by Edward Cline
Mr. Stannard paused to sip his port, then continued. “I might add that one of the most egregious expenses incurred by Mr. Swart was that associated with his experiment with growing orange trees, a few hundred saplings of which he purchased from a ship’s captain who had to delay his departure from Caxton to have his hull treated for worm. Mr. Swart, unmindful that our climate does not favor the cultivation of that admirable fruit, planted the trees in a field he had only recently decided to let lie fallow. What folly! When they succumbed to an early frost and their leaves rotted, Mr. Swart accosted the captain and was prevented from doing him bodily harm only by the strenuous intervention of others. The whole incident merely contributed to the contempt in which he was already held.”
The agent cleared his throat and read from his paper. “The buildings? The main house has a vista of the York over a landscaped lawn that has seen only desultory care. From bank to house, the lawn is some two hundred feet. The brick house itself is seventy by forty feet, of two stories, the first twelve feet in height, the second, nine. Inside and out, the architecture is of simple, formal lines — what I would call ‘modest Grecian,’ if I may take the liberty. In it are five fireplaces, four in the corners, and one in the center. There are several cellars for the various beverages, cheeses, meats, and cook’s necessities, plus a vault for claret, wine and such. On the first floor are the supper room, a parlor, a ballroom, a library or study, and a breakfast room with a view of the river, in addition to a game room with a billiard table fashioned of Cornish slate. The second floor, reached by a fine oak staircase, consists of three bedchambers, two children’s chambers, and a parlor or busy room for the ladies of the house. Of course, there are numerous closets on both floors, and on the first an unobtrusive accommodation for the house’s major domo and cook.” Mr. Stannard chuckled and looked up from his paper. “Gentlemen, the place is nearly half as grand as the Governor’s residence in Williamsburg. Have you ever visited our capital?”
“No,” answered Mr. Talbot.
Before Stannard could continue, the Scottish factor held up his pipe. “May I interrupt for a moment, sir?”
The British agent nodded and took the opportunity to finish his glass of port.
McRae said, “Mr. Stannard’s son, Joseph, was informed by Mr. Beecroft, the business agent at Brougham Hall, that Mr. Swart left two days ago to see to one of his Henrico properties, and is not expected to return for a week or so. This fact needn’t concern us, if there is a happy ending to these matters. By the terms of the court order, Mr. Swart’s signature is not required to either endorse or conclude the sale of the whole property or any part of it. He is, for all practical matters, a tenant at Brougham Hall.”
“This is true,” volunteered Mr. Reisdale.
Stannard said, “Forgive me for not informing you gentlemen of that important fact, and of Mr. Swart’s absence.”
Talbot chuckled. “I suppose, then, we shall be denied the chance to meet this gentleman when we visit the property tomorrow.”
McRae smiled. “You will be spared the pleasure of meeting an apish, unkempt man, who is usually reeking of rum.”
“Should he not, as master of the place, at this time be supervising the stemming and prizing of his leaf?” asked Hugh Kenrick.
“He should,” said Stannard, waving his document. “But, there you are. It is so characteristic of the man.” He squinted his eyes and continued to read. “The outbuildings consist of a laundry, a kitchen — close by a door to one of the cellars, I should add, which also happen to be connected themselves by doors — a baking house, a dairy, a storehouse for provisions, a stable, and a coach house — which contains a riding chair and a landau, neither of which I have seen in use in years — all very prettily situated around the main house in a courtyard laid with brick fashioned in a kiln elsewhere on the property, but which Mr. Swart has allowed to fall into disrepair. There is a smaller house, of two stories, twenty-five by twenty-five, the quarters of the business agent, the overseer, and the clerk, just beyond the courtyard….There are two tobacco barns, each thirty-two feet by twenty….” The agent droned on about the livestock, the cooper’s and carpenter’s sheds, the smithy, and other facilities, finally touching on the servants, the slaves, and their quarters.
When his colleague was finished, Mr. McRae cleared some space on the table and unrolled a surveyor’s map of Brougham Hall and neighboring freeholds. The next half hour was spent discussing the property and its natural assets.
At one point, Hugh Kenrick looked up from the map and asked, “Have there been any conflicts or differences between Mr. Frake and Mr. Swart?”
“None that we know of, sir,” said Stannard with a shrug. “Mr. Frake seems to have less esteem for Mr. Swart than what decent Christian tolerance would allow, while Mr. Swart appears to have made an effort to avoid Mr. Frake’s company and temper.”
McRae chuckled. “One would never see those two standing on the same side of a room,” he remarked.
Later, as the Scottish agent rolled up his map, Stannard called for some bottles of French brandy to be sent in. When each man’s glass was filled, he said, “Now, good sirs, on to an important matter. Naturally, we are curious about the arrangement between you, Mr. Talbot, and you, Mr. Kenrick, should a purchase be decided on. Your bonafides are undoubtedly impeccable and beyond reproach, but still, Mr. McRae and I are anxious to grasp your situations.”
Otis Talbot, who repacked his pipe during this address, paused to light it with a match lit from the candelabrum near him. He spoke. “Should a purchase be decided on, sirs, the deed to the property would be registered in my own name as a private person. However, I would be the owner in name only, having no power over the property itself. Mr. Kenrick here would in fact occupy and manage the property, and be answerable to the man in whose place I would sign any document concerning Brougham Hall. When Mr. Kenrick has reached his majority, title to the property would instantly revert to him, and neither I nor the third party could claim any part of it.”
Mr. Reisdale leaned forward and asked, “Are you his guardian, Mr. Talbot?”
Talbot shook his head. “No, sir. For two years now, Mr. Kenrick has been acting, in effect, as an apprentice in my and Mr. Spicer’s business, in accordance with the wishes of his father.” He paused. “It is Mr. Kenrick’s father’s funds that would make any purchase possible.”
Stannard turned and addressed Hugh Kenrick with the hesitant, circumspect delicacy of a man asking a marriageable young woman about the state of her chastity. “Well, sir…who is your father?”
Hugh Kenrick said, without any stress in his words, “Garnet Kenrick, Baron of Danvers, and brother of the Earl of same. In addition to managing the family’s property in Dorset, my father has conducted a lucrative commerce with the colonies and the Continent through Worley and Sons, with whom I have also served in an apprenticeship. Much of the family’s commerce is carried on that firm’s merchantmen, the Busy and the Nimble, in addition to the family’s own schooner, the Ariadne, devoted almost exclusively to trade between these colonies and Britain. My father is also an unnamed principal in the banking firm of Formby, Pursehouse and Swire, in London.”
Stannard and McRae were more pleased than they could permit themselves to say. Had they been alone at that moment, they would have risen from their seats, called for a fiddler, and linked arms to perform a lively jig. Instead, both men merely blushed. Mr. Reisdale stared at Hugh Kenrick in open-mouthed disbelief.
Stannard said, “Yes…well…I believe the Busy and the Ariadne have both called on Caxton in the past….”
McRae said to his colleague, “The Ariadne has carried quite a lot of tobacco to Glasgow and Liverpool…and other goods as well….” To stop himself from whooping with joy, he took a sip of his brandy and added, “Why, a goodly portion of my store’s stock was brought in on the Ariadne…nails, and claw hammers, and broadaxes…and such….”
Otis Talbot and Hugh Kenrick waited for the agents to collect themsel
ves.
Mr. Reisdale sat back in his chair. “May I inquire, milord, what is your father’s — not to mention your own — interest in this property?”
“Purely proprietary, sir,” Hugh Kenrick said, “as any man’s would be had he the means. This is also my own motive. I can assure you all that there is no governmental or political scheme behind our interest.” He paused. “In future, gentlemen, I would be grateful if you continued to address me as ‘Mr. Kenrick’ or ‘sir,’ and to treat me with the same courtesies and civilities with which you would treat each other.”
“As you wish…sir,” Reisdale said. He frowned. “And your uncle, the Earl of Danvers: May I ask what is his interest?”
“None, sir. I will speak frankly and say that he is mere ballast, and has been an undeserving beneficiary of my father’s efforts and accomplishments — and often an obstruction to them. He is an active peer in Lords, and fortunately does not meddle much in my father’s affairs. My father limits his service to occasional turns as justice of the peace in our part of Dorset.”
With the exception of Talbot, none of the other men had ever heard such sentiments expressed vocally by a sober man about a peer of the realm. Again, they were more surprised — indeed, aghast — than they thought they could permit themselves to show. At the same time, however, the young man’s speech convinced them of the sincerity of his intentions concerning Brougham Hall.
For some reason he could not identify, Reisdale was prompted to remark thoughtfully, “Covington Brougham’s older brother, Cerdic, on the day that the petition for the founding of this county was drawn up, proposed that the county be named in honor of a commoner, the noted John Locke. It was thought a preposterous notion at the time, but it very nearly won him election as one of our first burgesses.” The attorney paused. “It is no shameful thing to be a commoner, I suppose.”
Hugh Kenrick smiled amiably. “No, it is not. The petition was debated and drawn up in Fern’s Tavern, was it not?”
Reisdale nodded. “Yes, sir. In the Jamaica Room.” He shook his head. “A disreputable place now.”
Hugh said, “Perhaps it was not as preposterous as that man’s contemporaries thought. I fully expect that, at the conclusion of this war with the French, Secretary Pitt will be similarly honored, in numerous instances and without objection.”
The other men nodded in agreement. “This is true,” Stannard said. “Why, the site of that French fort on the Ohio is already called Pittsburg, and I imagine that once the new fort is completed, it will be called Fort Pitt.”
Before anything more could be said on the subject, there was a knock on the door, and one of the inn’s maids came in. “Begging your pardons for the intrusions, sirs,” she said, “but Mr. Stannard’s servant just came with anote he said it was urgent for Mr. Stannard to see.” She approached the agent, handed him the note, and left.
Mr. Stannard scowled and opened the note. Then he looked up with a broad grin. “I was certain of it, sirs!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Vishonn has called for a ball to be held at Enderly tomorrow evening to celebrate General Wolfe’s triumph at Quebec! My wife writes that a post-rider arrived at dusk at Mr. Barret’s shop with copies of the Gazette from Williamsburg that contain full accounts of the battle!” He tossed the note onto the table. “Gentlemen, we will have ample time to see the property tomorrow and return to prepare for the ball!” He looked hopefully at Talbot and Hugh Kenrick. “Of course, you are both invited to attend, as my and Mr. McRae’s guests.”
Hugh Kenrick glanced at his companion, who nodded assent. “Thank you, Mr. Stannard,” he said. “We would be happy to attend, on the condition that you, Mr. McRae, and Mr. Reisdale agree to make no fuss about my identity, and introduce me as just another gentleman. I do not wish to be paid special or undue deference, in business matters or in social circumstances.”
“As you wish, sir,” mumbled the three men in unison. Stannard sighed. “It is a novel request, to be sure, and we will honor it.” He paused with an expression that was half-frown, half-smile. “But, you must own that it leaves us not a little curious about the…reason for it.”
Hugh Kenrick shrugged. “I have spent enough time in the colonies now that I have acquired an appreciation for the notion of equality. It is a better foundation for honest relations between men than airy titles and artificial respect. There is no place for those customs here, and I find them tiresome.” After a brief pause, he added, “What I seek, gentlemen — and what Imay find in the responsibilities and labor demanded of me by a place like Brougham Hall — is the solitude and satisfaction of a private man who is not bedeviled by a deference he has not earned.”
Although they smiled in sympathetic concession to and agreement with the young man’s statement, it left Stannard and McRae nonplussed and too dumbfounded to reply. Only Otis Talbot, who had heard his companion express similar sentiments in Philadelphia, understood it, while Mr. Reisdale, who was widely read in the political tracts of the age, recognized in the statement something he could not decide he liked or disliked.
Chapter 3: The Plantation
West of Queen Anne Street and its adjacent streets were several freehold farms, and west of these, separated by a line of woods, was Brougham Hall. This broad rectangle of fields and forest, about one and a quarter mile square, was similar in size and topography to Morland, which neighbored it in the west, and Henry Otway’s plantation, whose western-most boundary was also the county line. East of Queen Anne Street were more freeholds, and then the vast and regal plantations of Enderly, Granby Hall, and Cullis Hall, the eastern-most holding in the county. To the south, across Hove Creek, were some large farms and plantations owned by “middling” freeholders, none of them nearly as large as those that lined the riverbank. On the surveyor’s map, the county was a neat assemblage of rectangles that was almost square, with Queen Anne Street acting as a narrow stem beginning at the river and ending at Hove Creek.
Mr. Stannard arrived at the boarding house with saddled horses rented from the Gramatan Inn’s stables. Mr. McRae was not with him. “He sends his regrets, sirs,” he said to Hugh Kenrick and Otis Talbot, “but pressing business at his store detains him. He will perhaps join us for dinner at Brougham Hall.”
It was a cool morning. In the night, some passing clouds had sprinkled the town with a light rain. As the day progressed, the air grew warmer. Hugh rode with a blank ledger book and a pencil, and made copious notes of his own observations and his host’s factual statements. The British agent was struck by the new differences in the young man and the older. Talbot seemed to be in a more congenial, conversational mood, while Hugh Kenrick kept his remarks to business. Mr. Beecroft, the business agent, had met the party halfway between the main house and the two brick stanchions that marked the formal entrance to Brougham Hall, prepared to escort the visitors around the property. But the agent preferred to show the property alone and instructed Beecroft to have a light dinner ready for them at two o’clock.
While they watered their mounts at Hove Creek a few hours later, Hugh Kenrick asked, “What is the source of this brook, Mr. Stannard?”
“A spring that emanates somewhere beyond the Morland place, sir. It has never been known to dry up.”
“Where does it end?”
“Somewhere past the Cullis place, sir.”
Working their way north through the property, they ambled along a path that cut through the corn and wheat fields. Some slaves were busy picking corn from the stalks and carrying them in cloth bags to put into an enclosed cart across the field. Near it an overseer on his own mount eyed the visitors with suspicion.
Hugh remarked, “This corn ought to have been gathered in June, or July, Mr. Stannard.” He reached down and plucked an ear from a stalk, then tossed it to the ground. “It is half eaten by worms.”
Mr. Stannard looked apologetic. “In all fairness, Mr. Kenrick, we cannot hold Mr. Swart entirely responsible for the conditions you see here. The crops of all the planters got off to a late start.
These last few years have been oppressed by drought, and everyone has been obliged to struggle beyond their usual exertions.”
“About how many hills would you say are here?” asked Hugh.
The agent glanced around. “About fifty thousand, sir.”
Hugh rode forward and inspected a few more stalks. He turned to the agent with a frown. “Of which, perhaps only a quarter is fit for anyone’s table. The rest may be fodder for livestock. Are there so many cattle in the county?”
The agent smiled in irony. “I purchase most of Mr. Swart’s corn, sir, for my firm’s account, for the West Indies trade. Also, much of his wheat. These particular crops have prevented him from increasing his indebtedness.”
Later, when the party reached the tobacco fields, Hugh paused long enough to dismount and pick up a forgotten pile of leaves left on the ground to wilt before being taken to a barn to dry. He slapped the leaves flat against his other open hand, and a shower of fragments fell to his feet. He dropped the bundle and remounted. “Why is Mr. Swart growing sweet-scented, and not oronoco, Mr. Stannard?”
“There is a considerable market for it in England, Scotland, and Ireland.”
Hugh scoffed. “I believe that his troubles might have been mitigated had he planted oronoco, which, as you know, fetches a better price on the Continent.”
The agent shrugged. “The war has upset that market, sir,” he remarked. “And, the Broughams raised sweet-scented, and Mr. Swart will not be turned away from it. He has an almost child-like attachment to it.”