“Taking turns, ’cause we didn’t have enough coin to hire mounts for all of us,” the younger Chenery sniggered.
“Oh, that one poor horse!” Lewrie quipped.
Guildford came and went, then the land became rural once more; at last, the turn approached for them to take the road to Aldershot, Farnham, and Fleet. And on that road, not three miles on, lay the village of Anglesgreen.
The fields and hedgerows they clattered past belonged to their neighbours, the farmhouses, rich or poor, and the laborers’ cottages on the great estates, were landmarks from long country visits since 1784, even before Sir Hugo had purchased 320 acres from the late and un-lamented Phineas Chiswick for his estate. It was where Lewrie and his late wife, Caroline, had rented 160 acres and had run up a house, new barns, and stables near her brothers, Governour and Burgess—the same farm and house that uncle Phineas Chiswick had sold out from under Lewrie following Caroline’s death, so Burgess and his bride, Theodora Trencher, would have a country seat.
The tannery loomed up, blessedly now out of business, shuttered but still slightly redolent of vile fumes when it rained. No one had done anything with it, and the workyard and spaces between buildings were now spiked with saplings and oddly tinged long grass.
Further along on the right lay the brickworks, which was still a going concern, and a source of employment. It seemed that the owners had branched out into dressed stone, as well. Roundabout sat cottages for workers, neat and pleasant.
A low stone wall ran a quarter-mile past the brickworks framing a field where cattle grazed, just 50 or so acres where the Embleton estate came close to town. And then came Anglesgreen’s lone church, the very old stone St. George’s, and its vast churchyard filled with gravestones honouring both rich and poor, bound all about by wrought iron fencing. Across the road, on their left, lay a maze of middling cottages, each with its back garden and vegetable and herb plots, with small barns, stables, or coach houses to each.
“Willam’s Run,” Hugh said with delight to spot the reedy stream that ran down the middle of the village, now stone-bridged in two places. Idle fishermen and half-clad boys cast their lines, or dove and splashed in the cool, slow-flowing water, and took time to wave at the coaches as they passed.
There was a wider road spearing South from the first bridge, off which lanes sprouted, where even more, newer cottages and one or two substantial houses sat. A lane ran the length of the stream, the site of a row of shops that had slowly grown over the years.
Then there was what was now being called the High Street, where even more shops did business; small emporiums, dry goods, tobacconist, a greengrocer for those who lived in the village itself and did not have gardens. And, just before the second bridge, there on their right was the Old Ploughman.
“We’re stopping here!” Sir Hugo shouted to his coachman. “Ale for all, hah hah!”
In the beginning, the Old Ploughman was a smoky horror, the year of its first establishment lost in the time of William the Conqueror, a public house with smoke-stained walls and ceilings, odds and ends for tables and chairs. When Lewrie had first dined or drank there, a Mr. Beakman and his daughter ran it. It was, in point of fact, the only public house in Anglesgreen where Lewrie was welcome to drink or dine. The better sorts, of which Lewrie was definitely not one, favoured the Red Swan Inn, a long walk West down the vast commons, red brick Tudor-turned early Georgian and smug in its wealth where the few who earned or owned enough to vote met to elect themselves, or their elder sons, into Parliament or local offices.
When Mr. Beakman grew too old, Lewrie’s old cabin servant and “man,” then Cox’n, and Bosun’s Mate, Will Cony, had retired from the sea minus a foot, but with a slew of prize-money, and had bought the Old Ploughman, married a former house servant at the Lewries, Maggie, fathered a slew of tow-headed boys. He’d prospered nicely, adding a barn and stables, a brew house for his excellent beers and ales, a few more rooms to let for weary travellers, and a covered side garden with a stone-flagged floor for summer diners and drinkers. A white wood plaque by the door bore a representation of the “Post Boy” flag, marking the Old Ploughman as the local mail drop.
“Oh, look!” Hugh exclaimed, looking towards the commons, “Hops! Waggons of hops! I’d wager Mister Cony’s brewing up his winter ale, even as we stand here!”
It felt so good to be back, sitting round a large table near the doors to the side garden, which were open, with a slight breeze that brought the smells of new-cut grass and the flower planters made from half-barrels. Desmond, Deavers, Yeovill, and the younger lads took a table of their own close by.
Clump-clump-clump and there was Will Cony, himself, with his wood foot, neatly dressed in breeches, red waist-coat, white shirt and neck-stock, with a publican’s blue apron atop his clothes.
“Will Cony, my good man!” Lewrie greeted him, rising to shake his hand.
“Cap’um Lewrie, my stars!” Cony chortled back. “It’s been far too long since ya came home. “And Sir Hugo, Hugh, and Mistress Lew … pardons, Dame Lewrie! And damn my eyes, if that’s Liam Desmond, Yeovill, and Michael Deavers? Welcome lads. Now, who needs an ale?”
All hands shot up, and two of Cony’s strapping sons, grown to manhood, and the dark-haired serving maid, Abigail, rushed to fill piggins and fetch them to the tables, with half-pints for Dasher and Turnbow.
“You’re lookin’ prosperous, Will,” Lewrie said after a sip.
“I’m lookin’ fat as a boar hog is how I looks, Cap’um Lewrie,” Cony said with a deep laugh. Indeed, he had put on considerable weight, his face had turned round, with a double chin, red cheeks, and his hair … it had thinned and receded, exposing a ruddy pate.
“Maggie’s fine cookin’, and your own beer, haw!” Lewrie said.
“Life’s good, sir,” Cony admitted, patting his paunch.
A moment later and Maggie Cony came bustling out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish clout, bubbling over with welcome, and looking a round match to her husband. She had to give everyone a hug, though she was more reticent with Sir Hugo, Lewrie, and Jessica. Charlie Chenery was new to her, but she gave him one, anyway.
“I’ve a lovely batch of wee sausages on the grill,” Maggie promised, “and some toast and jam’d go nice with ’em. Anyone peckish?”
“I must admit that I am,” Sir Hugo said.
Things’re lookin’ up for Liam, Lewrie thought as he took note at the next table as Desmond flirted with Abigail, and she swished her hair, laughed, and touched him on the shoulder for a second. Is he goin’ red in the face? Liam Desmond, blushing?
The ale was nice and hoppy, and very refreshing, the perfect blend of bitter and mild, and the sausages were hot and spicy; the toast was browned to perfection, and the jam was a thick apple butter, rich with cinnamon. They all spent a pleasant hour in the Old Ploughman, before it was time to coach on up to the house and get settled in.
“Horses, sir?” Will Cony said as he saw them to the doors, “this Monday market day. Yeomanry muster day, too. Hah! Harry Embleton showin’ off his uniform. Quite a fiddle he’s workin’, Sir Hugo.”
“What sort of fiddle?” Sir Hugo sniffed.
“He’ll bring ten or twelve horses down from his pastures,” Cony explained, “claim that his Yeoman Cavalry regiment needs remounts an’ replacements for ones gone lame, or worse, gets the Army t’pay him for ’em, an’ pockets th’ cash. An’ he won’t have the time o’ day for anyone lookin’ for a saddle horse, hee hee. They’ll all go for more than ten guineas. Embletons, Oakeses, Chiswicks … all the biggest landowners roundabout does it.”
“There are other dealers, certainly,” Sir Hugo said, frowning.
“Oh, aye, Sir Hugo,” Cony said, “men from Aldershot, Farnham, Milford, or Liphook. You’ll find somethin’, sure, at decent cost.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” Sir Hugo told him. “Dame Lewrie, her brother need mounts, tack, and saddles.”
“Yer estate manager, Sir Hugo,” Cony s
uggested, “Rainey? He’s a good fellow. Pops in here often, and he’s a rare judge o’ horses. Might fetch him along.”
“Well, I’m sure he is, Mister Cony,” Sir Hugo allowed, “but I do consider myself able to spot a good mount.” It was harder for Sir Hugo to deal with common people as easily as his son did, so he came across a tad sharp. “Good day, Mister Cony, and thank you for your victuals, your excellent ale, and your welcome.”
“Always happy t’please, sir,” Cony replied, all but tugging the forelock he no longer had. Lewrie shared a look with Cony on the way out to the coach, shaking hands. “It’s just his way, ya know, Will,” he told him.
“Oh, I knows, sir,” Cony replied, “He comes by often enough when he’s down from London, an’ his money’s good.”
* * *
The house staff at Dun Roman paraded themselves on the pea gravel roundabout drive as the coaches rolled up, Mr. and Mrs. Furlough, the older couple who served as butler and cook, and an host of maids and footmen on staff, as well as a few hired on for the fortnight that the house would be full. Welcomes were made, luggage and chests un-loaded and carried in to the various bedchambers. Lewrie’s retinue was led to the servants’ quarters, where beds were already made up with fresh-laundered sheets and newly aired blankets.
Sir Hugo had not brought his usual valet down, but there was a fellow who’d served him whilst at his estate for some time to do for him. “Mister Chenery,” Mr. Furlough said, “this is Richard Standish, here, will serve as your valet whilst you’re here.”
“Me?” Charlie gawped, surprised. “I’m to have a man? I’ve never had one before. Aboard ship…”
“If you’ll follow me, sir,” Standish said, waving an arm down a hall, “I’ll show you to your bedchamber, and get you settled in.”
“Well? Alright, I suppose,” Charlie said with a pleased smile and a puzzled shrug. “Lead on, then.”
At Sir Hugo’s suggestion to limit the number of people needing seats in the coaches on the way down, Jessica had left her maid, Lucy, in London, too, and was introduced to a sweet-faced slip of a girl who would tend to her needs.
Half an hour later, Lewrie and Jessica strolled out to the back garden, which was mostly a well-rolled and well-trimmed lawn, with a few oaks to lend shade. Beyond lay the truck gardens, thick with tomatoes, celery, lettuce and cabbage, radishes and mild peppers, cauliflower, broccoli and Brussels sprouts. Off to one side were small fields for potatoes, turnips, and peas and beans. Day laborers were already gathering the crops for pickling, to tide the house through a long winter, and green tops were being placed in wheelbarrows to feed to the pigs.
Farming, brr! Lewrie thought, looking forward to the day that he inherited all this with a certain trepidation. When he and Caroline had had their rented farm, she, raised on a North Caroline plantation, had been the one who knew how to run a farm, an estate, the pickling and preserving, crops and livestock, and had once joked—at least he hoped that she’d been joking—that Lewrie knew how to raise his hat, and that was about all.
He took Jessica’s hand as they strolled further along, down to the barns and stables, stout brick structures, to look over the horses.
“Ooh, Mister Deavers, they keeps rabbits!” they could hear Tom Dasher enthusing as they spotted the pens.
“Nothing better than a jugged hare,” Deavers called back.
The young lads, Dasher and Deavers, had never dealt with saddle horses, or cattle, or sheep, or pigs. They had been to the forecastle manger aboard ship, but had never seen so many chickens, turkeys, or dairy cows. There was even a large pigeon coop full of strutting, cooing, fluttering squabs! And in the pastures and paddock beyond, well!
“This’un’s Anson,” Lewrie said, showing Jessica his favourite mount, who came to the stable door with a whicker and toss of his head in recognition, and Lewrie stroked his neck and face, his ears and forelock. “Hmm, his teeth,” Lewrie noted. “Gettin’ on in years, ain’t you, old fellow. He’s pushing twenty. I might have to put him out to pasture, and let him enjoy his last years.”
“To stud?” Jessica asked, joining him in petting the horse. “I don’t know much about that, but…”
“Anson’s a gelding,” Lewrie told her, “and he was only fifteen guineas in his prime, so … he’ll graze, trot round, socialise with the other horses, and have a good, long rest.”
“You’d look for a new one at the market Monday?” she asked.
“Maybe not this year,” Lewrie decided. “We’ll see, dear.”
“Oh, I’ve come to love it here,” Jessica cooed, leaning against him. “If no one minds, I brought my sketching materials. Your father’s estate is such an inspiration to me. And the air is so fresh!”
“Well, except for the horse dung at the moment,” Lewrie japed. “Let’s walk down to the pastures.”
* * *
Later in the day, as supper was being prepared, Lewrie, Jessica, Hugh, and Charlie Chenery sat on the long and wide front gallery, with lanthorns lit as the dusk crept over the Surrey countryside. Sherry had been served, and they sipped as they regarded the vista. Sir Hugo made his wicker chair creak as he poured himself a refill.
There was a faint wind, just strong enough to sway the hanging planters. The last flocks of birds swooped and swirled in an intricate evening dance above the trees downslope before settling to their nests. Tiny lights as small as fireflies shone from houses, shops, and a few street illuminations from Anglesgreen, from tenant cottages and great houses as darkness crept over the land. Sir Hugo rose and strode out onto the front lawn to peer into the West, and grunted satisfaction that the sunset had been one tinged with red and amber, a sure sign of good weather for the morrow.
“I must say, Sir Hugo, that your estate is a most pleasant Eden,” Charles Chenery said.
“Amen to that,” Hugh agreed, “Some of the happiest days of my childhood were spent here, in Anglesgreen, the countryside.”
“You and Sewallis,” Sir Hugo harrumphed, “if it wasn’t a pack of setters, it was your wanting otters or fox kits for pets!”
“Or when father sent Charlotte a doll from South America, and a pair of big, hairy tarantulas were in the packaging!” Hugh hooted.
“She didn’t mind the spiders that much,” Lewrie reminisced, “but she wrote me and asked for a monkey!”
“See her tomorrow,” Sir Hugo said, “Governour sent a note round that they’d be home … with some company,” he hinted with a warning nod.
“Company?” Lewrie asked.
“Looking forward to seeing her, again,” Hugh said, “her and the Chiswick boys.”
“Company?” Lewrie asked again.
“It seems that Governour’s daughter, Diana, is affianced at last,” Sir Hugo told him, “He’ll be there whoever he is. And the young gentleman has brought a friend of his along. Charlotte was introduced to them when she and Diana extended their husband-hunting to Bath, last summer.”
“Charlotte may be engaged, as well?” Lewrie asked with a frown.
“It’s as may be,” Sir Hugo told him.
Oh Christ! Lewrie thought; Am I shot of her at last? Huzzah!
Far off, Lewrie could hear cow bells and belled rams leading the way to their feed, their barns. Almost like church bells, he fancied?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
After breakfast, they rode or coached over to the Chiswick lands, Sir Hugo astride his blooded hunter, fractious from not being ridden often enough, Lewrie on Anson, and Hugh, Jessica, and Charlie going by coach. Down the long, gentle slope and the fine gravelled drive to near the wooden bridge cross Willam’s Run, to a fork in the road short of the bridge, and then taking the turning onto another gravelled drive which followed the stream for half a mile before climbing up another low, rolling hill to Chiswick Hall.
The house and grounds had been much improved and made more stately since childless uncle Phineas Chiswick had died, and Governour, who had eaten the old man’s bile for ages, had inherited thousands of acres and
that mean old miser’s wealth. The house staff, much larger than Sir Hugo’s, turned out to bow and curtsy to their visitors, the horses were led off for water and oats, the coach un-harnessed, and Sir Hugo led the way inside.
“Aha, Sir Hugo, welcome!” Governour Chiswick boomed, standing by his wife, Millicent. “And Sir Alan and Hugh, aha, both home from the sea, at last! Dame Jessica, and who’s this lad?”
“My brother Charles, Mister Chiswick,” Jessica told him after a graceful curtsy, “a Midshipman aboard my husband’s last two ships.”
“Mister Chiswick, Mistress Chiswick,” Charlie said, bowing nicely. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“The younger folk are in the morning room,” Governour said with an expansive wave to show them to a first storey drawing room. “Come join them. Momentous news, hah hah!”
“Something about an engagement?” Lewrie asked on their way in.
“And a fine young fellow, haw haw!” Governour replied.
Governour Chiswick had once been panther-lean, a soldier and a hard man, serving as a Captain in a North Carolina volunteer regiment during the American Revolution, but, after evacuating to England when the war was lost, civilian living had had its way with him.
Governour, wealthy at last, was garbed as fine as a lord, but he had fattened up like a boar hog ’til he resembled the caricature character “John Bull” in the papers and one-sheet cartoons. Now, he was currently elected Magistrate, and was reputed to be a harsh fellow to the people brought before his swift sort of justice. Lewrie had once thought well of him, but over the years, after Caroline had been shot dead over in France during the Peace of Amiens, Governour had turned against him, imagining that his dear sister would still be alive were it not for Lewrie and his adulterous ways when overseas, for Lewrie’s whim to go see Paris, when it had all been Caroline’s wishes.
“Hugh!” Lewrie’s termagant daughter Charlotte cooed to her brother. Much cooler, then. “Father … dear.”
Much Ado About Lewrie Page 16