CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE WRITING
Defoe was back in his study working away. He had put his island away for a little while as he needed to write some more pamphlets and for The Review promoting the Acts of Union and the unification of Scotland and England. Sometimes he would write as himself and sometimes he would write as a Scotsman giving arguments for and against the treaty. He always managed, of course, to have the last word promoting the English point of view.
Defoe continued to be paid for his services yet, somehow, it never seemed to be enough. Between the children and their schooling and the costs of keeping his wife in what she feel to be current ‘style’ for endless parties and teas; the stack of bills never seemed any smaller. He was forced to write to his benefactors Robert Harley and Earl Mortimer requesting a higher stipend. He did get some revenues from the sale of his book History of the Union, but the payments just seemed to trickle in while the outgo seemed to gush out.
Mary was oblivious to their situation and ‘didn’t really want to discuss money, that’s the man’s job.’ So he sat in his study and stared at the bills. Defoe really didn’t expect much from his island book; it was just a little frivolity piece that he enjoyed writing. However; he planned to publish it soon.
Life trudged on; Defoe saw Charles from time to time at the local pubs but the young man always seemed to be on the verge of running somewhere or other. He still got invited to garden parties by the royalty in Edinburgh, the ones who mostly felt that their fortunes and pocket books were going to grow bigger as a result of the new Union.
Defoe suffered through endless luncheons and teas, balancing tiny china cups in the palm of his hand, listening to overly made-up ladies, with overly tight corsets, trying their best to keep up with what in their mind’s eye was the latest London and Paris fashions; babbling on and on about finance and politics just exactly like they knew something about it. Defoe tried his best to keep opinions to himself and to be at all times cordial and pleasant to all and maybe just a little stupid.
Mary wanted to start wearing some of the high style ceruse face make-up and he finally put his foot down.
“Not only do you not need it, as you are naturally so beautiful, I have heard tell that many of these things are not even good for your skin.” He had heard about people putting lead into makeup to make the skin whiter. Certainly, that couldn’t be healthy.
She pouted and almost stamped her foot; but stopped herself in time. She knew how far she could push her husband and he seemed pretty definite on this one.
However; she got some of hers back. Defoe went and got his new suit of clothes from the tailor and put it on for their next big event.
Mary gasped “It’s exactly the same color as your old one!”
Defoe looked at himself in the mirror. Yes, it did look pretty much the same. Royal blue jacket and breeches; a short vest with pockets for his watch, white stockings and black shoes.
Mary tugged at his white collar. “You look like a Quaker,” she hissed.
“Hmm, really?” he thought. He smiled at himself in the mirror.
“And another thing,” she spat out, “don’t start any more conversations about religion!”
“Well, but my dear, if someone brings it up….”
“Talk about the weather!” she commanded. “Paul,” she yelled, “help your master with his wig!”
Paul shuffled into Defoe’s bedroom where he was now sitting in front of his mirror. His white long wig sat on the table in front of him.
“It’s no use Paul; all I do is end up looking like a tea cup someone placed wrongly on the saucer. Just won’t do you know,” Defoe said helplessly.
Paul suppressed a little laugh. “No problem a’tall Milord. We’ll have it on you in a wink.”
Paul took a flat bristle brush from the table and brushed Defoe’s thinning, gray hair into a little ponytail. He then took a small ribbon sitting on the table and tied the pig in the back. He carefully lifted the wig and placed it on his master’s head with two hands and gave it a final hank, settling it in place.
“There now, what think yea on that?” Paul handed his master a hand mirror. Defoe looking at himself from the back.
“Paul, you have saved me from man’s worst fate; complete ugliness. We must be off or Milady will make me change my clothes again. Haste!” With that they set off downstairs to gather the carriage.
The children were on the stairs to get a last look at their parents before they were sent to bed.
“Oh mama, you look so beautiful!” her youngest daughter cooed. Madam Defoe wrapped her new shawl of tartan wool around her shoulders and gave each child a kiss.
“Be good children and mind Gwen!”
As soon as mother and father were gone the children all ran screaming through the house; Gwen threw up her hands.
Defoe never ceased to be amazed at the opulence of the great houses where most of the balls occurred. He could never, on his wages, ever afford to entertain in this manner. His wife loved it and seemed to fit in here as though she had been born to all of it from the beginning.
They were helped from their carriage by the waiting footmen and his wife swept in front of him up the stairs eager to see and be seen. She was the height of fashion in her velvet green dress made especially for the occasion with a not-overly low front, a tightly cinched waist and lace three-quarter length sleeves.
The skirt was full and swept over the ground supported by; he knew, two separate petticoats of stiff material underneath. The petticoats took up so much room, they could barely get her fitted into the carriage for the ride over. Mary was almost in tears when she thought the skirt was caught in the carriage door; but the ever expedient Paul was able to remedy the situation at once as the door had not closed tightly yet.
Defoe was greeted by James Grahm, Lord President of the Council of Scotland, and shook hand with John Gordon, 16th Earl of Sutherland and made the rounds of the Campbells, and Sutherlands who were all staunch supporters of the Trade Union agreement.
He got a small glass of sherry and waved away the champagne and sat down at last. Her Ladyship Beatrice Hume, wife of Patrick Hume, the 1st Earl of Marchmont was tittering on.
“Oh, Mr. Defoe, you mustn’t turn down the champagne, it’s from France you know. And you know those French!”
Defoe murmered something in response. He was actually busy staring at the large black dot on her Ladyship’s face; sort of a mole thing. He was trying to decide if it was real or not, and if not, why was she wearing it? His wife sidled up besides him and caught him staring and gave him a jab in the ribs.
“Oh, yes, your Ladyship, you were saying?” he jerked out a response.
“I was saying, you know those French, they are just everywhere aren’t they. With all their rumours and whisperings. I can’t even understand why they spend so much time here, they don’t even like the cold weather!”
“Well, perhaps Madam,” Defoe ventured, “perhaps they have some other thoughts in mind not having to do with the weather.” Defoe’s wife jabbed him again. “Then again, Madam, this house of yours is just lovely, could we see some more of the place?”
“Oh, Mr. Defoe, you just do nothing but flatter and flatter, but that’s okay!” She grabbed him by the arm. “Now over here we have…..” Defoe let himself be lead away with Mary’s beady eyes on the back of his head. Knowing that as soon as she felt he was out of mischief she would launch into some long discourse with one of her new bonne amie’s regarding the cost of material and getting the dress made and problems with the children…
Defoe got the tour of the house with the paintings of all the dead relatives and their unique contributions, albeit small, to the Scotland historical landscape. His glass of sherry was empty and he had been munching on small sandwiches and could really use just a plain glass of beer.
He escaped from Milady’s clutches and escaped downstairs to where he knew he could find the kitchen and beg a pint of regular brew. He had to convince the downstairs man that he just wanted a beer and no wine or champagne.
“Gives me an awful headache,” he protested.
“Ah well, there yer are then. Blasted French water, they can take it exactly back where they came from fer me money.” The butler said to Defoe as he poured him a glass. “Frogs, can’t stand a one of them.” “Mind, don’t usally care much for the British either sir, begging your pardon, but ye do seem to be a bit different. Not quite so pompish.”
“Ah well, in truth, I am really just a common man like yerselves,” replied Defoe. “Certainly no harm in being the good, strong salt of the earth,” he added.
The butler stared at him a moment, then, “Ye don’t say?”
“Yes, it’s true,” replied Defoe, “I am from but a trades background.” He nodded his head and raised his glass in salute.
The butler had poured himself a short glass and raised it in salute back.
“I don’t mind telling ye then sir, that many of the common folk around these parts ain’t in favor of these trade agreement thing with England, we think no good’ll come of it.”
Defoe nodded. “Understood, understood.”
“It’s just them what is getting rich from the thing,” and he pointed his thumb upstairs, “but o’course it be worth me job to be heard saying anything like that, you take my meaning.”
“Absolutely,” replied Defoe, he ran an invisible zipper across his mouth. “But the average man, such as yer self, needs to be heard, needs to get his opinion out.”
The butler stared at him again. “Absolutely, Milord,” and took another sip of his ale. “So, while we be sharing tales out of school, so to speak, there are a few other things…”
Defoe sat and listened to the man speak. Although he was of course interested in what the butler was telling him; in truth, he was taking mental notes to use the remarks in his next article to be printed under a Scottish alias. He would use these very arguments, and then counter the arguments with reasons why the Union was a good idea and good for Scotland.
As a conduit for the British parliament, Defoe’s job was to convince as many Scots as possible of the advantages of the Union. The ‘people upstairs’ didn’t need much convincing; their convincing was done through their pocket books. It was the little man, the man on the street, the common man; the man capable of revolt and revolution and of tearing whole governments down given proper provocation; that was more his target.
As he sat and listened, his wheels in his mind were turning and turning with the lines of his next article.
At the end of nearly an hour of this conversation, Defoe thanked the butler and staff for their hospitality and winded his way back upstairs.
He found Mary in deep conversation with another matron. As soon as she espied him she was frowning.
“Where in the name of all that is Holy, have you been? People have been asking about you,” she hissed at him.
“Calmly darling, calmly,” he accepted another small sherry from a passing waiter. “Just doing the King’s duty.”
She looked at him blankly. “Well it’s getting time to get back to the children and my feet hurt.” She flexed her foot with the brocade shoe.
“I thought you had those made especially for this occasion my darling?” he queried lightly.
“I did,” she pouted a little. “It’s just, well, I had them made a little smaller than I should have.”
Defoe laughed to himself. Mary and her vanities; she was never, after seven children, going to fit into the same shoe size she wore at their wedding.
“Yes, dear,” he nodded, “I need to say goodbye to a few people and we can be on our way.”
She turned abruptly from him and back to the chattering women to her side.
Defoe made sure to shake hands with his host and hostess, the Earl and Lady of Marchmont, and make proper excuses for his wife and himself.
On the way out to the carriage, Defoe mused that his wife really knew nothing of what he really did here and that perhaps that was just as well.