The house of Sir Joshua Forest’lay the other end of the close from the Shockleys. It was a big, rectangular brick building, partly faced with grey stone. In front of it lay a gravel drive and a lawn. At one side, behind a low wall, was a path leading to the coach house and stables behind. The main floor was raised; before the front door was a set of handsome curving steps.
There were several splendid coaches on the gravel when he arrived; on the door of the largest he noticed the elaborate arms of the Forest family.
The door was opened by a powdered footman, and a moment later Adam was walking across the polished black and white marble floor of the hall. On the walls above the handsome staircase that rose up three sides of the hall were portraits of the Forest family. On a pedestal in one corner stood a marble bust of Sir George. Over the doors that led off the hall there were classical pediments with plaster mouldings above them. From the ceiling high above, on a twenty foot rope, hung a splendid chandelier with crystal glass that Sir George had acquired in France.
On his left, a second footman opened the tall white panelled door of the drawing-room, and he was ushered in.
They were all men in the room. Two or three of the local landowners; a clergyman he did not know, but clearly a wealthy one; two strangers, presumably from London; and of course, his host.
“Welcome, Captain Shockley. We are honoured you are come to join us.”
He fitted very well the description his father had given him. But there was one thing about Sir Joshua, as he advanced in his exquisite coat of crimson silk and lace, that Jonathan Shockley had not troubled to convey.
He was perfect.
He had learned the art in Italy and France during a grand tour that had lasted four years. He had learned it thoroughly.
There were many things that a man might study on the Grand Tour. He might read a little history. He might get a smattering of French, German and Italian. He might, if he had the introductions, meet the rulers and important men in half a dozen countries who could later be useful to him in a public career. He might, as the present Lord Pembroke had done, make a detailed study of horse breeding and riding at those incredible continental schools of equitation where the horses performed with all the precision of a modern ballet dancer, and bring back horses, illustrations and a handbook he had himself composed, to Wilton.
Or – this was rare, but it was what Sir Joshua Forest had done – he might study manners.
For in Italy and France, Forest had acquired that most elusive of eighteenth century aristocratic arts – the perfect manner. His manner was so artificial, so polished, that it actually put you at ease. He was as perfect as a china figure that can be turned admiringly this way and that. Even when he moved across the room, his body was held in such perfect posture that one hardly thought he had moved at all. His face, though it smiled amiably, or sometimes frowned, returned quickly and easily to perfect serenity. The physical body, beautifully dressed, infinitely polite even to the lower orders of humanity on the rare occasions when they were noticed, had become almost a marionette. This was the perfect manner of those who dwelt apart in the aristocratic world. If a man like Captain Shockley met them, they could – if they chose – be most agreeable. No man can quarrel with a work of art.
Sir Joshua Forest was a minor work of art.
He introduced Adam to his fellow guests: the men from London were both Members of Parliament. The clergyman – a large, powerfully built man who, he soon understood, held half a dozen rich livings – said several kind words about his valour in the American campaign; and the company in general did him the honour to speak to him as though they might have known him all their lives. In short, they practised the art, known then as condescension – which meant not at all what is meant by the word today, but rather the art of letting a man know, through perfect politeness, that you do not seek to patronise him.
“We shall plague you with questions, Captain,” his host said easily.
It was not long before they moved from the drawing-room with its elegantly designed plaster ceiling to a somewhat smaller room.
“Since we are a small company of friends, gentlemen,” Forest announced to them, “we shall dine in the green room.”
It was a small room looking over the gardens at the back of the house. The walls were covered with green damask. A narrow table had been set in down the middle, under a beautiful plaster carving in the ceiling representing a swan, one of the family crests. On the long wall was a fine picture representing the death of Wolfe at Quebec, and on the shorter wall, over a Chippendale table, hung another similar heroic picture of Clive of Plassey. It was a handsome, pleasant, masculine room.
On the table was laid a magnificent dinner service which, being a man of fashion, Forest had ordered from China, every piece proudly bearing his coat of arms. Splendid, plain silver and crystal glasses completed the picture.
As soon as the gentlemen sat, the talk began. It was Forest’s pride that at his dinners the talk should be good, and he gently guided the conversation with an invisible hand.
The dinner was stately.
First came the fish: a huge pike, fried sole, and trout. It was accompanied by a white German wine.
The talk was easy: of Sarum and county matters. Forest asked him how the place had changed in his absence, which was not much; both the gentlemen from London seemed to know Mr Harris and his son. Lord Pembroke was now in London and Lord Herbert his son now en route from Munich to Vienna on his Grand Tour. It was clear at once that all the men present knew these noble figures personally, but they put him so much at his ease that he felt almost as if he did too.
The clergyman, Adam discovered, had the living of Avonsford amongst his benefices: but he had only once visited the place.
“It’s a small place,” he explained pleasantly. “I have a young curate who does what work there is there, I dare say, very well.”
They spoke of local Members of Parliament, of how effectively in past years Sir Samuel Fludyer had promoted the otherwise lacklustre cloth trade of Chippenham.
“The borough told him he should stand for them in Parliament so long as he promoted their cloth, and by God he ran round like a draper for years,” laughed one of the country gentlemen.
“From what I hear,” Adam observed, “Salisbury needs a Member to do very much the same. They need a man prepared to appear at court in the best Salisbury cloth and ready to say where he got it.”
He was pleased that this was well received.
“It’s just what I have said,” Sir Joshua concurred. “Our merchants here still have good cloth to sell, but they fail to press their case strongly.”
Next came a forequarter of lamb, and good claret.
The talk turned to the Government and the war.
“The folly of poor North is,” one of the London men remarked, “that half our cavalry – and God knows he’s reduced the regulars to a pitiful state – are stationed with Ward at Bury, miles from anywhere. If the rumour’s true that the French fleet is coming, they can land where they please, unopposed.”
“And our navy’s so much under strength,” a country gentleman remarked, “that a privateer from America, like this cursed John Paul Jones, can act the pirate off the coast of Ireland, like he did last year, quite unopposed.”
“Our greatest security,” the clergyman announced, “is that the French do not know how unprepared we are – and could never believe the folly of our ministers.”
The company then all wanted to hear his views on America. He told them frankly, relating all he knew about the kind of men who opposed them. He told them about the Hillier boy, his belief in Tom Paine’s pamphlet and in his natural rights. They were spellbound. When he had done, one of the country gentlemen said bleakly:
“I do not like one word of what you have told us, Captain Shockley. I oppose utterly the political notions you say these people have. But I’m vastly obliged to you because for the first time in five years I think I understand what this matt
er of America is truly about.” There were murmurs of assent. “I think now that our cause is lost,” he concluded.
“And yet,” Forest said, “here’s the trouble. And it’s what the king fears. If we grant such rights of self-government to America, and such radical notions are seen to hold sway there, why, Ireland will want to follow her, and the West Indies. We can’t have that.”
Now the boiled chicken arrived. Also a pig’s face, tongue and veal roasted with truffles. There were peas and beans for vegetables, and more wine. The conversation passed naturally to political arguments at home. They discussed Burke the statesman and philosopher, who sympathised with the Americans but defended the English Constitution just as it was.
“Burke’s right,” Forest remarked, “that our strength comes not from a set of rights we claim overnight, but from the deep pattern of our history and institutions. That’s what makes a nation great.”
“Very good, Joshua,” cried the younger of the MPs, “it’s even given us Lord North!” And the whole company laughed.
It was generally agreed however, that the ancient system of British laws and government could hardly be bettered.
“Consider our laws,” the clergyman said. “Who here has read Blackstone’s Commentaries?”
These huge volumes had appeared ten years before. They showed, beyond a doubt, that the common laws and privileges of the English came from ancient Saxon times – also that they could hardly be improved upon.
Two MPs both made faces which suggested that they might be familiar with the great work, but preferred not to be questioned too closely, but since, as it happened, Adam had perused it during his long and tedious garrison duty before the American war he answered calmly:
“I have. Though I’d have preferred it if Blackstone had allowed for some improvements to be made.”
“There,” Forest said in delight. “Captain Shockley has you.” And giving Adam a smile with a new warmth in it he announced, “Captain Shockley is a man of learning.”
They discussed other matters. Wilkes, that persistent trouble-maker in the Commons, had suggested a bill to reform the parliamentary representation and abolish some of the pocket boroughs like Old Sarum with their handful of electors in order to give more votes to the developing cities and the middle classes.
The company denounced it as infamous, but when Forest asked Shockley what he thought, Adam paused before replying.
Personally, he thought it reasonable, but he had no wish to offend his fellow guests; so he contented himself with saying:
“A little reform early may be wiser than none until it is too late.”
This seemed to satisfy the party, and the conversation moved on.
But for the first time he became aware that in some indefinable way he was being tested, and he remembered his father’s word of caution to him before he came. He wondered what was coming next.
Not another question, it turned out, but the next course: pigeons and asparagus, teal, woodcock, a pair of whistling plovers, and more red wine.
The conversation turned to lighter subjects: to Mr Gibbon’s new book on the fall of the Roman Empire, Mr Sheridan’s new play, a fine painting by Gainsborough; and although Shockley realised that Forest’s hand was gently guiding them for some, no doubt carefully calculated, purpose of his own, he could not help admiring the art with which it was done.
Though he had not stepped into the fashionable world, Adam was glad to find that on most matters he could hold his own. But even in this genial banter, his instinct told him that Forest was noting carefully everything he said.
Obviously Sir Joshua was satisfied, for suddenly he declared:
“I think Captain Shockley would be interested in a curiosity that was recently discovered,” and he left the table for a few minutes to return with a small piece of parchment which he passed round. “This was found in a box at Avonsford Manor just before we left the place,” he explained. “Who can tell me what it is?”
It was a single drawing. It was hard to guess the date, but it could hardly have been less than two centuries old.
It depicted a circular maze – not one in which a man would get lost, but one in which he would follow a winding path symmetrically arranged in four sectors that would lead him tediously back and forth until he finally reached the centre. Under it was the legend:
MAZE AT AVONSFORD
“And I found the place,” Forest said. “I’m sure of it: in a circle of yew trees on a hill above the manor. I could even see faint traces of marks upon the ground which seemed to correspond with this plan. What is it, Captain Shockley?”
Adam had to confess he had no idea.
“I believe ’tis one of those formal arrangements they cared for so much in the time of Queen Elizabeth,” one of the party suggested. “Usually they were made with hedges.”
“’Tis what I supposed,” Forest agreed.
But it was the clergyman, glancing carelessly at the parchment, who shook his head.
“No sir. I know something of antiquities and I can tell you it is far older than that. This is a pagan design, sir, from before Christian or even Roman times. It’s as Celtic as Stonehenge.” And he spoke with such finality that no one could doubt this was the history of the miz-maze. That a medieval knight had made his lonely pilgrimage upon it, none of that distinguished company ever knew.
Now came a lobster. A further choice of wine.
The wine was very good. Adam was not in the least fuddled, but he felt warm and relaxed. Each course, he realised, had brought a new topic of conversation, yet Forest had turned the subject so neatly one never noticed the change. He gazed at the lobster before him. How was it they were now discussing agriculture? He could not remember.
“The time for the small farmer is nearly over, I’m afraid,” Forest was saying. “All my tenants are on short leases now and I’ve had Acts of Parliament to enclose three thousand acres in the north of the county. But I’m not sure I shall do it even so. Some say I shouldn’t.”
Shockley knew that in the cheese and dairy country to the north there had been a deal of enclosing of land. A landlord had to apply for an Act of Parliament to take over common land in this way, but this permission was easily got. Some protested that poor farmers were being driven off the land, yet could not deny that the newly enclosed areas were usually more efficient.
“What is your opinion, Captain Shockley?” Forest asked.
It was a trap. Adam had drunk a quantity of wine, but he saw it clearly enough.
“I think the change is inevitable,” he replied. And remembering a long and informative conversation he had had recently about the subject with Benjamin Mason he added: “There’s another consideration you did not mention. Many small farmers earn the extra money they need to survive by encouraging their wives and daughters to spin. But there is a new invention coming into use – the mechanical spinning jenny. It’s appearing in this county already. Once that’s in general use, there’ll be no need for the spinsters and I think that will tip the balance in these parts. When the small farmers can’t survive, then they won’t require the common land at all and the objections to enclosure won’t exist. I regret it,” he admitted, “because I’ll be heartily sorry to see the passing of a way of life I knew as a child. But it will happen.” He paused for a moment before adding: “As to your question – enclose now or not – then I say every man must answer to his conscience. If you hurt a man by doing so, compensate him fairly.”
He stopped. Why was he so dissatisfied with his answer, every word of which he believed and knew to be true? He frowned.
But the effect upon the table was dramatic. Every eye was turned upon him in admiration. Finally Forest spoke.
“That’s the most damned sensible speech, sir, I ever heard in my life.”
And then Adam knew why he despised himself for what he had said, true as it was. It was because it was a politician’s speech. He had told them exactly what they wanted to hear. If Forest chose to rack rent o
r dispossess, he could do so, armed with such advice, secure in the knowledge that he had only his conscience to answer to.
It seemed to him that a sort of relief descended on the table. If he was being tested, then the examination was over.
He raised the question of sheep as well, and recommended the introduction of the Sussex breed to replace the failed new Wiltshire animals. This, too, seemed to meet with approval.
Now came apricot tarts, gooseberry tarts; custards; also a trifle and, for those with a more savoury tooth, stewed mushrooms. And more wine.
“Do you care to hunt, Captain?” the clergyman asked.
“Not at present,” Adam confessed.
“Hunting the fox is the best sport in the world,” the clergyman said pleasantly. “Lord Arundel has a fine pack of hounds – we call it the South and West Wiltshire – not twenty miles from here. Perhaps you’d care to join us in the new season.”
The tarts were followed by dessert – a melon, oranges, almonds and raisins.
Decanters of port appeared on the table.
A mood of satisfaction descended upon the company, contentedly aware that they had done the duty of every gentleman in England and eaten all that it was physically possible to consume with dignity.
At the second glass of port it became clear that Forest and the clergyman had the clearest heads, but Adam was keeping pace with them.
“I recently had a long conversation with a Wesleyan,” he remarked to the clergyman. “What do you think of them?”
“They are enthusiasts,” the younger MP interrupted, “like all reformers. The line between an enthusiast and a fanatic is too thin to see.”
But to Adam’s surprise, the hunting clergyman with many benefices was tolerant.
“To tell the truth, Captain Shockley,” he replied candidly, “I think better of them than they do of me. They say we live too easy in the Church and preach too little. ’Tis often true. They say we have no fire. I don’t deny it.” He sipped his port thoughtfully. “Wesley, you know, is an honest man: a fine one. If he can reform the existing church – if he adds salt to our meat – let him do so. I care less for his followers, though.” A brief expression of distaste flitted across his large, fleshy face. “They complain that the Church of England is become a social institution. So it is. And ’tis very well. They want to break with us – Wesley doesn’t – and there I oppose them. For I believe in the institutions of society. They are conducive to morality and to order, and,” he smiled mischievously, “with such comfortable fellows as we presiding, are greatly inclined to tolerance – which few reformers are.”
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