that July, Mary had been asked by Bowes to read his post while he was temporarily absent. Eight months pregnant, Mary had accordingly opened a letter to Bowes from a young woman begging to see him. Obviously a kept mistress who had recently been abandoned by Bowes, the poorly educated woman complained that, 'none but the Almighty can tell of my secret sufrings of hart and calamity of mind'.66 Describing Bowes as a 'man of honour', the writer signed herself Elizabeth Dock, with an address near the Haymarket, a short stroll from their Grosvenor Square house. Most probably desperate for money, if not for her errant lover, Elizabeth added the postscript: 'I have been very often in the Gardens But was not so fortunate as to see the much desired object of my Desire.' When Mary angrily confronted Bowes with the letter he fervently denied all knowledge of the writer and insisted there had been a terrible mistake. Finally alive to her husband's trail of deceit, Mary feigned belief out of 'delicacy and humanity'. It was the first and only time, she later said, that she ever saw contrition from him. Describing Bowes as a 'man of honour', the writer signed herself Elizabeth Dock, with an address near the Haymarket, a short stroll from their Grosvenor Square house. Most probably desperate for money, if not for her errant lover, Elizabeth added the postscript: 'I have been very often in the Gardens But was not so fortunate as to see the much desired object of my Desire.' When Mary angrily confronted Bowes with the letter he fervently denied all knowledge of the writer and insisted there had been a terrible mistake. Finally alive to her husband's trail of deceit, Mary feigned belief out of 'delicacy and humanity'. It was the first and only time, she later said, that she ever saw contrition from him.

There was no mistake about his next indiscretion. That August Bowes had shown Mary a letter from a young woman, a certain 'Mrs G', whom he had entertained alone at Grosvenor Square. Now he insisted that Mary return the favour by visiting the woman who, he candidly told her, had previously been his mistress and given birth to his stillborn child. It was only the beginning of a succession of young women, most of them poor servants, dest.i.tute working girls or prost.i.tutes, whom Mary was expected to entertain and befriend as her equals. As a respectable, wealthy married woman in the highest ranks of Georgian society, this was demeaning and distasteful. Yet in reality these vulnerable women, many just teenage girls, were her equals in misfortune. From now on, Mary decided there was no need to pretend ignorance of her husband's philandering.

It was a cold and gloomy winter in the north. As the year drew to a close, and Bowes caroused on his bawdy nights on the town while Mary cradled her little daughter alone in Gibside Hall, she came to realise that her husband was nothing but a cheat, a fraud and a serial adulterer. Gazing from the windows at the forbidden walks and mocking column, Mary waited in fear for the crunch of gravel which signalled the return of her husband's carriage. If Bowes had been disappointed at the betting table, thwarted in a s.e.xual conquest or enraged by any obstacle to his schemes, Mary knew she would bear the brunt of his temper. Frequently, she later wrote, he was 'out of humour with his Mistresses or money matters; and always on those occasions came home and beat, pinched, kicked or pulled me by the ears and nose, often thrusting his nails into my ears, which he made stream with blood; spitting also in my face, and telling me, that he only married to torment me'.67 The New Year brought no resolutions for change. On the first anniversary of their wedding, 17 January 1778, Bowes coldly informed Mary that he intended to make every day of her life more miserable than the last - a pledge which, unlike his marriage vows, he intended to keep. Yet even as Mary looked back on her first year with the man who had become her jailor, tormentor and abuser, she managed to convince herself that he might still change for the better.

7.

Loathsome Weeds Cape Town, January 1778.

Returning to his lodgings in Cape Town at the end of his first expedition into the inhospitable interior of southern Africa, William Paterson was exhausted but inspired. As he unpacked the bounty of seeds, bulbs and dried plants that he had collected, along with his bulging notebook and exquisite paintings, the 22-year-old gardener could hardly wait to set off exploring again. Having arrived in Cape Town in May the previous year after a testing three-month voyage, Paterson had spent the intervening months acquainting himself with the exotic landscape.1 It was a far cry from his homeland in Scotland. It was a far cry from his homeland in Scotland.

Born in August 1755, in the little village of Kinnettles near Forfar, just four miles from Glamis, William Paterson was the son of a gardener who worked on a nearby estate. Nothing about his early life is known beyond the fact that he followed in his father's footsteps, taking a keen interest in plants, and that, judging from his later writings, he enjoyed little formal education. He may have trained as an apprentice gardener at Syon Park, home of the Duke and d.u.c.h.ess of Northumberland on the opposite side of the Thames from Kew, for he had certainly become friendly with William Forsyth, a fellow Scot who was head gardener there from 1763 to 1771. A letter to Forsyth written a week after his arrival in Cape Town sent compliments to 'Mrs Forsyth and all the family and my old fellow servants'.2 Equally, he may have been apprenticed to Forsyth after the latter took charge of Chelsea Physic Garden, the Society of Apothecaries' medicinal garden beside the Thames, in 1771. Equally, he may have been apprenticed to Forsyth after the latter took charge of Chelsea Physic Garden, the Society of Apothecaries' medicinal garden beside the Thames, in 1771.

How Paterson, a poorly educated but bright young gardener with dark hair and deep brown eyes, had come to the attention of Mary Eleanor Bowes in 1776 is a mystery. Conceivably she had met him as a youth when he lived near Glamis, or alternatively through her northern neighbour, the d.u.c.h.ess of Northumberland, whose b.a.l.l.s she had enjoyed as a child. Most probably, however, Paterson had been recommended as a suitable candidate for her botanical mission by one of Mary's friends within her scientific network. He had, of course, attended a Royal Society meeting with Solander in May 1776; no doubt he had read Francis Ma.s.son's account of his Cape travels published in the society's Philosophical Transactions Philosophical Transactions later that year; and in all likelihood he would have studied Ma.s.son's African spoils transplanted into the new hothouse at Kew. One visitor in May 1776, the Reverend Michael Tyson, had marvelled: 'Mr Ma.s.son showed me the New World in his amazing Cape hothouse, erica 140 species, many protea, geranium and cliffortias more than 50.' later that year; and in all likelihood he would have studied Ma.s.son's African spoils transplanted into the new hothouse at Kew. One visitor in May 1776, the Reverend Michael Tyson, had marvelled: 'Mr Ma.s.son showed me the New World in his amazing Cape hothouse, erica 140 species, many protea, geranium and cliffortias more than 50.'3 Certainly, by the time he set sail from Plymouth on 9 February 1777, less than a month after Mary's second marriage, young Paterson felt confident in the knowledge that his entire trip was being bankrolled by his generous patron. 'In this undertaking, I account myself particularly fortunate in having been patronized by the Honourable Lady Strathmore,' he would later write, 'whose zeal for botanical researches induced her readily to accede to the proposal of exploring an unknown country in search of new plants, and to honour me with her protection and support.' Certainly, by the time he set sail from Plymouth on 9 February 1777, less than a month after Mary's second marriage, young Paterson felt confident in the knowledge that his entire trip was being bankrolled by his generous patron. 'In this undertaking, I account myself particularly fortunate in having been patronized by the Honourable Lady Strathmore,' he would later write, 'whose zeal for botanical researches induced her readily to accede to the proposal of exploring an unknown country in search of new plants, and to honour me with her protection and support.'4 Having disembarked in Cape Town at the start of the southern African winter, Paterson had delayed any serious exploration until travelling conditions improved. In the meantime, for all his lack of education, he had successfully insinuated himself into the elite social circle of the settlement's white colonialists and undertook some minor excursions to accustom himself to the habitat. One of these entailed an arduous climb up Table Mountain in the company of Captain Robert Gordon, a highly intelligent and urbane army officer who had been born in Holland to a family of Scottish descent. Having previously visited the Cape in 1773, Gordon had returned in 1777 as second-in-command of the Dutch garrison that controlled the region. Immediately forming a strong bond with the Scottish gardener, with whom he shared a pa.s.sion for natural history, Gordon would later say that Paterson's 'pleasant personality gave me very much companions.h.i.+p'.5 Also joining the merry climbing party was William Hickey, the rakish lawyer who had arrived at the Cape Also joining the merry climbing party was William Hickey, the rakish lawyer who had arrived at the Cape en route en route for Calcutta. In Hickey's naive estimation, Paterson was 'a great botanist' who had been employed to collect rare plants and natural curiosities 'by that strange and eccentric woman, Lady Strathmore'. for Calcutta. In Hickey's naive estimation, Paterson was 'a great botanist' who had been employed to collect rare plants and natural curiosities 'by that strange and eccentric woman, Lady Strathmore'.6 Recounting the little expedition with pleasure, Hickey wrote that Gordon and Paterson had called on him at 4 a.m. to begin the ascent. Although Hickey would describe the climb as 'dreadfully steep and rugged', in truth it was far more onerous for the servants burdened with the travellers' baggage and refreshments. After a few hours' climb, the party stopped for breakfast in a large cave where Hickey discovered 'a table spread with tea, coffee, cold ham, fowls, with other articles of food, all of the best kind'. While the party ate and enjoyed the stunning view of Cape Town, they were serenaded by two servants on flutes. It was, Hickey concluded, the 'pleasantest breakfast I ever made'. It took two more hours to reach the summit, where further nourishment awaited the climbers in a previously erected tent, along with chilled wine and two French horn players. When Hickey said goodbye to Paterson a few weeks later to continue his journey to India, he declared his newfound friend 'an ingenious young man'. It would be under quite different circ.u.mstances that they would meet again.

After his easy introduction to the region, Paterson had embarked on his first lengthy expedition as soon as weather conditions improved in October, heading due east from Cape Town in pursuit of the promised plants and seeds for his patron. He had not been disappointed. Although pioneer botanists had first explored the immediate vicinity of the Cape in the seventeenth century, the wider region had remained largely untouched by Europeans - and its floral treasures undiscovered - until the 1770s. In 1772, not one but three professional plant collectors had landed at the Cape in search of botanical enlightenment: Carl Peter Thunberg and Anders Sparrman, both Swedes, followed six months later by Ma.s.son on his royal quest. Companionably, Ma.s.son and Thunberg had teamed up for two expeditions, joined briefly by the capable Captain Gordon on his first Cape visit. Gordon's linguistic skills - he spoke Dutch, English, French, German and Gaelic and quickly mastered several native languages - no doubt aided communications. Although Sparrman had left just as Ma.s.son arrived, taking Ma.s.son's berth on Cook's Resolution Resolution, he had returned to the Cape in 1775 for a further two years' botanical study. Beginning his explorations just five years after these pioneers, in October 1777, young Paterson was still one of the first Europeans - and only the second British traveller - to penetrate the enticing Cape interior.

Travelling on horseback with his good friend Gordon, their baggage and provisions sent ahead in carts pulled by oxen, Paterson had followed the coastline before striking out over mountain terrain and gra.s.slands as far as Beervlei at the confluence of the Kariega and Sout Rivers. On the way he discovered an abundance of strange and wonderful flora of varieties he had never seen before. 'Here I found a species of Erica, which was quite new,' he recorded excitedly, 'with a spike of long tubelar yellow flowers, the most beautiful I had ever seen.'7 Meticulously collecting and describing the specimens he found, Paterson produced exquisite pictures - or had an accompanying draughtsman execute them for him; the ident.i.ty of the artist remains uncertain. Meticulously collecting and describing the specimens he found, Paterson produced exquisite pictures - or had an accompanying draughtsman execute them for him; the ident.i.ty of the artist remains uncertain.8 Dogged and resourceful, Paterson spared no pains in his mission, at one time almost drowning when attempting to swim across a swollen river at night, and on another occasion nearly plunging to his death when his horse stumbled on a steep precipice. Braving lions and hippopotami, foraging for food and water, the two explorers enjoyed the hospitality of the 'Hottentot' or Khoikhoi people and excitedly gave their names to natural features including Gordon's and Paterson's Bays. Dogged and resourceful, Paterson spared no pains in his mission, at one time almost drowning when attempting to swim across a swollen river at night, and on another occasion nearly plunging to his death when his horse stumbled on a steep precipice. Braving lions and hippopotami, foraging for food and water, the two explorers enjoyed the hospitality of the 'Hottentot' or Khoikhoi people and excitedly gave their names to natural features including Gordon's and Paterson's Bays.9 Reluctantly bidding the captain to continue without him when he fell ill, Paterson turned back in December. In poor health, but 'with my collection much increased' he arrived back in Cape Town on 13 January 1778. Reluctantly bidding the captain to continue without him when he fell ill, Paterson turned back in December. In poor health, but 'with my collection much increased' he arrived back in Cape Town on 13 January 1778.10 It was the first of four expeditions Paterson would undertake over the next two years. Eagerly planning his next trip, he was blissfully unaware that the financial patronage that he relied on to foot the bill had abruptly come to an end. It was the first of four expeditions Paterson would undertake over the next two years. Eagerly planning his next trip, he was blissfully unaware that the financial patronage that he relied on to foot the bill had abruptly come to an end.

Seated at her desk in her dressing room at Gibside, filling page after page with her neat script, Mary could only dream of the convivial feasts, thrilling adventures and heady freedom being enjoyed by her roving gardener. Barred from walking her gardens and denied the company of her friends, 28-year-old Mary had become subdued and submissive. After a full year of Bowes's beatings she had come to believe - like so many women in the same situation - that her own faults and failings were somehow responsible for the miseries she now endured. Accordingly, she had agreed to write for Bowes's eyes alone a full and frank catalogue of her past 'crimes' and 'imprudencies' in an effort to make amends and start anew. Later she would claim that the account which Bowes would maliciously publish as The Confessions of the Countess of Strathmore The Confessions of the Countess of Strathmore, was completely false, composed at his dictation and extracted under the threat that she would never see her children again; on occasions she would even deny that she had written it at all.11 Yet there is no doubt that the hundred-page tract was written by Mary and that much of it is accurate and corroborated by other sources. Foot would agree that the text was 'evidently extorted from her, under the tyranny of BOWES'and that it contained 'many falsehoods' but also, he averred, 'some truths'. While its verisimilitude would remain in question, Mary's candid description of her flirtations, love affairs and abortions would make it one of the most explosive doc.u.ments to be published in the eighteenth century. Yet there is no doubt that the hundred-page tract was written by Mary and that much of it is accurate and corroborated by other sources. Foot would agree that the text was 'evidently extorted from her, under the tyranny of BOWES'and that it contained 'many falsehoods' but also, he averred, 'some truths'. While its verisimilitude would remain in question, Mary's candid description of her flirtations, love affairs and abortions would make it one of the most explosive doc.u.ments to be published in the eighteenth century.

'I have been guilty', she began, 'of five crimes.'12 First among these she numbered her 'unnatural dislike' of her eldest son, of which she had already long repented, followed by her affair with George Gray while Lord Strathmore was alive, her one attempted and three successful abortions, her broken pledge to marry Gray and - lastly and most poignantly - her subsequent marriage to Bowes, 'which together with my previous connection with you, I reckon amongst my crimes'. Her 'imprudencies' took a good deal longer to relate, beginning with her innocent teenage romances, her extramarital dalliance with James Graham, her encouragement of a string of male admirers after Lord Strathmore's death, her gullibility in visiting fortune-tellers, and a series of ill-judged but essentially harmless social errors in trusting too freely or acting too familiarly with servants and acquaintances. Her folly, she now decided, in trusting Eliza Planta, the Stephens brothers, Captain Magra and Mr Matra, had been 'unpardonable'. 'I was more than imprudent in encouraging and keeping company with people of such execrable and infamous principles,' she submitted, 'though, indeed, I did not think them such then; but that is no excuse for me, as I ought not to have trusted or allowed any body to have frequented my house, without a previous long acquaintance.' Her greater folly in trusting the person with the most execrable and infamous principles of all, of equally short acquaintance, naturally pa.s.sed unremarked. Above all she regretted entrusting her secrets to her disgraced footman George Walker, although whether she truly believed that he had since burnt his copy of her prenuptial deed, as she claimed, remained to be seen. First among these she numbered her 'unnatural dislike' of her eldest son, of which she had already long repented, followed by her affair with George Gray while Lord Strathmore was alive, her one attempted and three successful abortions, her broken pledge to marry Gray and - lastly and most poignantly - her subsequent marriage to Bowes, 'which together with my previous connection with you, I reckon amongst my crimes'. Her 'imprudencies' took a good deal longer to relate, beginning with her innocent teenage romances, her extramarital dalliance with James Graham, her encouragement of a string of male admirers after Lord Strathmore's death, her gullibility in visiting fortune-tellers, and a series of ill-judged but essentially harmless social errors in trusting too freely or acting too familiarly with servants and acquaintances. Her folly, she now decided, in trusting Eliza Planta, the Stephens brothers, Captain Magra and Mr Matra, had been 'unpardonable'. 'I was more than imprudent in encouraging and keeping company with people of such execrable and infamous principles,' she submitted, 'though, indeed, I did not think them such then; but that is no excuse for me, as I ought not to have trusted or allowed any body to have frequented my house, without a previous long acquaintance.' Her greater folly in trusting the person with the most execrable and infamous principles of all, of equally short acquaintance, naturally pa.s.sed unremarked. Above all she regretted entrusting her secrets to her disgraced footman George Walker, although whether she truly believed that he had since burnt his copy of her prenuptial deed, as she claimed, remained to be seen.

Looking back on her carefree childhood, to the tender upbringing and diligent education, she now blamed her father for a failure to instil 'a proper sense of religion' that might have prevented her later faults. Yet for all the s.n.a.t.c.hed kisses and frothy letters she had exchanged with forward boys and rakish men since her father's death, and despite her media-generated reputation for licentiousness, in reality her love-life had been relatively chaste - certainly in comparison to many of Georgian society's more notorious characters. 'I do a.s.sure you,' she pleaded, 'that no man ever took the smallest liberty with me (Lord S. yourself, and Mr G. excepted) except three or four times that Mr Stephens kissed me, under one pretence or other; and once or twice that Mr G. S. as we were standing by the fire-side, put his arm around my waist.'

But if the description of Mary's indiscretions showed her in a poor light, the doc.u.ment which Bowes would later have no qualms about publis.h.i.+ng revealed him in a far blacker guise. Laying before her husband a 'full account of every thing I ever did, said, or thought, that was wrong', Mary revealed that in return he had made her a promise never to 'repeat past grievances'; whether this referred to his brutality or his philandering was unspecified. That she had already suffered repeatedly from his violent outbursts was evident from her comment, 'I fear you are of an unforgiving, and in this respect, unforgetting temper; else you could not, for so many months together, have behaved so uniformly cruel to one whose wish and study was to please you.' With her spirit almost broken by her twelve months under Bowes's autocratic rule, she declared: 'I am already so loaded with misery that there is only one curse which is not mine already.' That one curse - to die - she now called upon herself should her confessions prove untrue. Seemingly bewildered at her husband's 'more than usual share of dislike to me', she plaintively promised 'if it please G.o.d to give me strength and resolution to trail out my existence till even you are convinced, by my example, that a person who has once been vicious, may repent and become good'.

Well aware that by her candid admissions she had provided Bowes with a fresh crop of excuses to ill-treat her, she submitted, 'but you are my husband - I obey you, and if you continue to distrust, abuse, and think of me as you have hitherto done, Providence must and will decide which of us two is most to blame'. Begging her husband to burn her confessions, or otherwise destroy them, when she died, 'that I may not stand condemned and disgraced, under my own hand, to posterity', she pleaded with him to forgive 'all my sins and faults'. Yet even as Mary wrote the final words to her own denunciation on 2 February, Bowes was far from satisfied. Bursting into her dressing room that evening, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the sheets of writing and berated her for including trivial events in minute detail. At the same time he demanded that she admit to faking the 'fits' that she had suffered since childhood. A master of pretended illness and injury himself, Bowes refused to accept that the mysterious attacks which had occurred several times in their first year of marriage - quite possibly brought on by anxiety - were genuine; naturally, his physician friend, Dr Scott, had readily concurred. Keeping a tiny flicker of her old independence alive, Mary refused to submit to this diagnosis, insisting that her fits were authentic. Finally, swearing the truth of her testament on the Bible, Mary added the date, 3 February 1778, to the last page and hoped that her months of torture were at an end.

Far from honouring his side of the bargain, Bowes was emboldened by Mary's surrender to his will, pocketing her 'confessions' with unconcealed pleasure. Furnished with this unremitting account of dissipation, s.e.xual precocity and unnatural maternal feelings, he knew that she was more in his power than ever. It was only upon reading this testament, he would later claim, that his eyes had been opened to his wife's true nature. From this point on, he would argue, he was forced to watch her conduct closely and control her actions accordingly. Indeed, just as Mary had feared, her self-confessed 'sins' would provide not only Bowes, but his apologists down the years, with justification for the most outrageous extremes of brutality.

True to his word, Bowes redoubled his campaign of repression. Squandering Mary's fortune on gambling, presents for his mistresses and lavish entertainments for his Newcastle cronies, Bowes kept Mary impoverished and virtually imprisoned at Gibside. Deprived of money, prevented from buying new clothes and frequently half starved - the cook and kitchen maids were instructed only to take orders from Bowes - Mary's once plump face now looked gaunt, her formerly opulent gowns shabby. Skilfully disguising his neglect and abuse, Bowes hoodwinked the servants and guests into believing the Gibside mistress was eccentric, slovenly and accident-p.r.o.ne. Mary's genuine short-sightedness was conveniently blamed for the numerous occasions on which she supposedly b.u.mped into doors, fell down stairs or singed her hair in the fire; her dishevelled appearance was ascribed to her lack of interest in clothes; her apparent loss of appet.i.te on her faddy tastes. Schooled by Bowes, Mary frequently appeared impolite or deranged in company. On occasions he would warn her only to reply yes or no to any question, at other times only to say that the weather was hot or cold, and sometimes to refuse to speak at all, so that guests presumed her to be mad, rude or stupid. If she deviated at all from this prearranged behaviour, Bowes would briskly administer 'a threatening frown, a sly pinch, or a kick with his foot' out of sight of his guests.13 Just as he had done with his first wife, Bowes cleverly sculpted a public image of Mary as truculent, difficult and disordered. Meanwhile, he presented himself as the aggrieved husband, tenderly attempting to guide his awkward wife. Feigning concern for her wellbeing whenever he was away from home, he would frequently despatch messages enquiring after her health and her appet.i.te. As contrived as his sham duel, the performance was a meticulously planned fiction which Mary would find difficult to shake.

Behind closed doors, his brutality intensified. 'In 1778 he beat me several times,' wrote Mary, 'particularly once with a thick stick, the head of which was heavy with lead; and with the handle of a horsewhip, which he had then in his hand, being just come in from hunting'.14 Now drinking heavily, Bowes would return from his nights on the town inebriated and enraged. One Newcastle friend, who found it hard to keep pace, complained that Bowes's carousing often lasted into the early hours, after which 'one is sure to be in a Condition in which no Man would wish to be in the Streets'. Now drinking heavily, Bowes would return from his nights on the town inebriated and enraged. One Newcastle friend, who found it hard to keep pace, complained that Bowes's carousing often lasted into the early hours, after which 'one is sure to be in a Condition in which no Man would wish to be in the Streets'.15 Inevitably Mary bore the brunt of his drunken rages, submitting to his violence in private just as she colluded with his charade in public. By now the servants had learned to turn a blind eye to their mistress's cuts and bruises, accepting the tales of her clumsiness without question rather than risking their master's wrath themselves. Nevertheless they observed the change in Mary's demeanour. One maid who worked for Mary before and after her marriage to Bowes noted the 'great alteration in her deportment' and remarked: 'Her Ladys.h.i.+p appeared dejected, and to have no will of her own.' Another, who had stayed on after the marriage, overheard Bowes order Mary to tell the servants she had received a black eye by accident and stated: 'His whole behaviour was cruel and ill-natured in general, and not confined to particular instances.' Inevitably Mary bore the brunt of his drunken rages, submitting to his violence in private just as she colluded with his charade in public. By now the servants had learned to turn a blind eye to their mistress's cuts and bruises, accepting the tales of her clumsiness without question rather than risking their master's wrath themselves. Nevertheless they observed the change in Mary's demeanour. One maid who worked for Mary before and after her marriage to Bowes noted the 'great alteration in her deportment' and remarked: 'Her Ladys.h.i.+p appeared dejected, and to have no will of her own.' Another, who had stayed on after the marriage, overheard Bowes order Mary to tell the servants she had received a black eye by accident and stated: 'His whole behaviour was cruel and ill-natured in general, and not confined to particular instances.'16 Living in fear of the violence her husband meted out, Mary knew that there was little she could do in her defence. Marital violence is as old as marriage itself; during the eighteenth century wife-beating was not only common and widely tolerated but even supported by law. One legal manual, first published in 1736, explained that husbands could lawfully beat their wives to keep them to their duties, although it cautioned that such chastis.e.m.e.nt should not be 'violent or cruel'. Another popular legal writer described a husband's right to 'give his wife moderate correction', since by law he was liable for her conduct, but argued that this should be kept 'within reasonable bounds'.17 One well-known judge, Francis Buller, would even proclaim that a husband could lawfully chastise his wife as long as he used a stick no bigger than his thumb, earning himself the nickname 'Judge Thumb' in the process. Yet even when wives suffered sustained and severe violence, they had little recourse in law. Although a wife could swear 'articles of peace' against her husband if she feared life-threatening injury, the Church courts could still compel her to return to the marital home for 'rest.i.tution of conjugal rights'. And while the same Church courts could grant a separation on grounds of cruelty, this was allowed only rarely, in cases of extreme and repeated violence deemed unjustifiable by the all-male judges. Virtually powerless to curb his conduct, Mary simply endured her husband's rages in silence. But content no longer to abuse only his wife, Bowes now endeavoured to lure others into his control. One well-known judge, Francis Buller, would even proclaim that a husband could lawfully chastise his wife as long as he used a stick no bigger than his thumb, earning himself the nickname 'Judge Thumb' in the process. Yet even when wives suffered sustained and severe violence, they had little recourse in law. Although a wife could swear 'articles of peace' against her husband if she feared life-threatening injury, the Church courts could still compel her to return to the marital home for 'rest.i.tution of conjugal rights'. And while the same Church courts could grant a separation on grounds of cruelty, this was allowed only rarely, in cases of extreme and repeated violence deemed unjustifiable by the all-male judges. Virtually powerless to curb his conduct, Mary simply endured her husband's rages in silence. But content no longer to abuse only his wife, Bowes now endeavoured to lure others into his control.

In May 1778, Bowes recruited a chaplain, the Reverend Samuel Markham, who joined the Gibside household along with his wife Jane. That month - just as William Paterson set out on his second expedition at the Cape - Bowes embarked for Ireland, taking s.h.i.+p from Port-patrick in Scotland, with Mary and the Markhams in tow. Whether he took the infant Mary, now nine months old, to present to his family as his first-born is unknown; a good three months chubbier than her pretended age, she may well have remained with a nursemaid at Gibside.

The purpose of the visit was most probably a desire by Bowes to capitalise on the lands he still owned in Ireland; exacting an advantageous price for them from his relatives had plagued him for several years. It was nevertheless a first opportunity for Mary Eleanor to meet her in-laws and their ever-expanding family in Tipperary. Elizabeth Stoney, her mother-in-law, had given birth to her eleventh child, George Stoney junior, just four years earlier. Despite the haughty letters that Mary had been forced by Bowes to write to his father, she made a favourable impression on the family - an affection which proved mutual, especially between Mary and her namesake, Bowes's twenty-year-old sister. When the Bowes retinue returned to England the following month, Mary Stoney accompanied them, encouraged by her ambitious mother in the face of heartfelt objections from her father. The chance to enjoy the English social scene, under the escort of her handsome big brother and his well-connected wife, seemed too tempting an opportunity for a lively young woman of marriageable age. Before leaving Ireland Bowes promised his father that he would send his sister home within six months. He had no such intention.

Back at Gibside in time for the Newcastle races in June, Bowes introduced his sister into polite northern society, taking pains as always to present himself to his potential electorate as the courteous husband, brother and benefactor. One society belle, Judith Milbanke, delightedly reported partnering Bowes at the city's splendid new a.s.sembly rooms. 'I . . . had the honour to open the Ball with a double Minuet, Lady Strathmore & Lord Fielding at Top, your humble servant & Mr Bowes at bottom.'18 Cutting a commanding figure on the dance floor, Bowes never lost his touch with the ladies; a generous subscriber to the new a.s.sembly rooms, he knew just as effectively how to charm the city's dignitaries. Cutting a commanding figure on the dance floor, Bowes never lost his touch with the ladies; a generous subscriber to the new a.s.sembly rooms, he knew just as effectively how to charm the city's dignitaries.19 Yet the seemingly cosy family scenario belied the bleak truth. Well aware that his play-acting would not pa.s.s muster with the shrewd Mrs Bowes, Bowes forbade Mary from any private conversation with her mother and scrutinised their correspondence. Nevertheless, rumours of his ill-treatment and scandalous conduct had already reached Mrs Bowes's ears and she now urged Mary to leave him - despite the inevitable social outcry this would generate - even if she refused to believe the tales of physical violence. Knowing the grief it would cause her mother to hear the truth and hopeful she could still reform her abuser, Mary denied that Bowes mistreated her.20 But just as Bowes curtailed her connections with her immediate family, so the law now conspired to sever all links with her children. But just as Bowes curtailed her connections with her immediate family, so the law now conspired to sever all links with her children.

That June, just after her return from Ireland, Mary was forced to surrender her five children by Lord Strathmore to their three other guardians, as Chancery made them wards of court.21 Not bothering even to consult their mother, Thomas Lyon immediately removed six-year-old George and five-year-old Thomas from their grandmother's home and sent them to join their brother John, now nine, at his school in Neasden. The two girls, Maria, now ten, and Anna, just turned eight, were summarily packed off to a girls' boarding school in Queen's Square, London. Distraught at being forced to give up all rights to her children, Mary consoled herself with the belief that the other guardians would grant her reasonable access; in reality, she hoped, she would see them scarcely less than she already did. Her optimism was sorely misguided. From the moment that Lyon gained charge of his nephews and nieces - and the funds set aside to maintain them - he enacted a vice-like control over their daily lives. Dictating every aspect of their education and their leisure time, austere Uncle Thomas moulded the children to his demanding ideals, while poisoning their minds against their mother. And not only would they rarely be granted visits to their mother, separated by their schooling they would hardly see each other. When Lyon, at the family home in County Durham he had now inherited from his late mother, was unable to oversee their activities, he dragooned his sister, Lady Anne Simpson, to supervise the youngsters in London. As parsimonious as his brother had been profligate, Lyon maintained meticulous accounts of the children's expenses which survive even now: their bills for shoes, clothes, medicine, haircuts, books and lessons, their accounts for tuition, board and pocket money, all folded and bound in tiny bundles as sad mementoes of their carefully monitored and catalogued young lives. Not bothering even to consult their mother, Thomas Lyon immediately removed six-year-old George and five-year-old Thomas from their grandmother's home and sent them to join their brother John, now nine, at his school in Neasden. The two girls, Maria, now ten, and Anna, just turned eight, were summarily packed off to a girls' boarding school in Queen's Square, London. Distraught at being forced to give up all rights to her children, Mary consoled herself with the belief that the other guardians would grant her reasonable access; in reality, she hoped, she would see them scarcely less than she already did. Her optimism was sorely misguided. From the moment that Lyon gained charge of his nephews and nieces - and the funds set aside to maintain them - he enacted a vice-like control over their daily lives. Dictating every aspect of their education and their leisure time, austere Uncle Thomas moulded the children to his demanding ideals, while poisoning their minds against their mother. And not only would they rarely be granted visits to their mother, separated by their schooling they would hardly see each other. When Lyon, at the family home in County Durham he had now inherited from his late mother, was unable to oversee their activities, he dragooned his sister, Lady Anne Simpson, to supervise the youngsters in London. As parsimonious as his brother had been profligate, Lyon maintained meticulous accounts of the children's expenses which survive even now: their bills for shoes, clothes, medicine, haircuts, books and lessons, their accounts for tuition, board and pocket money, all folded and bound in tiny bundles as sad mementoes of their carefully monitored and catalogued young lives.

So the girls' first outings to the opulent West End shops to choose the colourful silks and satins for their first grown-up gowns, to be fitted for their first stays, to buy dancing pumps, gloves and fans for their first b.a.l.l.s and theatre trips, were supervised not by their mother but by Aunt Anne with the bills forwarded to Uncle Thomas.22 When George, always a sickly child, fell ill that autumn, his tutors sent for the apothecary to bring his ineffectual potions to the boy's bedside in Neasden - and forwarded the medical bill to Lyon - rather than let his mother mop his fevered forehead. When Maria visited th