The Vice Of Virtue (A Poor Man At The Gate Series Book 10)

by Andrew Wareham

  Lord Star knew that steam was all in the coming years and wished to invest heavily to the benefit of his family’s new enterprise in beverages.

  “Railway lines will enable our cocoa powder and lemonades and ginger beer in stone flagons and bottles to be sold across the whole country, Robert. From a small, but not unprofitable, enterprise in Liverpool we may grow across the nation. The transport of coal will become more important also – the pits nearest to our mills are already having to work deeper seams and it will be soon be the case that we will wish to bring coal miles across country from shallower workings. I believe that the railways are essential to Stars.”

  “But, the railways kill men! We have seen one prominent gentlemen destroyed and there will be many more. Boilers will burst; engines will derail; whole trains will no doubt collide for meeting on the same track in different directions!”

  There was silence for a few seconds before Joseph gently shook his head.

  “Men die every day, Robert. Blood is part of the price of progress. If you do not wish your hands to be stained then perhaps you might consider stepping back from working involvement in the firms.”

  “We need another voice for moderation in the Lords, brother,” James offered. “As well, the Agricultural Interest would benefit from your more active involvement. The riots in Kent suggest that much is wrong in our fields and that a lead must be given.”

  Robert caught Sir Iain’s eye, saw the gentle shake of his head.

  “I cannot set myself against the whole of the family. That is not our way. How do you propose to organise our enterprise, gentlemen?”

  Sir Matthew took the floor, proposed a Board of Directors to meet very frequently, two or three times a month at least – Joseph, Mr Fraser, himself and two or three others of the most senior managers.

  “These to make policy and important decisions and exercise oversight, gentlemen. I would become directly in charge of steam manufacturing; Mr Fraser to continue in control of all of the Iron Works and coal mines; Joseph to run all engineering and design work. All of us to make written reports to the new Board.”

  There had been much planning overnight, Robert realised, and he had become the outsider.

  “So be it, gentlemen. Place my shares into some sort of legal vehicle, if you would be so good. The wording is to be such that whilst they are in Trust during my lifetime my son and heir will have the opportunity to reassert his control on my death, if he wishes.”

  Robert should be good for another forty years they estimated; the next generation could look after its own problems. They assented to his condition.

  “One other favour, if you would be so good. I would beg that Sir Iain or his nominee might be a member of the Board. Financial acumen will be increasingly valuable, I believe. That agreed, gentlemen, I can see that I have no further function in this gathering. I beg you will excuse me.”

  A few miles away Mr Jeremy Tonks returned to his home in the hills; he drove the gig into the yard behind the house and wandered to the side to inspect the progress of the builders who were adding a wing to turn the big old farmhouse into a genteel residence. He noticed that the horse was tired from the journey up hill and walked back to the stables to confer with the groom.

  “Would a carriage and pair be better, do you think?”

  “Aye, sir. The work be too taxing for the one, sir. Beg pardon, sir, but I thinks as ‘ow you’re waited for inside, sir.”

  The groom – Tonks could never remember his name – had shown himself reliable and was probably trying to do his job. Tonks chose not to be offended and walked indoors.

  The single manservant opened the door to him and begged his pardon for telling him that the housekeeper wished to speak with him.

  “Send her to me.”

  He could faintly hear wailing upstairs, his son demanding the wet-nurse, he presumed, so all should be well there.

  “Begging your pardon, sir…”

  “Speak up, Mrs Baker! What is it?”

  “It’s Mrs Tonks, sir…”

  “Is she unwell?”

  “Maybe, sir, but, she ain’t in the ‘ouse nowhere, sir, not since mid-morning.”

  Enquiry had disclosed that she had changed into country walking clothes and had gone out unaccompanied, which she sometimes did. When she had not returned after an hour her maid had looked about in her dressing room, had found a small bag missing together with a selection of other clothing.

  “She were going to go shopping in town, so she ‘ad said, sir, and I know she ‘ad put ten pounds together in her purse on her dressing table. It ain’t there, sir.”

  “Run away, has she? Not very far, I assume, walking will be slow in the hills. Send a message down to the mine for the two horses there to go out and scour the moorland. Our groom can go on the tracks leading south.”

  “Carrier’s cart comes through the village every Tuesday morning as is, sir. She’d ‘ave been just right to pick him up, then she could take a common stage in any direction. Six hours she been gone, sir.”

  Well planned, Tonks thought. She could have reached Manchester or any of a dozen other places already. Damned nuisance, what should he do? He sat to think, sent the housekeeper for a pot of tea.

  “Send the groom to the village, to ask if she was seen to take the carrier.”

  An hour and her flight was confirmed.

  “Nothing to be done, Mrs Baker. Do we know of any of her acquaintance she might have fled to?”

  Mrs Baker knew of no one. Tonks walked across to the Big House – he felt that it was incumbent upon him to inform her father of the girl’s untoward behaviour.

  “Very strange, Mr Tonks! I cannot understand it – though her mother did the very same just ten years ago. I do not know where she went, but perhaps Mrs Tonks did and has gone to join her.”

  It was a very satisfactory solution and Tonks returned to his own house for his dinner. Seven years disappeared and he could obtain a presumption of death and be free of her; for the meanwhile he still had the mine, and there was his son upstairs as well and he no longer had to fear an outbreak of lunacy.

  “All’s well that ends well, Mrs Baker!”

  # # #

  Here’s a short excerpt from Book Eleven, Virtue’s Reward

  Lord Frederick Masters lay in the flickering lantern light, a pool of blood slowly spreading around and underneath him despite the compresses of an anxious would-be medical man. Captain Hood stared at the scene, wondering if perhaps his task had been made easier for him. The young fool had to disappear from this place one way or another, and without creating a further uproar - he had already made it seem that the British government was behind the Belgian uprising.

  "How much is he hurt? Is he dying?"

  Seemingly a dozen voices answered at once; Captain Hood was assailed by a clamour of apology and anxiety. He rapidly gathered that it was not their fault.

  He brushed aside the excuses - he did not care who was to blame - it was night and mistakes happened in the darkness. How badly was the young gentleman injured?

  They did not know but the doctor was certainly coming; he had been called immediately, was with the main party not more than five minutes down the road. He was an old man, but should be here any minute now...

  A pair of lanterns bobbing towards them promised to be the man himself. For the while Hood thought they should set themselves into some sort of defensive order.

  "There may be cavalry on us very soon. Have you reloaded?"

  The anxious self-appointed militiamen had not thought of that, set about the process, clumsily in the half-light.

  "Please, gentlemen! Do not bring the lanterns quite so close to your powder charges!"

  They apologised again; they might not have been expert in military matters, but they were the very souls of courtesy.

  More men came trickling up the road to discover what was happening - it was boring standing around in the middle of the night with nothing to do. Revolutions were supposed to be e
xciting affairs.

  "There are Dutch dragoons at the farm by the river. There will be more here by first light. Who is in command?"

  They had no officers, as such, but Gaston had worn the blue with the Emperor for many years, was their local expert in military matters.

  A middle-aged farmer stood forward, said that he had been a light infantryman for ten years and, although it was some fifteen years ago, he thought he still remembered how to deal with cavalrymen.

  "Excellent, sir! I am sure you will wish to make your dispositions."

  He seemed efficient, putting men into cover on either side of the road, in positions that offered a safe retreat uphill into rocky brushland where horses would be unable to more than walk very slowly.

  "There are more than a hundred muskets where the road narrows at the bend, M'sieu. They will not pass further south without cannon and a full battalion of foot."

  Captain Hood nodded his approval.

  "What of the English milord?"

  The doctor stirred himself off his knees, slowly and stiffly - he was certainly not a young man and was of portly build.

  "An arm which will heal - it may not even be broken, just a tearing wound through the flesh. The bulk of the blood comes from the head."

  Hood breathed more easily - head-wounds bled freely, even a minor laceration spewing out the claret.

  "It is not a good wound, sir."

  Hood winced - he had evidently been too sanguine.

  "The ball has torn across the upper face, sir. Very close to the eyes. Too close, I much suspect. He will be very fortunate to see ever again from the left; for the right, I do not know. Perhaps."

  "He will be scarred then?"

  "Much, on the left. The cheek bone as well has been hurt - how much, I cannot tell in the darkness. He may well snuffle as he breathes, may be open-mouthed for the rest of his poor life. I do not know about the nose."

  "He must be taken to a place of safety, where he can receive continuing care. I do not know where would be best, sir?"

  There was a debate among the more senior men present.

  "France is in turmoil, sir. There is no gain to taking the poor young man to Paris. Brussels is equally ineligible. A fast run to the coast, sir, and then to London would be my advice."

  Hood shook his head; London was not a good idea.

  "Calais by all means, sir. Can we obtain a fast coach and four, even six horses?"

  For money anything was available; for gold coinage particularly, there was no limit.

  Dawn saw them well south and west of the border, a pair of outriders ahead of them to organise change of horses in advance. A third, intelligent young man was riding directly to Calais with instructions to charter a steamship if one was possibly available and then to locate a medical man to accompany the party for a few days.

  "Edinburgh, the destination, if you can find a man who will go there."

  There was an agreement among the educated - the hospitals in Edinburgh were among the best in Europe, renowned as such. They were also well distant from the Foreign Office, Captain Hood reflected; the politicians and officials of London rarely acknowledged the existence of the natives as far removed from civilisation as Watford. Edinburgh was as much foreign as Timbuctoo to them.

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