The Dorset landscape was at its best, the fields showing a marbling of jade as the corn forced its way into the sunshine, the woodlands bright with new, fresh-polished leaflets waking up. Game birds fed boldly in the close, a jack heron stood by a stream, song birds and butterflies ambled about their business. Dick saw none of it; he held onto the strap against the ruts and wondered just what his father wanted of him, what he was to do, what was to be done to him; his good times were gone.
Dick stood in the hall at Burke’s, his two trunks behind him, an unfamiliar black and white starched figure to his front.
“Briggs, Mr Richard, I am the butler. Your father awaits you in the withdrawing room beyond the library, sir.”
Dick made a vague gesture towards his trunks, always having had to look after himself at home.
“Your luggage will be dealt with, sir. Your father is expecting you.”
Dick hurried off behind Briggs, glancing nervously at the mirrors right and left in miniature imitation of Versailles’ Salle Des Glaces. They showed an all-too-accurate portrait of a scholarly, introverted, stooping weakling, anxiously round-shouldered, pallid face disclosing nervously darting, shifting eyes. He jumped in surprise as he was announced.
“Well, come in, Dicky-dido, don’t ‘ang about like a fart in a trance, boy!”
His father, six foot and more, at least sixteen stone, red-faced, bustling, energetic and forever irritable. Dick assimilated his dress, newly adopted to suit his acquired magnificence: breeches and cutaway coat in russet; a bright, grass-green waistcoat; white knee stockings and heavy black shoes with massive gold buckles – the image of a prosperous Squire Western; he winced at the Old Man’s vulgarity.
“How do you do, Father?”
“Little the better for seeing you, scrawny little rabbit that you are! You’re eighteen now, time you got out of that bloody school and did something useful, made something of yourself. What do you say, eh?”
Dick took a deep breath and rushed into gabbled speech, grasping at his only hope.
“Father, I have talked long about my future with Mr Bunnett and the good Reverend, his brother. They, they… are agreed that I have a vocation, a call, father, and that I should spend my terms at Oxford preparatory to being ordained. I could sit Responsions, sir and go up this autumn. I would certainly pass, sir.”
His father heard him out in silence, muted by amazement and despair. He exploded as Dick stuttered to a halt.
“You stupid little prat! Become a poxing curate? Ordained? You must sit on your brains, boy!”
Dick said nothing, expecting the flailing backhander that had laid him flat so often in the past. He could not understand his father’s attitude – ‘respectability’ had always been one of his cries for his son. He was too sheltered to appreciate his father’s status in society.
Godby Burke was too obviously what he was, and at sixty he was not going to be able to change; he was a parvenu, a rich vulgarian, a jumped-up gutter rat – he was not, never would be, acceptable in Society. Burke was wealthy but he was not powerful – government would not listen to him; no judge would interpret the law in his favour; the police would not run to crush the mob at his bidding; the church would not preach his dogma from the local pulpit – he was, in short, an outsider, and would remain so. His son, properly schooled, correctly spoken, conventional in his behaviour and dress, could join the ranks of the established, his own virtue combining with his father’s money to make him acceptable – but the shabby-gentility of a curacy would merely demonstrate that he was one of the middle-classes, a servant of the powers that be, a mere menial. Dick must become Richard, a creature of manners, propriety, intelligence, strength and wealth; he must cultivate overt public virtue, be eminent in local affairs, known, respected and utterly conventional – reclusive scholarship and Christian sweetness were valueless in this respect.
His father waited for a response, mistook the boy’s natural caution for physical fear, was infuriated to think that he had bred a coward.
“Jesus Christ! I knew you’d ‘ave no idea about the real world, but I never thought a son of mine would run away from it! That settles it, that bloody does! You’re my only son, the only legitimate one and with more than ‘alf a brain, so you’re the heir, God ‘elp me! I’m too old to bring up another bugger to take your bloody place, or I bloody well would! You’ll ‘ave to do, and do you bloody well will! You, my son, are going to be a man, not some bloody ‘alf-woman in vicar’s bands; six months from now, like it or not, and I don’t reckon you’ll bloody well like it at all! Six months, I say, and you’ll be a man or you’ll be stiff!”
The Old Man tugged viciously at the bell by his side, wheeled to the door as the butler entered almost instantaneously.
“Sergeant Bill, please, Briggs. As soon as may be!”
The butler bowed and left.
“That’s a good man, Dicky-dido, and you’d be advised to note the fact. Came with the ‘ouse, kept ‘im on, trialling ‘im. I’ve doubled ‘is pay, since, to show ‘im just ‘ow much I value ‘im. I ain’t no gent, and ‘e knows it, and ‘e don’t give me nothing because of it – if it’s right ‘e does it, and if it’s wrong ‘e don’t and ‘e tells me, politely, why. I respect ‘im.”
The implication could not be lost on Dick’s quick brain, but it mattered not at all to him. He had known forever that his father had nothing but contempt for him so was wholly unaffected by another manifestation; his father was a boor and a bully, the epitome of all that he had been taught to despise and to treat with contempt. A gentleman had nothing to say to his sort, and his school had made him a gentleman; that was what his father had paid for – he found that rather amusing, poetic, in fact.
The door opened and Sergeant Bill quietly appeared, stood expressionlessly waiting. He was short, barrel-chested, fortyish, straight-backed and ox-like, apparently devoid of intellect, an illusion he carefully fostered – he had been a soldier and intelligent rankers had a hard life of it, their officers not liking to be patronised. He had joined the elder Burke’s service some ten or fifteen years before, in Bristol, his battalion awaiting transport to India. Somehow, and Dick had no idea of the story, he had saved the Old Man’s skin and had then deserted the colours to serve him as personal groom, manservant and bodyguard, was now the Old man’s sole confidante.
“My son, Sergeant Bill, as you know, as we ‘ave discussed. Make ‘im into a man, or kill ‘im trying. I don’t give a toss which – no, on second thoughts, I do, I need an heir for the firm, otherwise it’s all pointless. Try to make a go of it, but don’t saddle me with a failure! ‘is birth was a mistake, but there ain’t no need for ‘is life to be.”
The sergeant nodded, stared dispassionately at Dick, at the unpromising, quailing material he had to work with.
“You, boy!” The Old Man turned his cold gaze full on his son. “Do as you are told or get out. Nobody’s going to force you to do anything; the door will always be open, if that’s what you want – but, if once you go, you never come back, nor get a brass farthing from me. Take it or leave it!”
Dick had a single six-penny piece in his pocket, a lone tanner, and no idea how to get more. He was scared of what lay ahead of him in his father’s house, but he was terrified at the prospect of walking out from the security of his father’s wealth. He could not work and knew not how to steal.
“I’ll try my best, sir,” he quavered.
“You’ll need to do a bloody sight better than that, boy, or you’ll be no soddin' use to me!”
His father turned away, the last comment having been made quietly and reflectively, hugely more convincing than his habitual careless bluster.
The campaign of manliness began next morning.
Dick was hauled out of comfortable, warm sleep at six o’clock, presented with heavy trousers and thick socks and marching boots, ordered to put them on with a linen shirt on top. Sergeant Bill, similarly dressed, led him on a four-mile march, five minutes about of doubling and brisk wal
king, twelve minutes to the mile. The boy was nearly vomiting with exhaustion as he was brought to the cold-water trough in the yard, forced to strip down and sponge off and then pushed indoors to breakfast.
Protests that he was not hungry, could not eat, was not used to take flesh of a morning, were treated with silent contempt. The meal was slapped down under his nose, cold beef and masses of bread smeared with dripping, a pitcher of fresh milk. The sergeant jerked his thumb to the door, said to eat or get out. He ate.
By eight o’clock he was behind the big barn where the house’s wheat and barley and roots and firing was stored, a light, seven-pound axe in his hands, a massive felled oak trunk in front of him, nearly four feet thick on the bole, twisted beyond use as building timber. He was set to hack at the trunk, to cut it through and through, to reduce it to cordwood, to logs, to kindling for the winter’s fires.
“But… it will take a month, sergeant,” Dick whined in despair.
“No matter, lad, there’ll be another one when you’ve finished.”
By midday Dick could hardly stand. His hands were raw, despite leather gloves, and he had not completed even a single cut through the great baulk of timber.
A nuncheon, almost identical to breakfast, except for the addition of a couple of eggs, was followed by an hour’s rest, Dick dropping into instant sleep. Dragged from his bed, he was forced into another hour’s walk and was then led inside the barn to a rough padded floor, hessian sacks part-filled with sawdust and spread in a square of about twelve feet.
“You ain’t never going to be a heavyweight, boy, but you can learn ‘ow to look after yourself, catch-as-catch-can.”
An hour of wrestling, the simplest grips and throws, the sergeant possessing an exhaustive knowledge that won a reluctant admiration. Despite his tiredness Dick was for the first time that day interested enough to make an effort; he had to think in this game, to outwit the other man, to use that brain which was his only pride. He felt he would like to learn this skill and become less vulnerable to any chance-met bully. In his mind there was a half-formed image of his father, of being able to stop him, to walk away unscathed from his blind rage.
“Better! First time today you’ve shown any guts,” was the sergeant’s reaction.
From the barn, stumbling in near-collapse, into the hot sun in the stable yard.
“Stand up straight. Attention!”
The sergeant demonstrated the posture and forced Dick’s round shoulders into a semblance of it; there followed an hour of Prussian Drill, a mixture of parade ground and callisthenics. He fell frequently and was forced to his feet each time. At the end Sergeant Bill led the boy to the horse trough, rolled him into the cold water, minus his boots, dried him down and then pushed him into a small salon at the back of the house.
Two minutes and a great mound of steak and baked parsnips, beans and cabbage was slapped in front of him. Dick was ordered to eat on pain of being force-fed if he tried to refuse.
The sergeant helped him up the backstairs, dropped him onto his bed where he slept unmoving for a full eleven hours.
In the morning he was dragged out of his comfortable, warm bed at six o’clock and taken out, leaden-legged, on an hour’s walk…
Three months later he was straight-backed, muscled heavily across the chest and shoulders and strong in the thighs; he weighed twelve stone, forty pounds more than he had as a schoolboy. The work was no longer an effort: he swung a fourteen pound axe without thought, ran his hours at good pace and begged for seconds at his meals. He was still utterly docile and obedient, and the sergeant greatly feared that only his body had grown to man’s estate.
His father gave him twenty pounds as a reward, and back copies of the newspapers so he could write off for books, a gesture of unexpected sensitivity wholly ruined by his comment that he had plenty of money to waste.
In August his father dined with him at the great table, commented that he ate like a man should, told him that he was to be married, disposing of his fate matter of factly yet watching keenly for a reaction.
Dick supposed it was another step in the process of making a man of him, was hardly concerned – it would obviously be of advantage to the firm, and his father’s candid pursuit of respectability meant that his bride would be of suitable status. He had met almost no women, had hardly heard of the concept of romance, except as a school of literature and, apparently, music, had no preferences in the matter. He nodded casual acceptance, thought he should bestir himself a little – his father had, after all, had the courtesy to dine with him - wondered what he might say.
“Ah… who is to be my wife, father?”
“Miss Carteret, eldest daughter of Lord Carteret.”
Briggs, in the act of removing a plate, dropped a knife, the heavy silver clattering on the floor. For some reason this made the Old Man grin.
Dick was surprised to be marrying into the aristocracy, but saw no need for comment – without doubt the Old man had bought his way in typically vulgar fashion.
A tailor appeared next morning, took Dick’s measurements, instructed him to appear for fittings for morning dress in seven days; apparel for everyday wear would be delivered as soon as possible, his cutter would start today. Later in the week, dressed as a gentleman in restrained black and white, over-formally, perhaps, for day-wear in the country, but at least in modern taste, Dick drove with his father to Lord Carteret’s seat, just five miles to the west.
He met his bride-to-be for two minutes, in the company of their respective fathers. She was taller than him and somewhat darker in colouring, big in breast and hip; she eyed Dick’s muscles approvingly, said nothing. Dick supposed she was shy, she was younger than him, after all. His opinion was confirmed when she excused herself almost immediately.
“Richard Burke, hey? Pleased to meet you, Richard! Family will be glad, too. Don’t forget these things, you know!”
My lord, genial and nearly half-witted, left the room with the Old Man, going to meet their lawyers to finalise arrangements, leaving Dick on his own, standing in the window overlooking the stables. Presently he saw his affianced lady crossing the cobbles to a set of stalls, a pair of grooms trotting anxiously behind her.
“Off for a ride,” Dick supposed.
A week more and Dick was standing in church, his bride radiant at his side. He remembered little of the ceremony, its preliminaries, or the small, curtailed wedding breakfast that followed, but for the whole of his life he forgot nothing of the hours and days that followed.
He handed his wife gallantly down from his father’s carriage at the house that had been bought for them and of which he was tenant, just three miles down the road from Burke’s – it was quite small, no more than eight bedrooms, had been the Dower House of a local family who had, unusually for the moneyed classes, been caught by the spotted fever when last it swept through the county. He was more than usually nervous, was aware that it was the man’s role to gentle his bride’s qualms and lead her through the first intimacies of matrimony – but he was not entirely certain himself of exactly what should be done, or how. He had very little sense of humour, but he wondered briefly who would settle his terrors of the night for him. He ushered his unblushing bride indoors, gave her into the care of the maidservant newly hired for her, suffered himself to be led upstairs by a manservant he discovered to be his valet. Barely out of morning dress, wearing a shirt only, he suddenly heard his wife’s voice booming, looked up to see her at the door, clad in the sheerest of night-rails.
“You,” she addressed the valet. “What’s yer name?”
“Maskelyne, ma’am.”
Dick stayed mute, fascinated by the dark triangle of hair and jutting breasts hardly covered by the fine silk.
“That right? Bugger off!”
Maskelyne took one look and withdrew from a situation he had never before encountered and certainly could not cope with. A gentleman’s gentleman could do many things for his master – but this one Mr Richard could handle entirely on h
is own. He heard the new bride’s cry of glee as he closed the door.
“What’s hidden under here, then?”
Her hand dived under Dick’s shirt while the silk was ripped away.
By morning he was an exhausted, humiliated, ashamed wreck, his body covered in bites below the collar-line, just invisible to the servants, who knew anyway. She pushed him before her into the breakfast parlour, screeching for sustenance.
“Coffee! Steak, eggs. Pork chops and oysters! Come on you idle buggers, bestir yourselves! Stout, mugs of porter!”
The additional humiliation in front of the staff did nothing for the little self-esteem Dick retained.
She grabbed at him in the withdrawing room and ordered him upstairs in the afternoon, her demands unceasing. He decided that she was mad.
Sergeant Bill appeared at the house at the end of a week, the honeymoon now over.
“Thought you might want to carry on with the wrestling, sir, maybe run a bit.”
Dick could recognise an order, acquiesced instantly – he had no occupation, no land, no employment, so had as well do something useful. He would, besides, need to build even more muscle to meet the demands of his new life.
His exercise time was reduced now to mornings only, in deference to his new status. By his choice at least two hours were spent wrestling in the small barn attached to his stables; without fail Mrs Jane appeared in the background, watching the straining men with avid eyes, occasionally licking her lips.
A month and Dick was sometimes able to pin the sergeant, always gained his respect by making him work his hardest, giving him a real fight. Bill, taciturn by habit, observed the bites and scratches crossing each other on Dick’s torso, said nothing; he was almost startled into speech, however, when Dick announced his wife’s pregnancy and commented how proud and pleased he was.
A Victorian Gent (The Making of a Man Series, Book 1) Page 2