The Sparks Fly Upward by Diana Norman Page A

abolition as he was but he continued to address them as if they, as well as the noble lords, needed persuasion.
    After a while, Makepeace reached into the rack where she kept a loaded pistol—on quiet nights highwaymen sometimes abandoned their usual haunt in Kensington to attack the homegoers of Chelsea. She laid it meaningfully across her knee but it didn’t stop him.
    The Watch was out in the village. As Sanders brought the carriage to a halt outside Deedes’s house, bobbing lanterns came up to it.
    â€˜We’re after fugitives from Lunnon, Mr Deedes. Evenin’ Mrs Hedley, Miss Hedley, young mistress.’
    â€˜What fugitives, Pocock?’
    â€˜Don’t rightly know, ma’am. Two of ’em. Wanted bad, seems. There’s the government’s own constables here to gee us up.’
    Pocock was pushed aside and another lantern was held up at the carriage interior while its owner inspected their faces. Deedes reached for the door handle to let himself out. ‘As you can see, fellow, there are no fugitives in here. Are these men dangerous? Will the ladies be safe to go on? Had I not better accompany them home?’
    â€˜No need,’ Makepeace said quickly.
    The government lantern bearer swung his light once more from Mr Deedes and Makepeace and decided the man was more in need of protection. ‘They’ll be all right. I see their driver’s armed. Where d’you live, ma’am?’
    â€˜Reach House. Along the river.’
    â€˜We’ll follow you down, then. Reckon they’ll make for the Thames but they ain’t violent, not so’s I’ve heard.’
    â€˜What have they done?’
    â€˜Sedition,’ the man said, shortly. He shouted at Sanders: ‘Drive on, but go slow.’ They heard his saddle creak as he climbed onto his horse.
    The carriage turned away and the village smells of horse manure, thatch and the Bun Shop, where Mrs Hand was already mixing her dough, were overwhelmed by that of the Thames, sweeter here than farther down and always better at high tide than any other time. Jenny let down her window and sniffed joyfully at the bitter, misty air. ‘Oh, Ma, waltzes and fugitives in one night. This is life.’
    Makepeace was reflective. ‘Sedition,’ she said.
    Philippa asked, ‘Do you think it’s John Beasley, Ma?’
    â€˜I do. Where else does he run when he’s in trouble?’
    Jenny turned. ‘Mr Beasley? I remember him. Oh dear, will he bring the law on us?’
    â€˜Probably,’ Makepeace said, bitterly. ‘I’ll give him sedition.’
    John Beasley, printer, publisher, anarchist and thorn in the flesh of both Tory and Whig governments, had been a frequent visitor to her house and its mine in the days when Makepeace and Andra had lived in the northeast but his friendship with Makepeace went back to the time of her first marriage—a choppy relationship that had nevertheless withstood the years.
    â€˜He wanted Sally and me to raise the school against Miss Hard-castle, ’ Jenny recollected, with awe. ‘He said she was teaching us old wives’ tales and should be ducked for garbling history.’
    â€˜He would,’ Makepeace said.
    â€˜It may not be him,’ said Philippa.
    But, more than likely, it was; else why should a fugitive from London make for the Thames at Chelsea when he had all the city’s docks to get away in? And Beasley was a publisher of Tom Paine’s The Rights of Man , which Prime Minister Pitt, alarmed that England might go the way of France, had recently caused to be proclaimed seditious. Already, at Beasley’s request, Makepeace had allowed her smugglers to take a group of his friends to France—all of them political offenders escaping imprisonment . . .
    And will do again , Philippa thought, watching Makepeace’s shape square its shoulders in the darkness. Does she know how dangerous it is?
    Not only was the law coming