Chapter Five - Sixty Miles As a Crow Flies

Presteigne by Joseph Murray Ince

The edge of summer arrived, and the bell in St Andrew's church tower greeted the day a little earlier now. The first song was the sparrows' and then the rhymes of children playing in doorways. It was the morning of Warden's Wake, otherwise known as the Midsummer Fair, and on the twentieth of June, it was a timely prelude to the solstice. As far back as Charlotte could remember, she celebrated the day. Often with her siblings, ribbons streaming behind them, arm in arm, revelling up the hill path to the old castle site that became the popular pleasure park and fairgrounds called the Warden. This year was different, however. Charlotte had other plans.

The view from the Warden was virtually endless. The haunted remains of Stapleton Castle and the elaborate gardens of Boultibook were all within eye's reach, but they would soon fade into the bustle of the day. With an extra satchel of rag bandages, salves and powders, Henry P. Pyefinch would surely be at the fair, for whether for prize money or not, the rustic sport of bare-handed fighting always sparked attention. Such "milling" could bring enough cuts, broken ribs and bloody noses to keep him busy all day. A servant or possibly a nursemaid tended to little Joseph and Matilda, as it seems they were living with him at the time. Women, whether married or single, mistress or lover, had practically no rights to their children, and it was not unusual for a father of high standing to take the children and raise them as he saw fit. Only out of kindness or possibly heartache turned to weakness would Henry P. consider asking Charlotte's feelings in such a matter. And indeed, it is likely that he did. Despite the continual maze of baffling circumstances, he seemed to welcome having children with Charlotte. I am sure he could not help but admire her, for although he was three times her age, she was always a bit more daring than he.

While men placed their bets under the shade of oaks and chestnuts, women in their holiday best meandered in three conversations, calling out to strands of children latched hand in hand, weaving through the crowd in their own form of merriment. Strolling minstrels, fortune tellers, conjurers, jugglers, clowns and dancing dogs were all to be seen. Everywhere, young people beamed as bright as their ribbons, hoping a favoured someone would return the glint in their eyes. There were peddlers and hawkers selling tendrils of flowers, gingerbread and cherries, oranges and nuts. Entertainment stalls gushed with stories and ale while hundreds sang and danced long into the night. With the townsfolk's attention captured so well, this would be a perfect time for Charlotte to slip away. Next, we find her heading to Swansea, and it seems she has eloped.

The new man in Charlotte's life was Henry Ince, the son of surgeon Henry Robert Ince and my third great-grandfather. Twenty-eight years of age and a lieutenant in the Royal Berkshire Militia, I am sure he stood overly handsome in his madder red coatee lined with blue. Was theirs a relationship brewing in secret? Who caught whose eye first? Did this younger Henry offer Charlotte what Henry Pateshall Pyefinch did not, marriage? Or had Charlotte's attention been drawn to Henry Ince all the while? Although it appears to be a whirlwind courtship, not more than two months after the loss of her newly born son, Charlotte needed no introduction when it came to Henry Ince. The Ince's were a part of Presteigne life and in contact with Henry P. Pyefinch. Though too young to notice when Henry Ince first left town to enlist in Reading, she likely knew each time he returned. She would see Henry Ince accompanying his father around town and at events, running errands and passing by on his pony trap, all a familiar sight since Charlotte was a little girl. She often spotted Mr. Ince passing by with a walking stick in one hand, his leather bag in the other, sometimes in horse and cart, and always in a tailcoat of fine fabric with his cravat perfectly tied. Sometimes Henry and his brother Joseph, who like Charlotte, was just a child of six or seven, would hurry past, waving fishing poles in the air, making their way to the Lugg where the trout was always so plentiful. The excitement in their voices left her wishing she could follow after them, and she would stand watching, letting her imagination go where her vision stopped, telling herself that one day she really would. But it was when she caught sight of Mrs. Ince that Charlotte wished the most. Mrs. Ince was perfection, a gentlewoman. Her dresses were edged with elaborate trims, always with flounces and frills upon her sleeves. In a single glimpse, Charlotte had pictured a life she could only live in her dreams. One where London dressmakers knew just how to keep you lovely with the latest styles and colours, down to the feather in one's hat, and she had imagined it quite right.

While there is no way of knowing exactly how things came about, I find myself piecing together what could have happened. At the time, newspapers throughout Britain were bestrewed with elopements, all in varying fashion. There were fainting run-away brides, panic-stricken fathers, lengthy treks to Gretna Green, quick jaunts to nearby parishes, chancers hoping to secure a fortune, and wealthy ladies risking much to run away with everyday labourers. Frequently joined by female friends to avoid the reproof of being a woman travelling solo or, worse yet, unchaperoned with a sweetheart, they set off on foot or by horseback, in steamboats, carts, and carriages - their stories brimming with tragedy, some humorous, some endearing, and all colourfully garnished. Charlotte would hear these things and, in all likelihood, cheer on the determined unions. My thoughts are that a woman friend accompanied her, too, even if just for part of the venture, for young Charlotte would not travel alone. That was just not how it was done then, even for Charlotte's unbridled way of thinking.

In my mind, this woman would be Elinor Morgan, the widow of Charlotte's brother Alexander. Reflecting on their marriage, Elinor comes across a bit unconventional in her mindset. Elinor would be free to venture and, as a fellow traveller and confidante, would welcome a distraction in her widowhood. I wonder if Henry Ince joined them from the start. If not, was he already in Swansea? Perhaps they met up along the way? Humorously, my imagination runs on - if Elinor did accompany Charlotte, who then escorted Elinor on her return? Suddenly the clandestine flight takes on more family members, such as Charlotte's unmarried brother Samuel Vaughan and even her mother, Ann Roe. Without a doubt, she would be eager to see her daughter finally settled. Or could it be that Charlotte did compromise for love, and she and Henry did what many spellbound couples dreamed of doing – scampering off in a flash without a chance of being seen, masquerading as lovers already married?

Mail coach early 1800s

Whichsoever the circumstance, the journey to the seaside town of Swansea would be a challenge. There was no simple way to get from the midlands to the southern coast of Wales. Roads were difficult and filled with mountains. Waterways were sometimes an alternative, but travellers still had to rely on coaches or horse-pulled wagons for part of the trip. Private stagecoaches were reasonably priced but often crowded and filthy. A wealthy person could consider travelling in style by chaise and four but certainly not in Charlotte's case, and it is doubtful that Henry Ince could afford to hire one. Most likely, Charlotte travelled by mail coach. With a speed of seven to ten miles per hour and not required to stop and pay tolls, it would be the fastest option despite post stops along the way. It was also potentially the safest, having an armed guard on board equipped with pistols and blunderbuss, though, considering the frequency of highway robberies, there was always that risk. Mail coaches carried four inside passengers and continued through the night, always with the right of way. Travelling outside the coach would lower the fare, but that becomes an entirely different story. Up to seven passengers or more would sit alongside and behind the driver, holding on for dear life in all sorts of weather and terrain. With no way of strapping oneself on, you would dare not take a nap.

For now, Charlotte rested her chin on her hand, gazing out the carriage window with thoughts as overgrown as thistles clutching the roadside. Waves of shadows moved quickly overhead, and swirls of brown dust trailed closely behind them. She imagined Henry Ince's brother Joseph painting in the meadows. How she enjoyed watching him echoing the tints and hues captured beneath a passing cloud. She longed to paint the bracken fields herself if she had the colours. As the summer twilight began to wander, all the colours and sounds began to fade within the constant clip-clop of the horses' hooves. She pictured her children Joseph and Matilda, silently wondering when she would see them next. Henry P. Pyefinch was a good father, and she would always be their mother; that would not change. Still, her heart quivered, and Charlotte felt a steady tug in two directions, leaving her feeling more hollower than she was used to, yet here she was, employing a freedom that comes with a change of scenery. One she knew she needed badly.

It was a bright night, one with the moon still whole and gloriously lighting the way. Any minute the guard would sound the post-horn, signalling the opening of the next tollgate. They would be overnighting at an inn and were eager to catch the coach to Swansea in the morning. Many miles of winding roads from home, Charlotte and Henry Ince would soon be sixty miles as the crow flies, awaiting the minimum fifteen-day temporary residency for marriage outside their parish by license.

    

At the Warden, Presteigne