Saint or Scoundrel 1

 July 5, 1862

I have been putting off telling this story for fifteen years. First it was because I was too busy, and then because I just didn’t know how to begin. But, now I have begun, so we shall see if I can manage to make up for not fulfilling my promise to Father.

I can well remember the day, in February, 1845,when he called us three daughters into the parlour, and solemnly told us to sit down as he said he had something to tell us, and something to show us. He had a box with him which appeared to be full of letters.

We were all living in Disley at that time. We owned a provisions shop at Fountain Square, mainly fruits and vegetables, but we did sell other staples. Our shop was conveniently close to the Ram’s Head Public House, which was also the posting house, post office and magistrate’s court for our area at that time. Now that the trains have come to Disley, it isn’t so important any more. But in those days, it was a very busy stop, with coaches going to London, and Sheffield and Marple and Stockport and on to Manchester all stopping there each day, at various times. Father, never one to miss a potential customer, used to take a tray of freshly baked pies and apples out to stand near the coaches when they stopped. You might wonder why I am going into all this detail about something that happened so long ago, but you have to understand how it was that Father got involved with Mr. Edward Gibbon Wakefield - which is what this book is to be about.

But I’m getting ahead of my story. When Father called us into the parlour that evening, sitting in front of the roaring fire, he told us that he was worried for his health. He had been having severe chest pains, and he could only think that it foretold his possible near death. We wouldn’t hear of it, and tried to convince him that he was fit and hardy and would last for many more years. He was 69, and although he worked hard, he was generally in good health. Mother had died in 1839, from a bad heart, and I think he had been expecting his end to come from the day that she died onwards.

“I want you girls to promise me something,” he said, very seriously. “When I am dead, I want you to write to a man. His name is Mr. Edward Gibbon Wakefield and I have been corresponding with him since 1826. These are his letters, for I have kept them all. He is now a very important man, and we have become good friends by letter. I would hate to think that he might consider that I didn’t sufficiently value our correspondence, and that was why I stopped writing to him.”

“Who is this man, Father, and why is he so important to you?” asked Ann, the eldest.

“You mean that the name means nothing to you?” he said with great surprise.

“No,” said both my sisters, but I had a vague notion that I had heard it before. I am better lettered than my sisters, and was proud of my ability to read and write. We all went to the local primary school at St. Mary’s in Disley, but I went on after that to the secondary school at Hayfield and have my certificate.

“He was infamous - when I first knew him, but he is famous in the more usual use of the word now. He is the man who abducted Ellen Turner of Shrigley Hall back in 1826. He enticed her to marry him at Gretna Green, and then took her to Calais, where the authorities found them. She returned with her uncle, but they couldn't apprehend him because what Wakefield had done was not against the law in France. But he returned of his own free will and turned himself in. Because Shrigley is in our district, he was brought to Disley for the magistrate’s court. Tuesday the 23rd of May it was, more than two months after he abducted the girl. And it was when he was here, that my friendship with him started.”

“He abducted a young girl, and you befriended him, Father?” asked Mary. “I cannot believe that you knew that he was a villain or if you did, I can only think you loathed him and told him so.”

“It wasn’t like that at all. I had formed an opinion of the man, same as everyone else. Anyone who by devious means managed to steal away a young girl of fifteen from her boarding school in Liverpool was to me the greatest of villains. When we heard he had returned and was here for the magistrates to rule whether there was a case to answer, many of us went to stand outside the magistrate’s office when we knew he was coming out, planning to boo and rile at him. I had my pie and apples still with me from selling outside the Ram’s Head and it had entered my mind that an apple or two (as they were pretty wrinkled by now anyway and not good sellers) might come to good purpose by being aimed at the rascal’s head.”

“But you become friends with him. I don’t see how...” started Ann.

“If you would bide your time and let me finish, daughter, then you would know. I haven’t the time for patience with you. I need to tell you my story, so best be quiet and let me get on with it.”

“Sorry Father.”

“Well, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I had no plans to befriend the man. I had only negative thoughts about him, but when he came out of the Ram’s Head where the magistrates’ court was held, handcuffed he was, he looked around, and several of the others started to boo. He is a fairly short man, only 5’ 6” or so, but something about him commanded attention. He has a massive head, a fair complexion, longish hair, and brilliant blue eyes. I caught his eye, and he looked so vulnerable and as if he were pleading for me to understand him, and I just couldn’t join with the others. I felt sorry for him. Then the crowd started to rush forward and things were being thrown. He lost his balance, and fell just in front of me. I lent over and gave him a hand up. He looked straight into my eyes. “Thank you kind sir,” he said. Then his jailors roughly pulled him away and onto the carriage and he was driven off. The crowd started to move off too, and I was about to pick up my spilled pies from the ground when I noticed something shiny had fallen near them. Picking it up, I found a golden ring, just plain with no stones, but initials inside - E.G.W. I knew immediately that it had to belong to him - to Edward Gibbon Wakefield.”

“What did you do with the ring? Was it valuable?”

“Didn’t I tell you to be quiet and let me get on? Well, I hid it under the pies till I was well clear of the others, and I decided that my first impression of him was that he was a good man. I decided to return the ring to him.”

“How did you know where to send it?”

“It was common knowledge that the result of the magistrates’ court was that he was to stand trial at Lancaster, and he was not to be allowed bail. So I knew to send it to him at Lancaster Castle Prison.”

“And was he pleased that you returned it, Father?”

“Yes, both surprised at my honesty and pleased. Here is the note that he sent me after he got the ring back.”

He opened the box and we all stared open-mouthed at the collection of fat letters that filled the box. There must have been fifty or more. He took the one at the very front of the box, and then closed the lid and put the box back on the floor by his side. He slowly opened it.

It says,

June 5, 1826

Dear Mr. Forbes,

How very kind of you to return the ring to me. Indeed, although it is not over valuable, it has a very great significance for me. It was the ring I placed on Ellen’s finger when we wed at Gretna Green. Later, in Calais, we went shopping and found a more suitable ring for her which fit her properly, so I put this no longer necessary token in my pocket. I expect you will be surprised to hear that I should be nostalgic over my crime - and I am very sorry for my offence, and know that if I could have my time again, I would not have acted as I did. However, that is all over and done with. But during the weeks that I lived with Ellen, I grew to know her and have a very strong feeling for her. I know that she will never truly be my wife now, but I would count it as an act of kindness if you, my friend, could let me know how she is getting on. I hope someday that she will be able to come to forgive me. If you can find out how she is, and can send me a letter telling of it, I will count it as a most kind act. I have enclosed sufficient funds to see that your time and efforts will be repaid.

Faithfully yours,

Edward Gibbon Wakefield

“And was there money with the note, Father?” I asked.

“A five pound note there was. More money that I had ever seen in one place before. My first thought was that it was counterfeit - as I knew him to be a rogue. But then I again remembered the look he gave me, and how I felt mesmerized by it. I knew that even if he hadn’t paid me a penny, and even if the note did turn out to be counterfeit, I knew that I was going to do as he asked.”

“And he must have continued to write back, because I presume, Father, that all those letters are from him. How did he get to be important? Surely his character must have told against him.”

“Well, no, in fact, he served in prison, but his experience became an awakening of conscience for him, and it was because of the prisoners who were being transported that he did what he did and became what he is.”

“Can we read the letters, Father?” asked Ann.

“Not now, Ann. But when I am gone, and when you have done as I asked you and written to him that I am dead, then the letters will be available for you to read. Then you will know his whole story. I am tired now. Too tired to go into it all, but when the time comes, I am hoping you will remember your promise.”

We all agreed, and then we went to bed. Father never spoke of him again, and when we tried to get information out of him, he just said we would be able to find out all when the time came.

So as we knew it would, his time did come and he died. It was not a month from the time of him showing us the letters, and although we all remembered our promise, and planned to go through the letters and write to this man - suddenly the impact of having to run the shop, we three girls on our own - with us only 22, 20 and 18 - we didn’t have the time or inclination to do anything more about the letters. I’m ashamed that we failed him in this. When the time came and we finally did remember, it was Christmas, and a letter came addressed to Father. We left it unopened on the dresser for a week or so - and then one day it was gone. I asked Ann whether she had seen it, and she said she had written “no longer at this address” on the envelope and had it returned to sender.

“But why did you do that? You know Father wanted us to write to him.”

“But none of us wanted to write. Why didn’t you open the letter and take it upon yourself to write to him, if you feel so strongly about it?”

But I had no answer for that.

The letters stayed in tact and untouched when we cleared out the house. First, Ann married James Simister and as he was a shopkeeper in Disley as we were, she was still close by, but we didn’t see much of her. James was a widower with a 10 year old daughter, Mary, and before long Ann was pregnant with a child of her own.

Mary and I kept the shop going as best we could for another two years, and then she too got married. She married John Johnson, who works on his uncle’s farm just outside Disley.

After she left, there was no way I could keep the shop on my own, so I sold it and with the money got myself more education and training in Manchester. I managed to get a job as an assistant post mistress here in Altrincham, and that is where I am now. But since I was the one with the most education and ability, my sisters said that I was to have the letters - and they said that I should at least read them and find out what I could about this man who was so important to Father.

Earlier this year I was reminded of it yet again, as I read in the paper of the death of Mr. Edward Gibbon Wakefield in New Zealand. I wondered if it could be the same man, but again, I did nothing more about it. I just had no time to be dealing with all those old letters, and it was too late then to write to the man himself, which is what we should have done. I was also embarrassed that had I written before, I would have had to tell him how we let our father down in his wish for us to inform Mr. Wakefield of his death.

I’ve had the box stuck under my bed for the three years that I have been living here with John and Ann Balshaw. Recently I was struck down with influenza so bad that I couldn’t work if I had wanted to - and now Mr. Balshaw says I must recover fully before he has me back to work. So to fill in my time, I took out the box, and when I had read the letters, I felt that there was only one course left open to me - to justify Father’s belief in this man and his friendship with him - I must write a book and set out to tell others who Mr. Edward Gibbon Wakefield really was.