The Pain Of Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 4)

by Andrew Wareham

  “I am given to understand that Mr White leads the services in his new chapel, my lord. I would expect him to continue to do so when in America.”

  Quillerson’s tone was very dry, disapproving – he had been a member of the Established Church for nearly a quarter of a century but his Romish youth still had little tolerance for self-appointed priests.

  “Better there than here, I suspect!”

  Quillerson smiled at that, a point that had not occurred to him, a beneficial side-effect of emigration.

  Verity gave Tom her news that evening, sat in her drawing room after dinner, dogs about her, watching helplessly as he wept.

  “It is, I presume, the will of the Lord, Thomas, or so I tell myself.” She made a great effort to maintain a calm, practical manner, to plan ahead as if dying were no more than another duty to be properly performed. “There will be a number of practical considerations, and we must take some thought to them. Robert’s wedding, for example, would be better brought forward a few weeks. Was it to take place in June or July then no doubt I could attend and all might still remain unaware of any problem – for there is, I think, slight need to advertise our grief to all and sundry! Charlotte, on the other hand, may wait for a full six months of mourning with no great inconvenience to her or to Captain Star – he would wish to establish himself in his ship-building first, in any case.”

  “What of James, my dear?”

  “He is to go to India, as we have arranged, and will have set sail well before anything might come to his attention. A letter after the event will be the best possible thing for him, better far than an extended furlough spent here, waiting on my convenience!”

  Tom was forced to agree – the young man could, and should, spend his time in some other way than anxiously watching his mother deteriorate and die.

  “Joseph, then, my dear, should remain in Wigan until telling him becomes unavoidable?”

  “Just so, Thomas, and no word to Charlotte or any of the staff. I shall tell Miss Robinson, because she would notice in any case, she is an intelligent young lady and as my secretary, would soon become alerted by the changes in the pattern of my behaviour as I do less and rest more. You also, Thomas, must continue about your daily round – you intend to spend a week or so in Wales, at the Rhondda, and then to go to see the new yard in Liverpool. Do so, your life cannot end and the family’s interests must continue to be served.”

  “But…”

  “You must, Thomas – we shall, no doubt, meet again, but for the next twenty or thirty years you are obliged to continue in this existence, and you will not do so as a recluse or in overt, rather vulgar display of unending grief! You will do yourself and the children no good at all by neglecting the business and everyday life, my lord, and I am afraid that I should regard your bankruptcy as a rather poor memorial! I might add that I would expect you to make arrangements for female company after a decent time has passed – whether it be wife or, shall we say, another sort of lady, I will leave to your judgement.”

  Tom left for Wales later in the week, descending upon his iron works in bleak mood, discovering a number of quite minor inefficiencies which reduced him to cold, terrifying rage. He left behind him a group of managers determined to work every hour of every day in their pursuit of perfection. Lord Frederick Masters, not the most perceptive of men, who had met him and accompanied him for a day of his visit, wondered if he might perhaps have met reverses on the Stock Exchange – something must have soured his normal equable mood.

  Captain Matthew Star joined him in Liverpool to be introduced to the shipyard and to Alec Fraser. Tom made a great effort to control himself, aware that he had been less than fair to the Welsh managers and not wishing to cause offence to his son-in-law to be. They gravely inspected the mass of ironwork sat on the slip – even a very small ship looked vast when out of water.

  “She is very broad in the beam, Mr Fraser,” Matthew commented.

  “The paddle-wheels exaggerate her width, Captain Star, the boxes covering them add an extra sixteen feet in appearance, but she is designed for shallow water exclusively, to work in the harbour and the river, so I looked at the design for the navy’s bomb-ketches, also inshore craft and of much the same size, and pencilled in roughly the same hull dimensions.”

  “Sensible, sir, yet I am a little concerned that she will be very slow to answer her rudder and will, nonetheless, be working in busy, narrow waters.”

  Fraser showed triumphant.

  “There is a separate drive to each wheel, Captain Star! If all works as it ought, and as I hope it may, then it will be possible, say, to back one wheel, whilst putting low power forwards on the other, thus to spin her on her own axis.”

  Matthew translated his words into adequately naval terminology, having to invent some that would sound appropriate – the correct language was important, after all!

  “One would have to allow for the drag of the tow, whether it be a ship or a barge… but, yes, I can see that in theory it might do very well.”

  “Captain Star will act as master for the first weeks, Mr Fraser, discovering how she behaves and how she should be sailed, and he will wish to observe the building process initially and then take an active role when he has developed his ideas.”

  Fraser was part relieved, part indignant to be pushed out of sole control of the yard.

  “You will understand of course, Mr Fraser, that you will remain as engineer and consultant, but that you are also needed at Roberts and in the New Works, as well as offering advice and assistance to Mr Joseph. You are an able man, sir, but no man can do the work of three for more than a very short while. Your wife-to-be will not thank me for working you into your grave.”

  Tom’s face crumpled as he made the casual, unthought reference. He covered as well as he could with a sneeze into his pocket handkerchief, missed seeing the raised eyebrows and questioning looks of the younger men, and the minute headshakes as each denied knowledge. Both were intelligent, neither could believe that all was well with his lordship, neither was willing to take the lead in making any enquiry.

  “When do you launch her, Mr Fraser?”

  “Three weeks, more or less, Captain Star.”

  “And her name, sir?”

  Fraser was at a loss – he had not remembered that all ships had names and that they were regarded as being of significance in the community at large.

  “I had thought of her as ‘Tugging Ship Number One’, but that seems a clumsy name, now that I consider it, Captain Star.”

  “Call her ‘Lady Verity’, if you will be so good, Mr Fraser.”

  “Yes, my lord!”

  Matthew Star glanced again at Tom’s face, and wondered, silently. He would observe all and say very little for the next few weeks.

  “Will you attend the launch, my lord?”

  “I would wish to, Captain Star – should we make an occasion of it, do you think? Are we sufficiently sure that the event will be successful, Mr Fraser?”

  Fraser thought for a few moments – his natural self-belief was such that it had not occurred to him that a ship to his design could experience problems on entering the water.

  “Aye, well, my lord, if she should sink then there will be no disguising the fact, and if we launch her on the sly, surreptitiously, you might say, then it will be to suggest that we had doubts, which, of course, we certainly have not!”

  “Mayor and Corporation, all dignitaries, band from a local regiment, cold collation, wine by the bucketful, businessmen and their wives from all of the iron and steel firms, your family of course, Matthew. I will inform Clapperley’s young man of our intention, leave him to arrange it with you, Mr Fraser. You will need to check the tides, I presume, so that all can be done at a convenient time on the day selected.”

  Fraser nodded, overwhelmed and relieved that he did not have to organise the affair himself, knowing that he would not have had the faintest idea how to do it.

  “I will consult the tide-tables, Mr Fraser – a
naval concern, I believe!”

  “Thank you, Captain Star – I am no seaman, I am afraid!”

  “What of the barges, Mr Fraser?”

  “They can be put into the water at any time, Captain Star – I was waiting, in fact, for the tugging ship to be ready to take them up the river to their berth. They will be used on the canal between Liverpool and Manchester. It is a fraction wider than most and will take them conveniently with just two horses to draw them and carrying some three times as much as the normal narrow boat.”

  “Horses, Mr Fraser? Could not our next launch be of a small steamboat to take them, possibly two or three in line astern? There would be little need to manoeuvre in a canal so a single wheel, astern I presume, could suffice do you think?”

  Tom was forgotten, the younger men starting a vigorous discussion of the possibility, retiring to Fraser’s shed and his drawing board. He left quietly, made his way through the yard to the slip, staring again at the new ship. He buttonholed the yard foreman, drew him to one side.

  “How much coal will she carry?”

  “Forty tons, my lord, burning, Mr Fraser expects about two tons to an hour’s steaming, the exact amount depending on whether she must use coke or if good steam-coal is to hand.”

  “And how many of these tugging boats would find work in the harbour, do you think?”

  “We think twelve could be occupied for every daylight hour just now, my lord, and the number of ships making port is low at the moment, due to the downturn in trade.”

  “Three hundred tons of steam coals a day, at the moment, doubling every ten years, possibly quicker. That is the better part of one hundred thousand tons a year from the start…”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but the engines themselves will be better made over time, will be more efficient.”

  “They will, too, sir, but we will need best steam coal by the tens of thousands of tons each week before we are done – a fleet of colliers will make a deal of sense. Better than building coking ovens and using local coal, do you not think?”

  The foreman actually did so think, but it would have been a far braver man in his position who disagreed with any lord, let alone the Iron Master himself.

  “Mr Fraser, Captain Star, it occurs to me that steam coal, best Welsh, ideally, will be needed in the thousands of tons per annum. Were we to build our own colliers, sailing ships I would imagine, but iron hulled, robust, sturdy vessels to work the Irish Sea, then we would have an advantage over other, later competitors in the field. Captain Star’s naval experience would be used to its fullest running the line, designing the colliers, overseeing our own dock and coaling berths, and I believe that we might find ourselves in a very profitable line of business.”

  Both men considered a comment on the general lines of walking and running, neither could quite bring himself to open his mouth before the opportunity was lost, their enthusiastic agreement assumed.

  “I will leave it to you, Captain Star, to locate the berths and stockyard we will require – a deep water location, obviously, belonging, ideally, to a bankrupt merchant. Mr Fraser, you will wish, amongst your other duties, to consider how best to handle coal by the thousands of tons. I imagine that the colliers will discharge to shore and steamships will fill their bunkers from the stockpile – it would not, at first thought, make a lot of sense to keep the colliers hanging about in port, waiting to offload directly onto the steamers.”

  “Yes, my lord. It occurs to me, my lord, that the locomotive steam crane that Mr Joseph is designing could be used to our great advantage in this undertaking.”

  “Then bring him into the task, Mr Fraser, from the beginning. I shall return for the launch and shall look forward to inspecting the first fruits of your planning at that time.”

  Tom retired at that point, left Matthew and Fraser staring aghast at each other, Matthew having second thoughts about the desirability of entering into a career in business.

  “Three weeks, Captain Star!”

  “Have you a small boat in the yard, Mr Fraser?”

  “Yes, the previous owner lived over on the Birkenhead side and was used to be sailed across on fine mornings. On wet days he did not come in, I believe!”

  “Which explains why he is owner no longer, I presume! Not an example to be followed, sir! I would wish to sail the length of the docks so as to see what is derelict from the waterside – a clearer view than would be available from the lanes.”

  Fraser agreed that made sense. He would make contact with Farlow in Clapperley’s office and warn him to be ready to make a purchase and then would explain all to Mr Joseph, requesting his ideas and active assistance. The young gentleman was generally busy on a dozen different projects at once, might be short of time for them.

  “Tell him that his father is most anxious that this particular endeavour should succeed very rapidly, Mr Fraser. I understand that he has, ah, ‘blotted his copybook’ recently and must feel that he should make every effort to return to his father’s favour.”

  Fraser peered suspiciously, accepted after a short while that the comment had been made in all innocence; he grunted agreement.

  Verity visited Nurse in her cottage, as she did two or three times a week, sat down tiredly, sighing in relief. The walk of no more than half a mile had been hard work, she was noticeably weaker, she thought, the debility fast increasing.

  “Well, my lady? Do you intend to tell me? Or am I thought to be blind as well as ancient?”

  Verity burst into quiet tears, even now doing her best to avoid any public display.

  Nurse let her cry, busied herself with kettle and teapot.

  A few sips of tea and a struggle to regain her composure, almost successfully.

  “Cancer, Nurse. I will not see Christmas.”

  It was Nurse’s turn to weep.

  Next day Nurse made her way quietly along the footpath leading down through the waste land to the River Nene, three miles, a long walk taken in easy stages until she came to the small, two room, squatter’s shack, rough thatch over old, grey boards scrounged from derelict barns and sties, that housed Joby Dowdy and his newly made wife and their son. The living quarters were almost bare, their personal possessions, the little they owned, packed up in an old trunk. They were off to stay with their families before going to Bristol, to the ship, later in the year.

  She explained her needs to the hedge-doctor, came away with two small packages carefully wrapped in oilskin and with strict orders to keep them safe and up on a high shelf where no children could pry into them. She passed them across to Verity when next she visited.

  “Belladonna and aconitum, my lady, for when the pain becomes too great and you can no longer leave your bed. You will not wish to be an invalid, I should expect. Make these up in a cup of hot water and take a sleeping dose of laudanum, my lady, and you will not wake from your night’s repose… best for you and all of those who love you, my dear! Does your mother know? She should.”

  “She is old, becoming frail, Nurse – I did not wish to tell her.”

  “You must, my lady, she has the right.”

  It was a difficult morning. Verity had taken the carriage, as she did at least weekly, had sat with both of her parents making light conversation and then discussing the graver political issues of the day, formerly of overwhelming interest, and she was dismayed to discover that she no longer cared, she was already a step removed from the world. Her mother made an excuse for her father to leave, waited till they were alone.

  “What is wrong, Verry? Is Thomas ill? One of the boys?”

  “No, Mama, they are all well. I am not, I am sorry to say.”

  “How unwell, my love?”

  Verity shook her head, unable to say the words.

  “My mother was just forty when she died, a cancer. Her two sisters both followed her at much the same age and for the same reason. They say it often skips a generation – Charlotte should be safe, which is perhaps the only relief.”

  Verity felt almost
ashamed, she had not considered that aspect.

  “Before Christmas, mother. Thomas knows, but the children do not. I am already using laudanum to go to sleep at night. Thomas is to go to London next week, to speak to Mr Mostyn and arrange, if he thinks it desirable, an early wedding day for Robert – better than a long delay for mourning.”

  “You never did tell me quite why you suddenly discovered the eligibility of Miss Mostyn as a bride. I had quite thought that Robert was to marry into the cream of the land.”

  “He was, but I strongly suspect, although he has not said so, that he found no love in him for the fashionable life, or for the political – they are not his sort, it would seem, while bankers and manufacturers are. Mostyn is very rich, a banker who is to settle in England with all of his wealth, and Robert prefers his company to that to be found in Mayfair. It is his choice, Mama. Charlotte also found the fashionable set to be boring – though how I cannot understand! Captain Star is a strong man and I think will suit her very well, even though he is in no way the husband I wanted for her, but I lack the energy, and the time, to do anything about it!”

  “So be it, my love. Do you want your father to know?”

  Verity shook her head, perplexed.

  “I do not know, Mama – I would rather he did not until it becomes obvious that I am in a bad way, but, he is my father, he has the right to be informed, he could not be pleased to come to know that he had been kept in ignorance.”

  “He is a strong man still, Verry. Would you prefer that I told him?”

  “No, I shall do it myself, if you please.”

  It was hard. The old gentleman behaved well, all of his training lending him a straight back and composed face, but he could not hide his shock and grief – the more touching because of his restraint. Verity feared he would weep into his pillow that night, alone and uncomforted.

  Verity was present at the launch of her ship, she felt she ought to be. They had taken four full days on the road north and would recuperate for a week at the Stars before slowly making their way to the Hall and then, a fortnight later, to London for Robert’s wedding. She made the plans meticulously, having decided that she would not be seen in public again after these final duties were performed, the pain of the cancer was worsening very rapidly. She thought it probable that she would be gone before Robert had returned from his wedding trip – he was to take his bride to Paris, it had been decided.