There was a growl of agreement – they wanted fewer and lower taxes, were not about to give the government the excuse to dip its greedy hands in their pockets.
“Just sufficient to do their proper function, so say I – money enough to keep the Navy in being, and a small army. For the rest, the best thing the government can do is get its nose out of my business.”
“Well said, Mr Grundy!
“Hear him, hear him!”
“Perhaps the government could find the cash to build more prisons, Mr Grundy?”
“No need, Mr Heythorne! We should be hanging villains, not giving them a holiday, sat in idleness behind bars, eating food they do not work for.”
“Hear him, hear him!”
Another hour saw the world set to rights – all idlers to be flogged first, then hanged on a repeat offence – and the gentlemen joined the ladies.
Sam naturally took a chair next to Miss Banford, smiled his best at her and raised an expressive eyebrow as Mr Grundy stumbled into his seat.
“I believe Mr Grundy admires your father’s taste in wines, Miss Josephine.”
She was less than wholly amused but was used to gentlemen falling into their seats after a long post dinner discussion.
“Port wine, I assume, Mr Sam?”
“I believe there was a glass or two of Madeira as well.”
“Undesirable when taken to excess, I must suggest, sir.”
“I agree. It does seem to be a habit among our leading men, however. It cannot be entirely desirable that they should totter into their beds every night – although, of course, my income depends on lesser mortals doing just that.”
It was very difficult, she felt, as she had no wish at all to see her husband-to-be falling into poverty.
“Is all well in the town generally, sir?”
A change of topic, which could only be to the good, he thought.
“Continuing to improve, Miss Josephine. The outburst of disorder in our streets has come to an end, I am glad to say. There is a feeling that it might in some way have been related to the Jacobite uprising, as if ne’er-do-wells who had joined in that disorder had come home again, bringing their troubling with them.”
“Has there been word of the Prince, since the rumour that he had escaped to France?”
“He is said to be in France of a certainty, having spent months in hiding in the Scottish mountains. Better there and out of the way than in London in chains and having to be dealt with one way or another.”
“Would they have executed him, do you think?”
“Difficult not to, having taken the heads of many of his followers. Are they to say that the lesser men should die while their leader remains untouched? I suspect that the government was very glad not to have caught him, may not have looked for him too thoroughly. He is spent now – the clans of Scotland will not rise again, they are being thoroughly suppressed, and there was no rising in his favour in England or Wales. The Irish were unable to come together in any great army to welcome him. The Stuarts will not be back, so better to ignore him.”
“One could feel sorry for the poor gentleman – born a prince and yet to spend his days in exile, far from his native home.”
Sam was not inclined to sympathy for any prince, born to spend his life in idleness except when mischief-making.
“A declaration made to the King of his renunciation of any and all claim to the throne and he could return to England with a grant-in-aid and an estate to live on, and probably a ducal title. He could be a great man in this country, if he would announce his loyalty, and preferably show himself in the Church of England as well.”
She was only partly convinced, the Hanoverian kings having little to recommend them in terms of romance and popularity.
“Is all in hand for our wedding, Miss Josephine?”
Sam deliberately asked the question in a slightly louder voice, sufficiently to attract the attention of the ladies and bring the topic into general conversation. He had little patience with the fugitive prince and did not intend to spend the remainder of the evening discussing him.
“An Easter bride, Miss Banford – the happiest time of all for a wedding.”
Mrs Grundy was much inclined to gush, possibly with the intention of drawing attention from her husband who had just left the room, a hand to his mouth. There was much discussion of the church and of the celebration to follow. Mr Banford announced that he was to take a business trip north to Liverpool immediately after the wedding, to allow his daughter and new son peace to settle into the wing of the house that was to be theirs.
“What are you to do there, sir?”
It was to be an investment in a new form of trade that was growing in the port, sending ships to the African coast and the Sugar Islands and bringing back molasses to be refined and cotton to be spun.
“A new trade, cotton, and just starting to grow in the Duchy of Lancashire and down in Northampton town. Sugar is very big in Liverpool and cannot fail to expand further. There are coal mines to hand to provide fuel for the sugar boilers, of course.”
Sam listened politely and said nothing, trying to work out in his mind why the ships should go to the African coast before making their way to the Sugar Islands. No doubt there was a good reason.
Chapter Two
A Killing Too Far
Sam stood next to Abe in the church, waiting to play his role in the ceremony, aware that today was a day in which he must be quiet, polite and, above all, good humoured.
He was dressed in his best, new finery delivered by Mr Nobbs, the tailor to the County, all in the fashionable style, even if at least six months out of date to London tastes. None of those invited were habitués of London Society, so they would not know the difference. The breeches were comfortable rather than moulded to his skin and coat and waistcoat were somewhat brighter than the fashionable would now admire, but Sam liked the crimson velvet coat and breeches and contrasting bottle green waistcoat with a flaming scarlet neckcloth. He admired the heavy gold buckles on his gleaming shoes and the spotless white cotton stockings. He looked, he thought, exactly what he was – young, prosperous and hardworking; a man of affairs, in fact. The bulk of the men in the congregation were dressed in the same way, each with sufficient guineas on his back to say that he belonged there. A few of the older men cleaved to the styles of the earlier part of the century, displaying a deal of lace, but they were old-fashioned rather than threadbare – there was no place here for genteel poverty, little room for the simply gently-bred in this company.
Sam had given some thought to his appearance, but more to the fact that he had no pocket sufficiently large to conceal a pistol. He did not like venturing out of doors unarmed, had been forced to accept that church was not entirely the place for avowed belligerence. He had debated putting Jacky and Happy Henry into the pews at the back but had decided that they might look out of place; they were waiting in the throng of workers and lesser mortals outside the church and would keep an eye open during the remainder of the day.
The bride arrived, silently for lack of a church organ, but smiling handsomely under the white lace veil that had been her mother’s. Her father stood proudly at her side, looking about him and catching the eyes of the bulk of his acquaintances. Josie stood next to Sam, a special smile for him, returned with real pleasure. She was so obviously happy in the day that Sam felt a great kindness for her.
The rector worked quickly through the service, knowing what was expected of him in this company. Had it been a congregation of the true faithful, he would have extended the proceedings, but these were men and women who paid no more than lip service to his creed and were present mostly because there was no other place to be married. Weddings took place in church or not at all and the officiating priests had to accept the reality, and pocket their fees and be thankful for the offertory plate.
The wedding feast was held at the White Horse, for being big enough to seat all of the guests. It was lavish, deliberately so that there would b
e a good quantity of cold meats to be given to the deserving poor of Leek who would thus share in the celebration, very genuinely in favour of the wedding. Sam was not sure in his own mind that it was necessary to pander to the poverty-stricken, but it seemed it was custom and so must be done, and he did not begrudge the very few guineas it cost his goodfather.
He commented quietly to Abe that the poor were probably more genuine in their cheers and good wishes than the bulk of the guests actually inside their doors.
“Winter is still upon us, Sam. A bad time of year for the poor. We should get together and provide something for the local elderly at least. There’s not that great a number of them in the village – a bowl of hot stew and a loaf of bread a day would cost very little but be more than welcome in their cottages. Thing is, Sam, that if the Revenuers come and start asking questions, well the villagers don’t much care one way or the other what happens, just now. Offer them a tanner in their pocket and their mouths will flap. If, however, they know that grandad and grandma have got full bellies courtesy of Mr Abe and Mr Sam, they ain’t going to say a single word.”
Sam was much struck by the simple wisdom of Abe’s words.
“How?”
“I’ll talk to the vicar. We provide him with the shillings – a guinea apiece a week will more than cover it – and he’ll see to the work of it. That’s what he’s here for. It’s not a rich parish and he’s no more than a curate on a few pounds a year so he can’t do it himself without the money. Apart from the practical side, Sam, it gets known and makes for a good name, which can be handy on occasion. Enough of business, Josh is getting on his feet. Time for the speechifying.”
Bland and tedious, but an essential part of the ceremony; Sam survived the speeches, smiling in the proper places.
The happy couple left the scene, taking their carriage the short distance to the Banford house, there being little possibility of a wedding journey in winter.
Sam’s parents and brothers and sisters had walked down on the previous day and would return home on the morrow, needing three days to attend a wedding less than ten miles from their home. They seemed a little overawed, Sam having risen far above them, richer and town-bred rather than villager by appearance. His father said that there was no need to look out for his young brother; he had been found a place working with Squire, the vicar as had been, to become his Steward when he had learned enough.
“Better for him to stay at home, like, our Sam,” his mother suggested. “Don’t want him learning bad habits at foreign, you might say, not that I’m suggesting you might have done such, not by no means, that.”
Sam nodded and introduced them to Josie and promised to come on a visit come summer time. He did not belong to their world, he realised, not anymore; it seemed that becoming rich might be a bad habit in their mind. It did not occur to him that it was not the riches so much as the way they had been made that they objected to; he had, after all, never done more than was necessary.
He handed his bride into the carriage for the short journey and sat back from the window while she waved to the onlookers, all as was proper.
“A good wedding, Josie. Did you know all of the people present? I must have been introduced and bowed and scraped to two score and more of folk I had never seen nor heard of.”
She laughed, having watched the performance.
“Most of them are people like my father. Big farmers off the moors with a deal of land that runs a very few sheep. Not real gentry, but better-off than the ordinary run of folks. Most of them have sisters, or occasionally brothers, married into the squires of the County. Yeomanry, they might be called, or so I suppose. Almost all have close relatives in the potteries, as owners, of course, and some have an interest in coal and iron and such. Papa says that they are people who are making new money, folk like us.”
Sam had noticed that Captain Wakerley had not been present, realised then that none of the County proper had been invited. The wedding had been a celebration of the new manufacturers and the old yeomen; none of the old rulers of the locality, most of them aware of the event but not present, standing on their dignity, it might be said.
The housekeeper-cook made them formally welcome as Mr and Mrs Heythorne, a great fuss about the new status of both. The sole maid smiled and curtsied and they broached the matter of putting on a second girl, seeing as the household was expanded.
“Mr Banford’s privilege, Mrs Marston – I am not to be ruling the roost in his house.”
That, Sam thought, was best established immediately; he was living in Mr Banford’s house, on sufferance. He might be master in the locality, but he was not the ruler of this household.
“I shall discuss the question with my father, Marston.”
Josie was also aware that they must avoid conflict in the house. It might not be easy for the two men to rub along together, but it made sense that they should for the while. The house was too big for one man to rattle about in, and Josie had no wish to leave her father on his own, possibly to pick up with a source of comfort for his later years. She had no desire to acknowledge half-brothers to take the inheritance from her.
It was late afternoon, too early in the ordinary way of things to retire to bed, she thought. She wondered what Sam’s opinion might be on that, decided not to enquire, certainly not while Mrs Marston was present.
“A pot of tea, Marston?”
They sat decorously to table, trying to find a topic of conversation.
“Wedding presents, Sam – there are some here, arrived this morning.”
Most of the guests had brought gifts with them, presented them at the White Horse after the ceremony. Anything delivered to the house must come from folk who had not been in church.
“Captain Wakerley has sent us a fine set of pots and pans, Sam – all of the heaviest cast iron, the very best. There is a dish from the Mainwaring family – a painted charger, fine china, decorative rather than for use.”
“I don’t know the name?”
“Landowners from the lower parts to the south of us – richer land than our moorlands. They own land from Stoke down along the valley. We have had no dealings with them in the past, Sam, and I did not expect anything from them. There is no reason that I know of for them to acknowledge us.”
Sam wondered whether one of their tenants, now deceased, had been a farmer called Smith. The gift might be in the nature of peace-making. Uncle Abe would know, he suspected.
“There are other gifts, but all of them as one might expect – cutlery or silver tankards and a very welcome pair of sheepskins made up as rugs and warm on bare toes.”
Sam thought that to be an excellent thing for the bedroom.
“I must change out of my finery, Sam. Lace and fripperies are all very well, but better tucked away now.”
He agreed.
“Which is our room, Josie? I have only been upstairs on the one occasion, as you know.”
She remembered the event, the death of her poor brother.
“A pity he could not be here to celebrate this day, Sam.”
“Very much so – he was a fine young man. I liked him much. His last thoughts were not for himself but for you – a true sign of a good man.”
She smiled, brushing away the tears.
“Not the thing to remember now, Sam. Our room is upstairs, of course, on the right of the house. Let me show you.”
She took his hand and led him the few feet along the single passageway at the head of the stairs.
“In here, Sam.”
She discovered that he had every intention of being present while she removed her wedding clothes, and he rapidly got rid of his own. She had a fairly precise notion of what came next – she was a country girl – and saw no reason to protest that he must not in daylight hours.
They left the room for breakfast, both quite hungry and much inclined to hold hands across the table. Mrs Marston said nothing, and the maid giggled.
Josh Banford returned from his excursion to Liverpool a
nd Sam resumed his working life, producing and selling gin and wondering what to do next. Abe found ways of keeping him busy.
“I spoke to Mr Martin last week, Sam, about brandy. He was able to point me to a supplier, a gentleman who brings an amount on his carrier’s cart about once a month.”
Sam knew the man in question.
“Very small, Uncle Abe – I doubt he would take more than two half-ankers on each run from the East Coast.”
“That was Mr Martin’s opinion. The man brings a little across more as a favour than in the way of business.”
Sam set to calculate, to discover quantities and costs.
“A half-anker is about thirty-four pints, a fraction more. An awkward size…”
“They use them because they strap conveniently in pairs on pack ponies, Sam. Mostly they make them with one side flattened, to fit the more easily on pony or donkey. Not too heavy, as well.”
Convenient to run across a beach, because no supplier in his right mind was about to pass them under the eyes of the Customs men and pay his hard-earned money to the wastrels of the government.
“So, sixty-eight bottles at a time, the extra being a mouthful or two for the carrier. What would be the price of a pint of good brandy, Uncle Abe?”
“Twenty nips of brandy to the pint, and I would look to charge a gentleman tuppence for each – three shillings and fourpence in my hand and I would wish to pay no more than twenty pence, one half of my takings, for the bottle.”
Two minutes of multiplication and long division brought the sum of five pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence as the cost of the pair of half-ankers.
“Not worth it, Uncle Abe. Was I to pay for the transport of the two barrels, and the price the smuggler asked besides, then I would be left with pennies in my hand. I cannot see that I would end up with five shillings a half-anker at the end of the deal.”
A Killing Too Far Page 3