by Peter Rimmer
“My father always had a good cause in mind except his own. Frankly, I think he was running away. He said he was an abolitionist. Hated slavery. Was more of a Republican than a Monarchist despite his title. Away from this pile of ancient stone with its damp walls and leaking roof he was somebody. The English gentleman fighting a just cause. He knew the passion inspired by words that wanted to fight the good fight, someone else’s fight. Throughout history, there have been twisted people passionate about other people’s affairs. It is a wonderful thing to fight for a cause, Captain Brigandshaw, but whether the slaves would have done any better back in Africa is a matter of conjecture. Africa, I’m told, is sparsely populated. Lands of milk and honey usually overflow with people. He didn’t even die in a full-scale battle but in a skirmish in some woods. What they said, anyway. Probably died of dysentery in some small hole of a hospital. Hopefully, he killed some southern gentleman before he died to prove his point, but still I digress.
“To the point. I am bankrupt. After my father gave his life to free some slave he never met, I found myself master of Hastings Court thinking myself rich, which I most definitely was not. I had married when I was eighteen years old for the love of a lady who gave me Emily but departed this world. Her family were penniless of course but with Hastings Court as my heritage, the thought of marrying for money had never crossed my mind. Maybe if father had not run off on his crusades, he would have had time to explain our poverty and my need to trade our ancient title for money, lots and lots of money, the kind of money represented by Colonial Shipping and its great toiling fleet of ships. You see, Captain Brigandshaw, I have something you want and you have what Emily and I most need. Emily will soon recover from her love and see the larger prospects of life. I love my daughter and even though Sebastian is at seventeen twice the man Arthur is at thirty, I will still strike a trade with you. Your son and heir will have Hastings Court along with my daughter and your heirs will meld into the ancient line of Manderville. Your son will change his name to Manderville-Brigandshaw, a mouthful I know but the generations to come will likely drop the Brigandshaw. Your son’s grandchildren will be aristocrats and rich. We will have done something for both our lines. For myself, I require a fund of two hundred thousand pounds jointly controlled by our solicitors who will invest in three per cent Consols. I will live in Italy from the interest. Upon my death, the capital will revert to Arthur if he is still married to my daughter. I was never trained to work for trade. All I have to sell is Emily. If your answer is yes, we can have them married in our church towards the end of September. It is such a lovely month. My mother was married in September. Poor mother. Always frail and always second to father’s causes. I think she died of boredom. Don’t you agree, Captain Brigandshaw? Boredom is the worst affliction on earth. But again I digress.”
“Do you have debts to pay off?”
“No. But the house has not been tended to for thirty years. The furniture is sold and the landholding is down to three hundred acres, not nearly enough to support the house. But the world is changing. Wealth, I fear, is no longer in agriculture but in the new industries to the north. Your ships bring wool from the colonies and cut the price of English wool. There is ten times more profit in a shipload of Australian wool than a flock of five thousand sheep. It is the way of progress, even the price of empire.”
“How much will it cost to repair this house?”
“I have no idea.”
“You are selling me the house and land for two hundred thousand pounds, the price of twenty new sailing ships or five new steamships they are building on the Clyde?”
“Not really. I may die the day after the wedding and then you get it for nothing. A man never knows how long he will live. I am thirty-five. They say fifty is the average lifespan of an English gentleman but you may be lucky. I have always thought from Italy to visit Africa, that vast dark continent so loved by Livingstone and Speke. Out there animals are ferocious and disease is rife.”
“You won’t let me pay you an annuity of six thousand pounds a year?”
“No. The capital must be free of temptation and the vagaries of trade. Oh, and if you agree my terms I will recommend you and your eldest son to membership of the Athenaeum Club, your first step into society. Captain Brigandshaw, I can turn you into a gentleman, your ultimate achievement I rather think.”
Clouds scurried across the full moon, black clouds with white lace skirts. The wind was coming up from the southwest. In forty-eight hours Seb had gone from boy to man and each cut of the sharp bow into the rising waves took him further from home and everything he had ever known. Dreadful sadness was beginning to feel the tinge of rising excitement. The North Star was visible between the pattern of clouds and the wind was high in the square sail. The Indian Queen was a two-masted brigantine with the foremast square-rigged. They were running before the wind two miles from the French coast entering the Bay of Biscay, their first port the Canary Islands off the northwest coast of Africa in three days’ sailing. The third bell of the first watch told Seb it was one-thirty in the morning but he had no wish to find his hammock next to the crew’s quarters. He was neither passenger nor crew but something in between where the captain and crew alike were uncomfortable. Captain Brigandshaw, gunrunner and privateer, was legendary in the British marine force and to his youngest son went some of the awe. There were no words of encouragement on the Indian Queen for Sebastian Brigandshaw, only the curiosity of everyone as to why he was on board in the first place, escorted by the eldest brother without so much as a smile. All night Seb stood before the mast and searched the stars, pondering his destiny. Everyone left him alone. He could have been a ghost on one of his father’s ships.
The Pirate, as Sir Henry thought of Captain Brigandshaw, had left at ten o’clock the previous night, absorbed by the cost of getting what he wanted. Henry smiled to himself as he drank his third cup of tea on the terrace the following morning. The sun was warm, and the birds were singing. It was truly so that every man had his price and ambitious men were rarely satisfied with their achievements. Henry was never able to understand the need for more when a man had enough. He had offered to sell his daughter and birthright for six thousand a year but the alternative was destitution for both of them. An obscure baronet without his manor house was of little interest to even the likes of Brigandshaw.
“He’s gone, hasn’t he?” said Emily from the threshold of the open French doors.
“Can I pour you some tea?” Cousin Maud had put two cups on the tray.
“Tea. It’s extraordinary how Englishmen offer tea as if nothing has happened. Father, I love Seb.”
“Well, I’m afraid you won’t be seeing him for quite a long time. At the moment he’s probably approaching the coast of North Africa on a sailing ship bound for Bombay. Now, come and sit with me in the sun and your father will try to explain why being penniless in a hostile world is not the best way to go through life. Young love, Emily, is a very beautiful thing but I have sometimes wondered if it isn’t nature’s way of making us procreate without thinking of the consequences. Part of this Darwin’s theory of evolution. Nature’s driving force to sustain the species at any cost. But then nature in its earlier manifestations had not heard of money or the British class system. Nature, according to Darwin, is rather random, picking up the best of the pieces after the event and discarding the rest. In our world, my daughter, marriage is money which provides the means of looking after our future generations. Maybe even Darwin would be proud of us. It’s the ingenuity of furthering the race and the Mandervilles in particular. Emily, you must have realised the family is broke. Unless you marry money we are finished with. What I am trying to do is for your good and the good of your children. I agree Sebastian is a far nicer rogue than Arthur, but Arthur has the money. And anyway, who knows what the Sebastians will grow into when they enter a vicious world, even young Sebastian… Now, will you have that cup of tea?”
The house built by Captain Brigandshaw was three storeys hig
h including the servants’ attic with the sloping ceiling. There were five separate acres of land in a row with a house on each plot, a half-mile from the Epsom racecourse. Everyone had planted trees in the hope of hiding themselves from their neighbours to create the feeling of exclusivity. The Oaks, the name given to the house by the newly rich ship owner, had a curious drive that took a tortuous course through the five acres of oak trees that were doing their best to grow into an avenue. Unfortunately, no one had explained to the sea captain that oaks were the slowest growing tree in all of England. Only his great-great-grandchildren would reap the reward of a leafy canopy on their way to the modest front door with its prime entrance annexed on either side by box trees having, at last, made it level with the top of the front door and just below the eaves.
The morning after his meeting with Sir Henry, when Emily was crying, the tears flowing gently down her lovely face, The Captain, as he liked to refer to himself, was standing outside his front door. He was looking at his four-foot oak trees with their spindly trunks that somehow reminded him of the maze at Hampton Court when it was first planted by Henry VIII. It must have been a ridiculous sight with everyone seeing the tops of everyone else walking aimlessly in different directions. The Captain hated his oak trees.
With his riding crop rhythmically slapping his right riding boot in the manner of an agitated cat, he walked up a side path flanked by apple and pear trees, past the hothouse that was heated in winter to provide The Oaks with flowers, and then past the hen and duck run. The run was his head gardener’s one demand because it provided a liquid mixture which was poured on the hothouse plants. Then he walked to the stables where he mounted his horse, held by the junior groom. The Captain had such a curious seat, his back hollowing to the outside of his bottom which made a straight line to his shoulder blades giving the impression of a bent sack of potatoes. The picture forced the groom to place his mucky hand over his laughing mouth before the sound came out bringing forth The Captain’s wrath. When The Captain disappeared briefly behind the double-storey henhouse to reappear from the shoulders up between the avenue of oak trees, the groom prudently ran back into the stables before convulsing with mirth. Oblivious, The Captain continued on his way to have another distant gaze at Hastings Court, his future home if he could stomach the extortionate price. Never once had he ever thought of the imminent transaction as giving Arthur the house. Arthur and his bride would be given a suite of rooms in the far west wing. The rest would be his.
As he rode, his mind played between five new steamships that would make him richer by the day, or Hastings Court and the Athenaeum Club. Again, he shuddered at the repair bill to the house.
He rode away from his property across the Downs in a pensive mood until he, at last, looked up at Hastings Court in its ancient glory with the morning sun giving a warm yellow glow to the old stone with its turrets and battlements. To The Captain gazing at his future, it was really a castle, not a mere country manor house with twenty-seven rooms. The horse was still as he gazed up longingly and then his imagination took control. His ships were bringing carpets from Persia, ancient Ming China from the Middle Kingdom, furniture from Sweden and exotic silks from India.
Surprised from its reverie, the startled horse was kicked into action.
From the terrace both Emily and her father watched the galloping horse become a horse and rider and with a sinking heart, she recognised the petulant rider. The miracle had not happened. She was going to be bought.
“Life’s never easy,” her father said, gently taking her hand.
The wind had changed to the west and the Indian Queen was tacking to keep her course. On the horizon, a black squall was running towards them at sixty knots. Seb watched with fascinated horror as the crew ran down and lashed all the canvas, leaving them bare-masted to the coming wind. Captain Doyle was yelling at him from behind the great wheel that had turned the ship east to run with the squall. None of his words reached Seb who bravely smiled at the coming onslaught, his father’s words playing in his ears.
“You may be shot, young Sebastian, run through with a sword, but a valiant death from drowning, never. You were born with a caul over your face. Every ship of mine sails with a caul locked in the captain’s cabin. Maybe a mariner’s superstition but never a boat of mine foundered in a storm. Fifty pounds I’ve paid for them cauls to keep us safe. But the luckiest of all is a seaman born with a caul over his face.”
Watching fascinated, Seb judged the squall would hit them in less than five minutes. A big rope hung from the sail, coiled at his feet. Quickly and with deft fingers learnt from a sea captain father, Seb lashed himself to the mast and waited for the storm. When he looked up, Captain Doyle was smiling instead of yelling at him and Seb understood, raising his thumb in recognition. Rather than being frightened, he was more exhilarated than any other time in his life. He faced the wind, anticipating the lashing of the rain.
Arthur Brigandshaw had learnt from an early age that doing exactly what his father wanted was the easy way to go through life and as a result, he had never done a hard day’s work in his life. When Father told him to do something, Arthur moved at great speed. His second secret in life was always to look busy when anyone was watching. The third was to agree with everything anyone said. The fourth was to make a complimentary remark about clothes or appearance. But of course, all of these only applied in public or with people who could help him along his easy way. He was a calculating, congenital liar, but it worked. The thought of slapping Sebastian’s face and making an enemy but pleasing his father was a calculated risk. He neither liked nor disliked his younger brother any more than he really cared whether Emily was Emily or any other young girl. The only thing that mattered to Arthur was Arthur’s pleasures, which were many.
From the age of twenty-one, when his father gave him an independent income as the oldest son, he had spent the majority of his lying calculations in seducing women. Class never entered the equation and love was further away than the moon. His mother, who was the only one in the family to know what she had given birth to, had considered him a spoilt brat from an early age, which mattered nothing to Arthur. Love and affection were never part of his life.
When he returned home from London by train, the horse and trap having made the journey back soon after Sebastian had been bundled on board the Indian Queen, he found his father both agitated and hilariously excited.
“You will marry Emily Manderville, my son, and your new house will be Hastings Court. Sir Henry is going abroad. The fact is, I’ve bought Hastings Court and my grandchildren are going to be aristocrats.”
“Anything you say, Father. I’m very pleased for you.”
“You will call on Emily tomorrow to propose.”
“Does Emily concur, Father?”
“She said, I believe her words were, ‘why wait until September?’”
“Did she now?” said Arthur, thinking. After a while, he smiled at his father. “If the lady doesn’t wish to wait why should we gainsay her wishes?” Arthur liked to use some of his father’s words of which ‘gainsay’ was a choice favourite. By the time he came to ride his horse to Hastings Court, and after a night of deep thought, Arthur knew he would not be marrying a virgin. The wedding would take place as soon as the banns had been read in the Norman church. Arthur never took chances. They were pointless. He was a man who believed that everyone knew with near certainty the identity of their mother, but their father was another kettle of fish.
“Why don’t you marry again, Father?” asked Emily as they walked together through the woods. “You are still comparatively young. You, not me, can marry the money and live happily ever after at Hastings Court. Have a son. Pass on the title instead of Cousin George in Canada. What’s a lumberjack going to do with a baronetcy anyway, especially when it comes without money?”
“I won’t say it’s dying love for your mother. Everything fades, Em, even that strange thing they call love that no one can really describe. I have a feeling it fades
in life as well as death. I have never met anyone who stayed in love for very long. That occurs in novels, which I hope you are not reading for the only reason they are plain rubbish. They pander to a young lady’s imagination. No, it is one thing to set out to marry money, and another to succeed. Most money is difficult to prise away from its owner and fathers are dubious when they see an old widower with a white elephant like Hastings Court wooing an eligible daughter. Better a rake with money. The Captain Brigandshaws of this world are a rare breed who above all want to be recognised. And though I don’t like the man, the wife is rather charming and will help you through the worst of your life with Arthur. She may well be the mother you never had.”
They walked through the ancient oaks before he spoke again. “If any man tried to best The Captain in business, I’m certain he would fall short. You and I, you see, have not tested him. We have struck a bargain, and in any bargain there are clauses the parties don’t like. You see, if Sebastian was the eldest son with glittering prospects, would he be the man you think you love or a lazy reprobate like Arthur who will likely leave you on your own for most of your life with your children? A good, well-provided home with children can so often be better without their persistent, boorish husband. It is rarely possible to rely on other people in life to make us happy, even to make us content. The peace of life only comes from within ourselves. At sixteen you only see a week, a month, a year at most. I think to myself, now that I can see a lifetime, lifetimes are never a grand passion and anyone who says they are, are believers in fairy stories. They are the worst kind of liars as they hold out a hope that never existed, however much we wish it had. Life is hard and uncompromising and with your faith in God, you can face the truth. People, and that includes husbands, are not all bad or all good. We are all a mixture of good and evil. There will be good in Arthur that you must find as there would have been bad in Sebastian you did not want to know about. If you wish to delay the wedding until September…”