The Sparks Fly Upward by Diana Norman Page B

down heavily against dissent but the savagery of the Terror had fuelled the ordinary Englishman’s old antagonism against France. The very word ‘reform’ now suggested nasty, violent and, above all, foreign revolution so that, ironically, those who mouthed it were having their homes burned down while magistrates stood by and watched.
    Only two nights ago a mob had broken the windows of a house in Cheyne Walk that belonged to a certain Mr Scott, writer of mild pamphlets advocating universal suffrage. Watching from the safety of their gatehouse, the women had listened to the crack of glass and the howls of ‘No Popery’ from the attackers.
    â€˜What’s Popery got to do with it?’ Jenny had asked, bewildered.
    â€˜I think they’re unaware the Revolution abolished it,’ Philippa told her.
    Compared with some riots, that one had been restrained, the rioters having been dispersed by the cold more quickly than by the Watch. The Scott family had been frightened, no more. But if it were known that one of Mr Pitt’s despised ‘Jacobins’ was taking refuge in Makepeace’s house . . .
    Why does it happen to her? Philippa wondered at a woman who’d been born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. She certainly didn’t seek it, merely waded unseeingly into it. Her original problem in Boston, which had led to all the rest, had only occurred because she’d dragged Philippa’s father from the harbor whence American rioters had thrown him for being English and, therefore, a representative of their oppressors.
    That act of humanity had cost her a home and a country and gained her a husband, none of which had been looked for, as had none of the other predicaments into which she had become entangled and, eventually, triumphed over.
    It occurred to Philippa, belatedly, that these things happened because her mother was a victim, not of fate, but of her own character. Another woman might have lacked the courage and capability to fish Sir Philip Dapifer out of Boston Harbor, might not have survived the mental and economic devastation of his later death, might not have had the business acumen to exploit the luck which had subsequently provided her with a piece of ground containing coal. Another woman would not have resorted to using Devonian smugglers to ferry abroad escaping Americans for whom she was sorry, nor would another woman have found those same smugglers so congenial that she joined them in their enterprise.
    It’s her breadth of friendship, Philippa decided. Makepeace was blind to class and liked or disliked people according to their character. Middle-class ladies were careful to restrict their acquaintances to people of their own status and outlook; they would shun someone as gauche and incendiary as John Beasley, refusing to recognize his innate kindness and loyalty. The fact that, so far, they didn’t also shun Makepeace was because she was rich and now accepted by a society above their own, among the headstrong, titled families of England where another eccentric more or less passed unnoticed.
    But Ma’s not eccentric , Philippa thought, she’s just . . . wider than anyone else.
    And here we go again. It would not occur to her to be cautious, either on her own behalf, or mine, or Jenny’s. If the hunted man out there in the cold is John Beasley, she will take him in. She may take him in even if it isn’t. What would Stephen say?
    There was no censure in any of this; Philippa’s own shoulders had become as square as her mother’s. Uncle John Beasley’s right to publish a democratic opinion not only went without saying, it didn’t even need deliberation. But it was a nuisance that it might get them all hanged.
    Makepeace reached up and opened the flap in the carriage front that allowed communication with the driver. ‘How many horsemen behind us, Sanders?’
    â€˜Four.’ Sanders was keeping his voice low.