Illusions Of Change (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 6)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Good evening, Sir William! And how are you today? Has all gone well?”

  Millicent laughed delightedly at the expression crossing his face, explained that this was ‘deportment’.

  “Sounds bloody daft to me, Milly!”

  “It is, but the silly bugger’s doing me good in speaking, William. ‘How now, brown cow’ – I’ve got to practice the sounds till I get ‘em right every time. Say all the aitches and pronounce the vowels – he had to tell me what they were first! He’s worth a quid a week, William. Do you think you ought to give him a go?”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t want to, but I don’t reckon I got no choice. They came to see me today, the mayor and one of the aldermen, and said that they wanted me to join their new Board for the Infirmary and Workhouse, acos they wants a businessman or two to help with running things proper. I’m a knight and the best known man in the borough, so they says, and please would I give ‘em a ‘and. I reckon I got to. So I better learn ‘ow to talk with they sort. What’s this bloke’s name?”

  “Mr Howard, William.”

  “Right then, ask ‘im if ‘e can come of an evening.”

  For an extra pound a week Howard would have given lessons in the middle of the night.

  Two months later the Board found that it needed a gentleman to act as Clerk and Secretary and accepted Sir William’s nominee for the post. One hundred and twenty pounds a year, salaried; Howard worshipped at the Rumpages’ feet and put on a stone in weight, making up for missed meals.

  “Joseph, I have been talking to your sister, Charlotte. She tells me that mining law in England holds that mineral rights do not necessarily accrue to the landowners, that, for example, if one digs a pit on one’s own land then one has the right to pursue the seams under the property of neighbours who have no mine of their own.”

  That was irritating, and Joseph wished he had known it before he had bought so much land in out-of-the-way places.

  “Then, as soon as there are trackways within a few miles of our holdings we must open pits and bring branches of the steam lines to us. We must speak with lawyers, just to be quite certain that if we have a pit then we have rights over the whole of our property. A nuisance because it will force us to open mines before we might have wished to. There will always be a call for coal, however.”

  “Financially, Joseph, that may be a problem. To find the monies needed may not be easy. We have spent much of your savings on buying the land.”

  Another source of inconvenience; now he would have to earn more money.

  “It seems to me, Joseph, that there is room for better machinery in the coal mines. Winding gear for pitheads, so that more coal can be lifted to the surface, would be one innovation that would be much appreciated. Better water pumps and, perhaps, ventilation fans that would permit deeper working.”

  Investigation showed that the makers of pumps for the mines had concentrated on the production of more efficient and bigger steam engines, they had not attempted to refine the pumping gear itself. There was room for profitable innovation.

  Mary was rather pleased with the result of her little scheme. Joseph was now being forced into paths of rectitude; he was discovering that he needed to work, could not spend his life as a dabbling inventor. Without her kind guidance he would have been quite content to earn a thousand or two and spend the rest of each year in scientific enquiry, very interesting but unprofitable. Now he had no choice, or so he believed, and must devote himself properly to making a fortune.

  There had to be other innovations that had been overlooked in the rush of progress, each of them demanding a new machine and offering a profit.

  The mills were dirty and dusty places, the men and girls forever coughing and, more importantly, the yarns and cloths becoming soiled. Some sort of fan or something to clean the air inside the buildings, it should not be impossible, running off of an overhead belt from the engine, like the frames and looms, so not too costly in terms of power. Set the fan to blow air out of the building and it should take much of the dust and smoke with it. Mary made a rough sketch of her ideas, presented it to her husband.

  He was impressed, made a number of changes to the design, wondered just how big the fan blades would have to be. They would have to experiment, he said, building a first prototype in one of her father’s mills.

  “Brother George is rebuilding his weaving mill in part, Joseph. Perhaps we could install our first attempt there.”

  He wondered if he should not have a look at the looms, he was sure he could do something with them. Mary thought that not to be a good idea, better he should concentrate on one thing at a time.

  A running footman in undress livery delivered a pair of cards at Mount Street. There was nothing uncommon in that, it was quite normal in fact as most of the more fashionable, and richer, residents used their own staff rather than the somewhat erratic postal system for their invitations. Powdered wigs and knee-breeches would have looked silly on the streets and the footmen dressed sensibly for London’s filthy thoroughfares, were normally unidentifiable, but this puffing, middle-aged man still wore the fleur-de-lys buttons on his old uniform and transpired to come from Carlton House.

  Tom showed the gilt and engraved card to Frances.

  “Dinner, the pair of us. A card for Robert as well, will presumably be for the same occasion. What is the form for our acceptance?”

  “An immediate letter, ideally to reach Carlton House today. Robert’s card should be sent to him at the bank, with a note saying that our response is already in transmission, so that he will know to send his before close of business.”

  Frances wrote a better hand than Tom, a correctly Italianate script, and she produced the formal letter for him, on the best paper, thick and stiff and perfectly white. He signed it, using the same pen at her order.

  “What of James, my dear? Will he have received a card, do you think?”

  “He should have, having already been twice in HM’s company. Shall I write him a note or will you prefer to visit him?”

  Her tone made it clear that a visit was the better course. Tom looked out of the window, saw it was not raining and chose to walk, it was hardly worth ordering the carriage into the press of London traffic if it could be avoided.

  “You will wish as well, Thomas, to call on Scott. Court Dress, and you have only a week to obtain it.”

  He rang for the butler, asked him to bring Brown to him.

  “Ah, yes, my lord. The matter of Court Dress, I believe he is aware of the need.”

  Brown appeared, informed Tom that he had all in hand, had in fact already sent a note to Scott; the tailor would be expecting him. Hoby would be instructed to provide the appropriate footwear; having Tom’s lasts already he would not need a visit.

  James had received his card, had replied correctly.

  “Have you Court Dress, sir? It is necessary, as no doubt you are aware.”

  “My suit for Almacks will no longer do and I am ordered to refurbish from new. Brown tells me I am two inches greater on the waist, and he has drawn a veil over the hinder parts! I presume I will bump into Robert when I am with Scott.”

  James shook his head decidedly.

  “No, sir, not a very likely event. Schultz, possibly Nugee, but not Scott, sir. Very much the tailor of choice for the military and the more staid gentlemen, sir.”

  “Not to speak of the elderly, my son!”

  Obediently, James made no mention of age.

  “Is Lady Andrews to accompany you, sir?”

  “She will.”

  “In that case Robert’s wife must be invited too – it would be ill-mannered in the extreme to do otherwise. I am glad, she is not treated well by Society, my lord.”

  “I agree, and that will not change until Robert inherits or they bring out their girls with purses bursting with gold.”

  James frowned, gave the appearance of deep thought. Tom remained silent, awaiting the outcome of this rare event with some interest. />
  “The King must be awake to what is happening, so he, or his close advisers, must have it in mind to ameliorate the position of the Jews, of the bankers at least, sir. The guest list will feature in the Court pages in the newssheets, will be disseminated over the whole country within the month. Every gentleman and squire will know, their wives will make certain of that, and where the Court leads, no few will wish to follow.”

  The five left for Carlton House as a party but in three carriages – female Court Dress still demanded the hoop, the typical dress having a circumference of some five yards at ground level. Fashionable enthusiasts wore even wider hoops, but neither of the Andrews ladies belonged to that set. The result nonetheless was that any carriage had space for no more than one female and her squire, and he was to sit tight-pressed in the corner. James grinned very smugly, stretched out in isolation.

  The sweepers had been busy outside Carlton House and the ladies were able to enter with their hems unstained, apparently a modern improvement that had not always been the case.

  They were greeted by the ubiquitous Colonel Georgie Hanger, not entirely to their pleasure; there had been some hopes that the Royal favourite might not have survived the transition from Regency to Monarchy, but he still flourished, firmly attached to the Royal coat-tails.

  “Lord and Lady Andrews; Mr and Mrs Andrews; Mr James Andrews,” he hissed to the major-domo who in turn informed the footman who announced their entry.

  They joined the twenty or so other guests and then stood waiting, drinks to hand, for the Fountainhead of Britannic Honour to show himself.

  A last-minute group of four and then the party were all present.

  “His Majesty will enter from the right and then I shall lead you forward to make your bows as a family.”

  Hanger smiled his delight that they should be so favoured; they simpered back.

  The King appeared, walking stiffly, less rotund than was his wont, due to a new and very tight corset. He was bright red in the face and creaked with each step. He was in very good mood, however, convinced that he had been restored to the masculine beauty of his youth.

  “We are very pleased to greet you, Lord Andrews, and you, ma’am! Do we see that you were a military man, my lord?”

  “The scar, Your Majesty? Taken as a very young man, little more than a boy in fact, in the American Revolution, at sea. Not, I am afraid, in the strictest sense, military, Your Majesty, I had gone to sea in a letter of marque.”

  It was better to let the poor chap think he had run away to sea as an adventurous boy – he would find that so much easier to accept than any strict truth.

  The King was immediately envious – he had always dreamt of martial glory, had dearly wished to be a hero.

  “And your son, who we have met already, to our pleasure, is another in your mould, my lord!”

  Georgie Hanger whispered in his ear, nodding towards Robert.

  “And you as well, Mr Andrews, duelling in the States we are told! A family of true Britons!”

  He found a few words for the ladies, made a point of asking after Miriam’s children.

  “Two sets of twins, we are told, ma’am. We have met your boys, of course, handsome lads! No doubt the girls will grow up equally fine!”

  They moved on, allowed others to bask in the Royal smile.

  Ladies who would normally have cut Miriam took pains to speak to her, to ask whether she and her husband would be gracing the Season, hoping that the answer would be in the negative. It was a beginning.

  The dinner marked another stage in their acceptance, Robert and Miriam finding themselves placed in close proximity to the Archbishop of Canterbury and his wife, both smiling in delight at the treat the new King had arranged for them.

  Manners-Sutton was a nobody, succeeded to the primacy of the Church of England mostly because he was of proper birth, had a son who was a coming man in the Party, and was resolute in his avoidance of controversy. He was safe, would never cause offence by his opinions because he had none, and could be relied upon to do exactly as he was told. He was becoming old, unfortunately, and his likely successors all were active in their pursuit of Christianity, of whatever particular enthusiasm they espoused; the politicians were not pleased, the Church of England did not exist to indulge in missionary causes. For the while, however, the incumbent would do as he perceived to be the desire of his masters on Earth, Heaven being well able to look after itself, and if that meant he must smile at bankers and their Jewish wives then he would smirk with the best.

  The Archbishop offered grace and gave his blessings with an even hand to all present, bowing especially enthusiastically to His Majesty who still had to be polite to the Church as he was negotiating the exact details of the coronation ceremony, which was yet to take place.

  A soup came and the Archbishop complimented its quality, assuring Miriam that it contained not a trace of pork, this being his definition of tact. She smiled her thanks and offered a comment on the weather, a topic well within his mental compass and which enabled him to strike up a conversation, noted by all at table.

  Godby Fletcher was at the end of his tolerance.

  He had been three months in the employ of Mr Brakespeare and in that time had, he believed, earned his wages. He had shot the youth pointed out to him as his first task, blowing him off his horse and then finishing him on the ground. He had pocketed his fifty sovereigns bonus, content that he had given his money’s worth. In the next two months he had stood at the boss man’s shoulder when he had made his collections, letting others point at him, whisper about him, happy in fact to be known as deadly.

  Mr Brakespeare had been very pleased with his new bodyguard, so much so that he hinted he would be quite pleased to place their relationship on a more intimate footing, an enterprise that did not appeal at all to Godby. Subtlety was not part of Godby’s upbringing and he had no concept of making a graceful, tactful refusal; he was, besides, quite convinced that Brakespeare’s proclivities would be known to all and attributed to him as well.

  They went out early in the morning, Godby on the bench-seat of the gig, sat close beside Mr Brakespeare, who seemed to be taking up more than his share of the small space available.

  “I shall be making a rather large collection this morning, Godby, so you must be especially alert. I would wish you to stay by the gig, watching for company, everything close to hand.”

  ‘Everything’ was the double-barrelled scatter gun, loaded with heavy slugs and tucked away in the back of the gig, and the pepperbox percussion pistol that Godby now carried, four barrels in a cylinder mounted on a central spindle, having to be turned by hand to bring the cap on each under the hammer, capable of four aimed rounds in as many seconds. Godby wore a thin leather glove on his left hand as the cylinder grew very hot by the fourth shot.

  Brakespeare drew up outside a private house on the outskirts of Wolverhampton, a large, modern villa, eight or so bedrooms, a well-off merchant, perhaps a bank manager or a successful doctor’s house and surgery.

  He was expected, the door opening before he could knock. Two minutes and he was out again, carrying a leather hold-all, a heavy bag that needed both hands.

  “Most satisfactory, Godby! Nothing untoward in the street, I trust?”

  “Empty, sir. One milk cart doing its rounds, that’s all, and I watched him, dairyman and ‘is boy running in and out, churns up in the cart, no space for anybody to hide away.”

  Brakespeare had no doubts of Godby’s competence, pushed the bag away under the seat, took up the reins.

  “Payment made in sovereigns and notes, Godby, some two thousands in gold. Coins cannot be traced, notes on banks sometimes can be and it is wiser to move them in a different town where one is unknown. Mr - well, no need to mention his name, even to you - the gentleman I have just visited, is the owner of a house of accommodation, one that caters for those who prefer the company of young men. He made the error of giving shelter to a schoolboy runaway, without discovering who he was o
r where he had run from; he found himself having to pay out some very large sums to constables and magistrates and other interested parties, a most expensive scandal to suppress, and was forced to come to me for assistance, all of this some six months ago, and he has only now been able to make his repayments, at a handsome rate!”

  There was the better part of five miles of countryside to traverse to reach Brakespeare’s house, a mile of it thick woodland. They reached a secluded area, not another traveller in sight, and Godby decided he had a solution to his problems. He drew the pepperbox and placed it to Brakespeare’s head, gripping the reins in his left hand as he did so. He nudged Brakespeare off balance and shot him through the ear as he fell. He knotted the reins, jumped down and grabbed the corpse’s feet, dragging him under the trees and stuffing him out of sight under a patch of brambles. He quickly ran through the pockets of his frockcoat, took out a pocketbook and thin purse, more to delay identification than to rob him. The body would be found within a few hours probably, but it would take much longer to identify him and he needed only a day to get completely clear.

  Three hours to Birmingham, put the gig up in the yard of a small inn, paying in advance for the day and never returning, then the mail coach to London; out on the Great North Road by stage, buy a horse in Barnet, or maybe Watford, into Kettering the day after tomorrow. He would be home and kissing Patey’s cheek before night fell, and with all of the money a man could ask for as well. They would be off to America, as he had promised, just as soon as he had paid his little visit to Finedon.

  The cottage at Burton was occupied by strangers.

  Not strictly true, he vaguely remembered the woman, girl as she was then, from the year before, daughter to one of the cottagers on the other side of the village.

  “Patience Fletcher? She be long gone from ‘ere, mate. You’m Godby, ‘er brother, ain’t you? She were laundry maid up at the Latimers, she were, but she give that up a twelvemonth back, near as. She went off, so she did, and the old place was standing empty and us got it when us got wed, soon after. Dunno where she went, but she weren’t never no one I talked to anyways. She was used to be friends wi’ Sue, down the lane.”