“Knee-breeches, Mr Andrews! There is no alternative, I am afraid. Consequent on the late wars there are a number of gentlemen in like case to you, sir, so you need have no fear of singularity. If I might advise you, sir, a walking cane makes good sense as you will be obliged to remain standing in the presence of HRH and may well find the need for support.”
Unsaid was the comment that a Royal Personage could always give permission for a member of his court to sit, but that Prinny would never show such a degree of consideration, it would not occur to him.
“Buckled shoes, sir, gold of course, not pinchbeck! Silk stockings to plain garters. Breeches to take buckles at the knee, decorated but only a plain chasing is appropriate. The cloth, superfine, to match the coat, mulberry, I think, sir, bearing in mind your age. Claret is more suitable perhaps for an older gentleman and you will not wish to wear velvet, a little too precious for most. Three gilt buttons to the knee and cut to the form, of course, which does offer a slight problem related to the strapping you must wear to secure the leg, sir. A little padding and all may be disguised, I suspect!”
A quick note was made, a young man instructed to take the necessary measurements.
“Fortunately, sir, you retain your military shape. Many a wounded officer seeks solace at the table, but I am pleased to see that you have not. There is no necessity to disguise any excess, sir, which makes, if I may dare to say it, my task easier in some, but not all, ways, sir!”
The tailor, one of Scott’s most senior men, tittered in privileged fashion.
“Coat, sir, to be worn open, always. Six gilt buttons to the right, false buttonholes to the left. Stand collar, of course, gold embroidered, but not too ornately, the degree of decoration may be said to reflect one’s age and authority! Two buttons to the waist behind, another pair to the pleat of the tail. Lined with black silk, all the way through. White dress shirt and tie cravat, very plain. Vest, with three buttons, in marcella, a very stiff, pleated cotton brocade, sir, that covers the sword belt. Dress sword – your official pattern from the Regiment would be correct, sir. Cocked hat, to carry, bicorne, in the right hand, gold braid but rather plain in pattern, similar to the collar, one suggests. White kid gloves, left worn, right carried. Hat and gloves to be given up to the lackeys, sir. Your cane, if you are to carry one, should be ebony and unembellished.”
“I had not realised that there was a uniform for civilians, sir.”
James was taken aback by the rigidity of the laid-down pattern of clothing for those permitted to come into the ambit of Royalty.
“Amongst other reasons, sir, it ensures that no man rubs shoulders with the great who cannot put one hundred pounds sterling on his back.”
That seemed an entirely sensible proviso to James, there was no need for the hoi polloi to hang around the court. He wondered whether there was any overwhelming reason for him to do so – it was a great deal of money to spend to meet a personage for whom he had developed a significant degree of contempt.
“You would, of course, Mr Andrews, wear the same dress if you were to attend Almacks in the Season.”
That was a point to consider. The family had the entrée to Almacks and it would open its doors within the month. Charlie and Mama had been indefatigable in their attendance, Robert had been seen there frequently before he married. Thinking on it, he doubted that Robert would have been back since his marriage, nor would he be probably until he inherited. What about himself, what should he do? He could not dance, obviously, but should he make the effort to attend in courtesy? He would need advice, from Papa’s new lady would be best; she would know what he must do.
James attended his fittings on three consecutive days, Mr Scott himself actually deigning to be present at the last and gravely giving his approval.
“A difficult task, Mr Andrews, you present a challenge to your tailor, sir! Not for the obvious reason, I would add. Military men in your condition are not so uncommon, but every other I have assisted has demanded little of me, for having retired from the ranks of the well-presented! You, sir, have maintained your figure and retained your alert bearing and must therefore be dressed correctly, yet, of course, that is hardly possible. I believe that we have done all that is practical, and I am quite pleased with your appearance, sir, as should you be!”
James moved in front of the stand-mirror, risked taking a long look at himself. He had tended to avoid mirrors, had not wished to be reminded that he was a cripple, now he wondered if that was all he was to the beholder.
He looked older than his years, which was not a bad thing as, strictly speaking, he could not become a member until he had reached the age of one-and-twenty, not that that mattered too much to his family. His face was lined, pain and worry having made him severe, and he was damned sure that was a trace of grey he could see in his hair! He stood tall still, very close to his father’s height, broad on the shoulders and chest for having to compensate for the leg. His was quite an impressive figure, he supposed, he would stand out in any crowd.
Did he want to stand out? He had no choice, he was a member, one of the few entrusted with a share in the governance of the country.
James stepped carefully from his carriage, passed his letter of invitation to the footman at the doors of Carlton House, surrendered hat and gloves, pointed out that he in fact needed his cane, he did not carry it for ornamentation. The lackey, beautiful in silks and powdered wig, apologised, taking in the leg for the first time. James nodded acceptance – he had seen the same in his men on sentry-go, responding to a passing figure without ever really noticing who or what it was.
He limped inside, making a play of his disability – he might well wish to leave early if he found the occasion too boring. For the ordinary mortal to walk out was lese-majeste, but the cripple obeyed his own rules; for once that could be turned to advantage. He glanced about at the opulent interior, the source of the Prince’s first massive set of debts.
A quarter of a million he had begged of Parliament in the Eighties, a large part, how much nobody knew, himself included, spent on this place, and another sixty thousand given by his father specifically for Carlton House. Lots of marble and full of paintings, statues as well. James suspected it might be very artistic.
A tray was thrust under his nose and he took a glass fairly much at random, some sort of red wine, good, bad or indifferent all one to him, he was no oenophilist. He saw Peel, and avoided him, fell into conversation with a vaguely familiar face, a member and a Tory he was sure.
The last guests arrived, no more than sixty, a small number for one of Prinny’s dinners, and they waited ten minutes, noise level rising, for the great one to appear.
Silence fell as the massively overweight figure entered the room, dressed, foolishly, with a Field Marshall’s badges of rank on a cavalry general’s uniform.
The Duke of Wellington stood at his shoulder. James presumed the military uniform was in respect to the Duke, thought it a back-handed compliment. A lesser crony picked out those who had not yet been presented to the Prince Regent and brought them forward to make their bows and be honoured with a few words.
“Mr Andrews, a Rifleman, Duke!” The Prince, remembering his briefing for once, wheezed and caught his breath. He turned his pop-eyed face back to James and smiled. “Wounded on the expedition to the Slave Coast and again in Ceylon and forced to send in his papers, as you will see, Duke. Now, I understand, a Member of the Lower House.”
His breath stank and, close to, he could be seen to be rather spotty under a dusting of powder. He was wearing a corset – it creaked as he turned. He had been charming as a fresh-faced youth, Prince Florizel, so the simpering idiots had called him, deluded himself that he was still so in dissolute middle-age. Clearly he believed that personal magnetism would bring James to him as a follower, an acolyte who would listen to his words of wisdom.
James smiled and murmured his agreement as he bowed his best, taking care not to stumble over his leg. ‘Fat old bastard would do better for a
good wash’, he thought.
The Duke exchanged bows, not particularly interested in a young man whose claim to martial glory lay in his inability to preserve his skin.
“One of the Grafham family, I believe, Mr Andrews?”
“Yes, Your Grace. My father was married to Lady Verity Masters. She died while I was in India.”
“So, Colonel Lord Jack Masters was your uncle, sir.”
James had heard from Major Wolverstone of the doings of Lord Jack before Waterloo, was immediately cautious.
“He was, Your Grace. My father felt I should not choose to join him in his regiment.”
Wellington looked down his long nose, gave his characteristic neigh of laughter.
“Wise man! Lord Andrews, your father, then?”
“Yes, Your Grace. The Iron Master, as he is known.”
“Never met him, but I have heard much, generally to the good. What do you think of the state of the country, then?”
James had prepared for that question, though he had not expected to answer it to Wellington.
“Improving, Your Grace, mainly because of men like my father who have created new jobs which keep the ill-conditioned off the streets and earning money instead. There are too many people, Your Grace. We should send them off as colonists. Cheaper than getting the Militia to shoot them so that the parish must keep their families!”
“Well said, sir! There must be a better way of maintaining order than the sabre and the bayonet. Colonies where?”
“The Cape, Your Grace. Canada. Botany Bay. Most men who leave the country today go to the States and are lost to England. Better to pay them to go to our lands and grow wheat and wool for our mouths and our mills.”
“Is that your father’s opinion?”
“It is, Your Grace, and I share it.”
“Well said.”
Wellington nodded and moved on behind the Prince, noting that there was not a lot to young Andrews but that his father would be worth a few minutes of his time. The young man should be brought on in the party, perhaps – not used where a brain was wanted, certainly, but he could do a useful job elsewhere in a year or two, when he knew his way round. Handsome young heroes of the war had a value in political life, particularly when presented to the mob.
The dinner was long, well cooked, and accompanied by a different wine for each dish. James estimated that if he had drunk just one glass with each of the courses then he would have been well into his third bottle, and down on the floor in all probabilities. More than one guest had been quietly assisted to leave the table but the great bulk were still there and drinking manfully, obviously habituated to excesses of alcohol. It was a hard-drinking age, but he did not remember seeing quite the like in the Mess.
Prinny withdrew, still able to walk and accompanied by half a dozen of his intimates, no doubt to have a brandy or two over a game of cards. The stakes would be high, so James had been informed, and the playing would be frenzied, thousands possibly changing hands and contributing to the Prince’s burden of debts, for he was not a good gambler, could never keep a smile off his face at a good hand or a scowl at a bad.
Colonel Georgie Hanger, a short, scrawny, ill-looking man, renowned as one of the Prince’s closest friends and said to be his chief pander as well, appeared at James’ side, wondered if he might not like to join the card school. James was honoured but regretted that his leg – still not fully healed – would make him bad company; he needed in fact to retire to his bed, to take the burden of his weight off of the stump. The colonel, who had never been to war despite his honourable rank, sympathised.
“Another time perhaps, old chap!”
James agreed. There would be other days.
He wondered whether the plan had been to put a share of the Andrews’ millions into the Prince’s pocket or if they had intended him to win tonight and be sucked into their company again. Murphy had explained at length what had happened to other young, and older, men who had become the Prince’s intimates, debtors’ prison the least of their woes.
James made his way to the doors, Colonel Hanger at his side and letting it be seen that he was retiring with the Royal favour, was neither drunk nor otherwise unwelcome. James made a play of leaning on his cane, showing willing.
It was before midnight, the night still young. James directed the carriage to Mrs Hubbards, he could still get something useful out of the evening.
“Your house, Mr Rumpage!”
The young man from the attorneys flung the front door open, bowed Rumpo Willy inside.
He had been informed by letter from Mr Robert on the previous day that the purchase and refurbishment had been completed and that he should make his arrangements to move in at his early convenience. He would be given the keys next morning at nine o’clock.
Nearly two miles from the yard, a minor inconvenience as a walk of half an hour would set him up on a dry summer morning and fourpence for a cab would be well within his means when the weather was inclement. The house was one of a terrace of three-storey residences, built in brick within the past twenty years, he estimated. He stood back on the pavement, glancing to see what the neighbours looked like. The front doors were six windows away on either side. Just how big was the place?
Hallway with a rich staircase, wide treads you could walk up two abreast, and a passageway leading to the rear, broad enough to be a sitting room in its own right.
“Reception rooms to the right, sir, front and back. Dining room on the left, piano room to the rear.”
Thirty feet wide! Each room!
“Kitchens and pantries and conveniences and such to the back, sir. Close to the River, so ground floor, not a basement. Upstairs, sir, master bedroom and dressing room and six smaller rooms, sir. The quarters in the attics, of course. Cook and five maids. There is a mews, sir, with a stall and carriage-house and a pair of rooms above if you should wish to employ a groom or manservant. The house has its furnishings, of course, sir, though you will certainly wish to give it your own touch.”
The young man showed him round and gave him the keys against a signed receipt, glancing up the paved street and checking his watch. He had just tucked the hunter back into his waistcoat pocket when he heard the carriage he was waiting for.
“I believe that to be Lord Andrews and Mr Robert, Mr Rumpage. No doubt you will wish to welcome them into your house!”
A pity that he had nothing to welcome them with, not so much as a pinch of tea in the house.
They exchanged greetings and sat down in the rear reception, which they suspected might become his study – it was lined with bookshelves and furnished with a large, leather topped desk and swivel chair, a pair of easy chairs to the side.
“You will gather, Mr Rumpage, that we are more than satisfied with your work!”
“Aye, my lord, I did not think you had come here to sack me.”
“Anything but, sir! The house is yours rent-free until the day you retire from Roberts, then it becomes yours in freehold, as you know, Mr Rumpage. We have placed a bonus of one thousand pounds sterling to your account, sir, and your annual wage becomes eight hundreds with immediate effect. If it should be your wish then our people can arrange for cook and, say, two housemaids to be hired for their year, to stay on liking, of course. You have a man of your own, I believe?”
Rumpo Willy said that he would have – he lived in chambers at the moment, five single gentlemen sharing the services of a retired butler and his two sons. The eldest boy had made it clear he would be happy to come to his exclusive employment when he moved out into his own house.
“Good! This house, is, as you will have noticed, too large for a single gentleman, Mr Rumpage.”
Rumpo Willy began to feel that he had lost control of his own destiny; he had become a part of the great machine that was Roberts. There were worse fates.
“I have no especial intent of staying single, my lord. I am not particularly expert, shall we say, in matters of the romantical, but I think that a young lady of
my acquaintance might have her mind made up on the matter of my future. I shall ask her this afternoon, my lord.”
“I hope that I will be able to wish you joy, sir!”
Robert added his conventional words and then asked just how big a steamship would have to be to work as a coaster.
“Coals from Newcastle to London or wheat, say, from the mouth of the Rhine. Grain and coal are consumed by the tens of thousands of tons each year in London and the Home Counties, and the prevailing wind is from the west. It may take less than a day to sail to France and a fortnight to get back again. Colliers can sometimes sit days windbound in Norwich or Ipswich ports, just waiting to make the last few miles into London.”
“Two hundred tons would do the job, gentlemen. Two masts with fore-and-aft sails, using the fewest seamen, and possibly steam winches as well to hoist and lower sail, now I think of it. Use the wind empty, outward bound, mostly steam back. Wind is always cheaper than coal, so it makes sense to keep sails while we can.”
Rumpo Willy sat silent a moment, reminding himself of work in progress in the yard.
“Best would be if we built another slip, gentlemen. We have orders for another six of five hundred ton passenger ferries to work the Thames, and, I do believe we may have a sniff of an order for a boat to work to the Isle of Wight out of Portsmouth, so our biggest slip is tied up for the year. The call for tugging boats is no less than ever it was. Every set of wharves on the estuary has found a need for one at least and two of our vessels do nothing but pull dumb barges from one warehouse to another along the whole length of the River. It seems to me, as well, gentlemen, that we might give thought to building a whole new yard in another place, such as Portsmouth, perhaps.”
“Why there, sir?”
“Because of who we are, my lord. The navy has the only yards in Portsmouth at the moment and might well have little to say to an ordinary businessman who wished to launch steamboats in their waters. But, it seems to me, that the Admiralty might be brought to realise that it must be, polite, shall us say, to Roberts, my lord.”
Privilege Preserved (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 5) Page 15