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

by Andrew Wareham

  Tom was taken aback, he had not given thought to questions of inheritance, realised that he really should have done.

  “Time enough for that if the question arises, Robert, but your good will is very much appreciated, though in no way a surprise to me! A drink before we rejoin the ladies?”

  Mr Pemberley appeared as Tom came back to Miss Drew’s side, announced that he had come to bear Miss Drew away to supper. She glanced at Tom and then shook her head.

  “I am afraid that Lord Andrews has already begged my company, Mr Pemberley – perhaps on another day. I am sure we shall meet at some function or another next week.”

  “I had intended to make a morning call tomorrow, ma’am.”

  “I am afraid that we are not at home tomorrow, Mr Pemberley.”

  She was somewhat awkward in her manner, being unused to choosing between suitors for her hand and, indeed, not being wholly sure that Lord Andrews actually was such, although quite certain that Pemberley was not to be.

  Pemberley summoned his dignity, bowed and withdrew, his manner perhaps too publicly crushed. They saw him leave a few minutes later.

  Tom accepted the hesitant invitation for what it was.

  “You have spent many years in the wilds, Miss Drew – would it be a hardship to you to endure life in the English provinces?”

  “Immured in a rural fastness, a Gothic castle, perhaps?”

  Tom grinned – he had come across one of the fashionable Gothic novels once, had read at least a quarter of it.

  “An Elizabethan Hall is all I can offer, I am afraid, ma’am, and neither dastardly monks nor sinister foreign counts to enliven it! But we have a pianoforte already and can visit London frequently, if you would care to join me there. We are not the most conventional of families, ma’am, as you will be aware – a strong connection with the Jewish banking clans has motivated some eyebrows to rise and has been the cause of one or two cuts which may limit the social life one might normally expect. However, if you will do me the honour of becoming my wife I think I can offer a life of reasonable ease and elegance.”

  She smiled, shook her head dismissing his doubts. “No doubt my very conventional brother will say that I should be more discriminating, my lord – he will be a very good second baron, I suspect, but rarely leaves our estate in Dorset. Very agricultural, and his wife is his equal, as are their three daughters and, no doubt, their son who I have yet to meet. He will shake his head very gravely and ask whether I have taken counsel of the vicar. I am content to accept my father’s opinion, my lord – and he, I believe, has every intention of dwelling in Town and will be very happy to welcome any comer of any faith to his table.”

  “In such case, Miss Drew, I believe I should make formal offer for your hand, laying my person and some significant proportion of my worldly wealth at your feet.”

  “What, not all of your wealth, my lord?” She smiled archly, wondering how quick he would be and whether he would supply an absolutely candid answer.

  “Robert might well object if I did, Frances.”

  “And rightly so, too, Thomas – I would not look to make my fortune, my lord. Besides, my grandmamma ensured that I will not be poor on my father’s death, she not expecting me ever to wed, and, indeed, very strongly recommending me to remain single – what she had to say about the male sex should probably not be repeated, sir!”

  “In the event of children, matters would have to be arranged, of course.”

  “Of course.” She made no further reference to the topic, not perhaps a matter to be discussed at a ball, but had long decided that she was not likely to produce, one of the reasons why she had avoided marriage, though she had to admit to herself that this was only the third proposal ever made to her. She cast her mind back to her two previous suitors, the first a near-idiot who had been coached by his mother to offer for her and her money, the second a bumptious little man in Halifax who had seemed to regard her as an exercise in social climbing. There had been no hardship in remaining single, yet now she had almost casually taken a man she had known for barely three weeks. She wondered why, then smiled quietly and gripped his hand and led him to her parents, a very public acceptance of his offer, instantly noted by every dowager in the ballroom.

  Book Four: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Nine

  Mark Star sat in his chambers, studying the brief before him – a simple commercial matter, typical of the great bulk of his work, which would involve him he estimated in two half-days in court followed by appointment as a trustee in bankruptcy. The defendant in the case did not have a leg to stand on having defaulted on payment on a clear contract – the goods had been delivered precisely to time and of the quality and quantities specified and the plaintiff could not be faulted. The defendant could not really be held blameworthy either, Mark reflected. He had taken delivery of his goods in good faith, ‘milled bronze bushes’, whatever they might be, and had built them into some sort of machines that he made, had delivered his own product and been let down by his own customer’s bankruptcy. He had lost the goods themselves and received no payment at all for them. However, that was one of the risks of trade, one had to rely on one’s customers making their payments on time, or, in this case, at all and the Law could make no allowances for bad luck.

  It was easier as a lawyer, Mark reflected, many fewer risks. He would pay his own fees first out of any moneys he recovered from the bankruptcy. His own client would be paid next, then any other creditors who might declare themselves and finally, if anything remained, the residue would go to the bankrupt himself, and would almost certainly be swallowed up by his personal debts. The firm itself could not possibly hope to survive, to trade again.

  “One hundred and sixty men made idle by this bankruptcy, Mark. Skilled hands who will not work again this year, certainly not in their own trade.”

  There was nothing to be said – it was truth, it was a part of life in the new world of industry – good times meant work and wages, bad times offered only starvation. The men should be encouraged to save, perhaps, they really should put at least a quarter of each week’s wages by, but even in boom times they hardly earned enough to feed and clothe a big family so savings were hardly practical, particularly in the absence of any bank that would offer an account to the poor. Five shillings a week was of little use to a commercial banker.

  “No end in sight to the Depression, Christopher. Another soup kitchen?”

  At least a tenth of Mark’s earnings went to the purchase of mutton and potatoes for the local charities, and still, he knew, men and women starved in the back-slums. Not so many as in previous years perhaps because he and a few colleagues had been able to encourage other lawyers and attorneys to contribute and church and chapel both seemed to be growing stronger and more active as men of influence began, slowly, to accept that all was not for the best in their world. But it was not good enough by a long way, though the sole alternative seemed to be to raise some sort of taxation, and that would never do.

  “Not sufficient, Mark – we need a change in the law – workers to be the first creditors to be paid in any bankruptcy would be a good start. All wages to be paid up to date and a fortnight’s money in hand for every man laid off. For many that would be enough to pay for their passage back to their original parishes where they could at least claim Poor Law, could possibly find something with their families. It would prevent starvation for the children at least!”

  “The law is tender of rights of property, Christopher. The factory hands, according to the law, are free to take the risk of working for a wage that may sometimes not be paid and as unsecured creditors come last in the queue. A change in the law would not be sufficient, would need be accompanied by a change in the habits of thinking of the judiciary, which will be slow coming. The politicians would have to make a very strong case if they wanted judges to listen to them, and the will is not there to make any sort of change at the moment.”

  “Then the will must
be created, Mark, on the streets, if need be. The French managed to change the habits of thinking of their rulers and the Americans achieved freedom. We can do the same. We must, if our children are to live.”

  Mark turned the conversation away from revolution and violence – he could accept neither, he feared, yet he did not want to lose his friendship with Wakefield by saying so. With luck things would get better soon, and they could avoid the rioting on the streets that Christopher seemed to believe was necessary as a beginning to the working man’s salvation.

  “There is to be a recital of Nocturnes composed by young Mr Field, I see, Christopher, at the Concert Hall on Thursday. You remember him, Clementi’s pupil? Residing in St Petersburg at the moment, I believe.”

  Wakefield was immediately enthusiastic, wondered if many of their friends would be present, it seemed very likely.

  “Mama wishes me to accompany them to London next year, Joseph, to be ‘brought out’ and enjoy a Season, and perhaps discover a titled husband. She would like me to marry a lord, I believe.”

  Mary Star, who knew full well that her mother had given up in despair, had accepted that her youngest would make her own life and her own decisions in it, looked demurely out of the window, unable quite to meet Joseph’s eye while she lied to him.

  “Oh! But I thought…”

  “Yes, Joseph?”

  “Well, that is, I had assumed that you had decided to marry me, as soon as we are old enough. But I haven’t ever asked you, have I?”

  “No, Joseph.”

  “Well, I should, then. Will you, marry me, that is?”

  Her embrace made it very clear that she would.

  “When do you think would be best? I know that girls marry younger than men, but we are the same age, aren’t we, so that makes it difficult. There’s nothing at all out of the ordinary in a girl marrying at seventeen, but it would seem very strange in a man.”

  That was certainly the case for ordinary people, she assured him, but they were well out of the normal way of doing things – commonplace rules were for commonplace people, and they were certainly not that! On her seventeenth birthday, she suggested, or close to, she could not hope for a better present. He agreed – they could inform her parents when they returned from London, he thought, for the while he would beg permission of Thomas, her elder brother serving as guardian in their absence.

  Thomas, when informed of their decision, was rather disappointed. He had thought the business to have been tidied up years before, did not realise they had not actually formalised matters, regarded all as settled. He was more concerned with a letter he had just received from the States.

  “Of interest to you, Joseph. A Mr Thomas Miller, son to one Colonel Miller, known to your father, it would seem, who will be visiting in England later this year and begs the honour of being shown over modern British cotton mills whilst he is in Lancashire where he will be occupied primarily with Roberts’ foundries.”

  “Robert said something – he met him while he was over there, but I do not remember exactly what it was he had to say… big guns, that was it, fortress cannon, like the ones we made for the Peruvian people last year – they are wrong, you know, Thomas, the cannon we make, we ought to use steel, and rifle them, and load from the breech – they are very primitive at the moment. Mr Fraser said that Leonardo da Vinci would recognise them as being the same as the ones he designed.”

  Thomas was used to Joseph’s habits of speech, of his inability to keep to any one topic for more than ten seconds at a time.

  “Mr Miller, he would wish to buy big guns, you say, Joseph?”

  “Yes, I think so, but there was something else – something about his wife… that’s it! He hasn’t got one! And he should have and thinks that an English lord’s daughter would be a good catch.”

  “Ah! All is made clear. Not my sister, I think, I believe she is in hot pursuit of the eldest Armstrong at the moment, with a good chance of catching him. They are very large in cotton weaving and the father will almost certainly pick up a title of some sort in a few years. Besides, she has money, don’t need a Yankee Doodle who’s got nothing else to recommend him!”

  “My father must be aware that he is coming to England, he will be able to arrange everything for him. Charlie said that she wanted him to marry again, so that he could be comfortable again. Do you think he should, Thomas?”

  “Undoubtedly, Joseph! I only wish I had gone to Town four or five years ago, so that I could have met my Elizabeth then and had more years in her company – every man should be wed!”

  That concept was new to Joseph – he had tended to view marriage as a duty, a concomitant of manhood rather than one of its pleasures. Not that he did not wish to marry Mary, far from it, but this business of ‘sharing’ his life seemed rather strange to him. He had so much to do that an extra burden seemed in many ways undesirable – a house to pay for and manage, a family! Children! Thomas seemed excited by the prospect of the baby that was due any day, and Robert, from his letter, was evidently delighted by his twin boys, but… he was too young for such things, he was quite sure, although the nursery would be little concern of his, in the direct, day-to-day sense, Nurse and maids could deal with that. That was a point, he would have to buy a house and staff it, and pay for things, with money. He wondered how much he earned at the moment and whether it would be sufficient. He had an account at the bank, with Mr Martin, he was sure, he sent bills there to be paid and they were always dealt with. He must make the time to speak with the banker, he wondered what he should say to him, perhaps Mr Fraser could advise him when he came back from the London yard – that seemed to be going well. He wondered how fast the current was in the Thames, it was narrower than the Mersey, would that make a difference? He fished out a piece of paper, made a note of the question, wandered off towards the library and the desk he had appropriated there.

  He still had not decided on the question of the paddle-wheels for the new tugging boat they were building. Captain Star had suggested narrower wheels of a greater diameter, rotating faster as a way of improving the ship’s turning in confined quarters while Mr Fraser had wondered if they might not do better with more powerful engines and wider paddles. The mathematics was unclear, as he could not work out how to calculate the forces involved with any degree of accuracy. Perhaps he should build a pair of models and put them through their paces on the ornamental water at the front of Freeman’s – he must find out one day why Lord Star had chosen that name for his mansion.

  “Mary? What do you think we should do about the paddles?”

  She agreed on the need for a test of some sort, suggested they should build a small barge with a steam engine and removable paddles, so that they could see how it performed with different sizes and shapes of wheel. It was very practical, and useful to him, he did tend to get lost in theory, he agreed, he needed a helper who could keep him in line.

  “Not, perhaps, on Papa’s lake, Joseph, he does seem rather proud of it, and of the swans and the water lilies. We should build at the yard and work the new barge on the Mersey. It will be better on moving water and easier to rebuild next to the yard’s workshops.”

  Very practical! Exactly what he had been saying to himself, just what he needed.

  Tom made a formal, heralded in advance, visit of inspection to the new yard on the Thames. It was necessary that he be seen there even if he had very little knowledge of what it was doing and no direct control – he was the Iron Master and the name created an obligation it seemed. He met Mr William Rumpage, knowing only that his background was unconventional for a manager, looked him over with a leery eye, wondering just what had been wished upon him.

  Robert and Fraser accompanied him, made the introduction, observed with great satisfaction Mr Rumpage’s surprise at having his hand clasped – he had not looked for such condescension in a peer.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mr Rumpage. Mr Fraser has told me much about you, and all of it good! I would wish you to show me the yard a
nd explain all that is new to me. As well, you can tell me of your job here.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Rumpage did not know quite what to say but thought that made a good start. “The keel of the first tugging ship will be laid on the slip ‘ere in twenty-three days time, my lord, so I do ‘ave it planned. Mr Fraser do tell I that the pieces ‘ave been run and be aboard barges and on their way to us, my lord. The wharf for the barges what do come down the river be set up on the west side of the yard, that seeming reasonable like, so us had best walk across there to be startin’, my lord. Brick-built, the wharf, my lord, better than timber for lasting longer, and costing only very little more. I did think of having a lock, to save worries with the tides, but ‘twould cost dear and ain’t that needful. The small house just a buildin’, my lord, will take a steam engine to power a crane, or maybe just a derrick, to offload they old barges, with a pair of trackways, my lord, the one to the coal and coke bunkers, the t’other to the furnace shops, the plates and forges and riveters, that be.”

  Tom looked, nodded, agreed, trying to place the accent, the dialect, similar to that of English spoken by Romanies, but lacking their particular rhythm, not unlike the Diddicoi speech in some ways, but not identical, certainly not Welsh or Scots or Irish, but with a hint of all of them. A mixture, then, the way of speech of a group of men who had come together and stayed apart from the rest of the world. The sort of thing sometimes found on ships that had been long in commission, or, perhaps, in a prison, or…

  He glanced about him, peered at the work gangs on the wharf and setting piles into the river, another couple of dozen busily laying track across to the bunkering yard. Men working together with very little supervision, and working well, no wasted movement, very quick, quiet – no shouting or argument. Heavily muscled men, dressed flashily for common labourers – coloured shirts and neckerchiefs. They could only be one thing, and that suggested, strongly, that Mr Rumpage came from amongst them, was one of their own.