The Mayor in person introduced George to Miss Brown, daughter of the proprietor of the New Steam Mill, the largest weaver in town. She was square, plain, in her early twenties and well aware of her own worth; she possessed an acerbic tongue, had little of good to say in the short conversation they exchanged.
“Lodestar! Was used to be Hollowells. Not much of a place, even when it was well run. Eighty looms. Father has three hundred!”
“Doubling in size in three months, ma’am, and as many again next year. Will be four hundred within five years. All top of the range, ma’am, best quality marcella. Ten years and we shall have our own dye works as well.”
“’Big boast, small roast’, Papa was always used to say, sir.”
George was nettled – he expected more of deference from those of her birth and breeding, had to remind himself that he was a smaller businessman, not simply Lord Star’s son; he should forget the ‘Honourable’ before his name. Small wonder she was still a miss, despite the money she must carry on her back. An unpleasant girl; he wondered, just out of interest, what her portion was.
She had no brother and only two sisters; her mother had been vaguely ill for years but showed no inclination to die and free her father to try for a male heir. The word was that she would bring twenty thousands, cash on the nail, and very substantial expectations; despite that, the only suitors who had so far come up to scratch had been thoroughly ineligible, obviously cynical, and poor, fortune-hunters. The general opinion was that Miss Brown had been on her very best behaviour this evening, doing her utmost to be attractive, curbing her natural arrogance. George talked a little more to his garrulous informant, younger son of the leading attorney of the town and a Militia lieutenant, half-drunk as befitted his station.
“Miss Rythorpe? The rector’s daughter? Beautiful girl, ain’t she? Portion? She probably would bring a half-share of the rector’s debts! He inherited from his uncle – his father, the younger brother, died first and then the uncle, who was unwed, died a couple of years ago, in bad company. The word is that the old man was at a dinner, so-called, with a few boon companions, all male, and there was a bet made that he could not drink a whole bottle of brandy in the evening – he doubled the stakes with a wager that he could drink the bottle without taking it from his lips. He won the bet and collapsed and was dead inside the hour. The rector took up his inheritance and discovered that all of the unentailed land was unlawfully mortgaged two and three times over and that he was responsible for the debts. His son is eighteen; when he reaches his majority it will be possible for the entail to be broken with his informed consent and then the mortgages will be paid off and the burden will be off their backs. For the while, the family has not two pennies to rub together.”
George shrugged – a pity, he would have liked to get to know the young lady, but one had to be practical. She would be well-advised to get onto terms with one of the elderly widowers of the town, preferably one without an heir.
He danced again with Miss Brown, going out of his way to show himself amused by her blunt utterances – she was an original, it seemed.
He needed five thousands, ten would be very useful, twenty icing on the cake; the price might be high in terms of domestic felicity, but one could not have everything in this life. He thought he would be content to become rich – happiness could be pursued at a later stage.
Brother Matthew seemed to have a happy marriage, and was content to be comfortably well-off – he would never be truly wealthy, although George could envy him his estate, but would be highly respectable. It was not enough for George.
The house was built, a solid mansion of twenty bedrooms on a south-facing slope, the moorside high behind it and curving round to the east, offering protection from the coldest winds while allowing a view out over the lowlands and to the sea on a clear day. Thirty miles from the yard by road, a little less by bridle path, but too much to be a practical dwelling during the working week. The plan was that Charlotte would reside in the hills during the summer months, Matthew joining her at weekends; the house would be shut up apart from barebones staff during the winter.
Charlotte returned from the nursery, baby fed and laid down in Nurse’s care, their son playing on the new lawn outside the big windows, Matthew throwing a ball, carefully and slowly so that he caught it occasionally – not every time, he had to learn, to push himself to succeed.
“Much better than living in town, husband! The air cleaner and fresher, one can actually see the difference!”
She was right – the atmosphere was thicker towards the coast, a brownish fog lying over the lowlands, dissipating as the land rose.
“Coal smoke, my love, and some gases from the coke ovens, I expect, and certainly the effluvia from the iron mills. The air here smells better, I had not realised how dirty it is down there. Have you looked at the colour of my shirts? The white is truly white up here! I wonder, should the children live even part of their year in the miasmas and fugs of the industrial town?”
It was a valid question, but could she ruralise to such an extent, miles from literate company?
“Perhaps…”
“Too isolate, I suspect, my love! What could you find to do here? There is no neighbourhood at all – not a single person to be on visiting terms with, not so much as a parson to call on you. The tedium would be impossible, unless you wished to spend your days creating a garden as does my brother’s Elizabeth!”
Charlotte had little in common with Thomas Star’s wife – the lady was intelligent, educated and sensible, but essentially placid. Life in a remote mansion was the ideal existence for Elizabeth Star; the prospect appalled Charlotte.
“The children could possibly stay here with Nurse for the occasional week, but I must live with them for the bulk of my days. I am told that in some great houses it is normal for infants to see their parents as infrequently as once a month, living in the same mansion, but it will not do for me, sir.”
“Nor for me, Charlie. That is not how we were raised and rightly so, I believe.”
The yard was busy, small steamers launching almost every week, a few larger at monthly intervals. The policy was still to build exclusively for coastal waters – Matthew was deeply unconvinced of the utility of steam on the oceans – and there seemed to be an almost insatiable demand for small cargo carriers to work from port to port around the shores of England and Wales. The waters of Scotland were served almost exclusively from builders in Glasgow and Matthew saw no prospect of setting up in competition there, and very little need to do so.
Three or four times a week they loaded a narrow boat to work the canals south to London and Sir William’s yard on the Isle of Dogs, iron plates and cast engine parts in increasing demand, so much so that the new Roberts Works produced little else.
Charlotte found herself just a little irritated when she thought of the navigator knight, Sir William Rumpage, and his baker’s daughter, Lady Rumpage. It was not the way the world should be organised, she believed, knowing that if they met she must surrender precedence to the girl from the back streets of nowhere-in-particular; the king had no discretion!
“Have you had word of my father recently, Matthew?”
“He is in London, I believe. I am told that he has been visited by Knighton who has had considerable success in mending his arm. There was a splinter of bone, it seems, which has been removed successfully and he is much the more comfortable for it.”
“I am glad that is so. I was worried that he did not seem to be recovering well.”
“He is not as robust as he was, I believe. I am sure that he intends to become less active in the firms than was previously the case. He has put Fraser into a controlling place in Roberts Ironfounders, here and in South Wales, and set him in charge of the coal pits. He has intimated to me that he intends to make the three shipyards into an entity of their own, myself to be in overall command.”
Charlotte was aware of her father’s intention in that regard.
“What of my
brother Joseph, Matthew? What is there for him in this?”
“I do not know, my love. He seems to have set his own course, to some extent. To be more correct, I suspect his lady wife to have set it for him. I do not know what is in my little sister’s head, but, to be rather vulgar, I could wish there to be a babe in her belly to turn her thoughts into a more appropriate direction!”
Charlotte blushed, shook her head. “She assures me it is not for lack of endeavour, Matthew! They are still young yet, it may be as simple as that.”
Matthew was relieved to hear that – he had for some time been wondering whether he should have a little talk with Joseph, was now spared that particular embarrassment.
The least of the Star brothers was facing his own embarrassment; his conscience was, he was almost certain, driving him into opposition to members of his own family, an event as impious as it was undesirable, he feared.
The Reverend Luke Star was a devoted shepherd to the souls in his chapel, the bulk of them drawn from the lowest of the working men and women of the town. They in turn had a great affection for their young pastor and told him all of their cares. The new Infirmary had alleviated some of their greatest worries – they could find medical care for their children now. The new Workhouse terrified them: they would be forced into its clutches if there was a downturn in trade or if they became ill and infirm, for they were unable to save for their old age, their wages were barely sufficient to live on.
The people needed more money, it was as simple as that; a typical wage was too small to pay for schooling for the children and put meat on the table – a man with three or more children often had to choose whether to feed them or educate them. The mothers took in outwork, sewing and making up clothing typically; the men, if they were handy, would help, the elder children as well, and with all together starvation could be avoided, but only if the man of the house did not drink.
Even to himself Luke would not admit that the problem often was that were too many children. The teachings of the Bible were clear, ‘be fruitful and multiply’, it was the duty of every Christian couple to have children and to take no action that could lead to their avoidance. He knew that abortion occurred, and he tried to hide that knowledge from himself; he suspected that most midwives ensured that deformed babies did not take their first breath, that was part of their job; he feared that infanticide was not uncommon, but so many babies naturally failed to survive their first year it was almost impossible to prove, even if he wanted to. He was surrounded by poverty and vice, and the two were interchangeable.
The people must have more money, and as a caring pastor he should work towards that end. He could see no alternative to the formation of trades unions, anathema to the family, and unlawful in most of their manifestations.
Credit Unions, ‘clubs’, were a different matter. The men could join together and pay in two or three pennies a week, the money invested and entitling them to a few shillings in sick pay for a month or two; get a thousand or more men to join and some good could be done. Inevitably, the club brought the men together, threw up committee members and organisers who could be consulted whenever an employer was seen to misbehave; the boundary line of legality was very fuzzy and prosecutions had often foundered on the question of what was or was not lawful behaviour for a club. Luke was the leading member and Treasurer of the largest club in town and, inevitably, many of his people worked for Star or Roberts, placing him sometimes in the position of having to choose between pastoral duty and family - and he could not decide which must come first.
Book Seven: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter Four
“Should there be a grand opening, my lord? The Institution is the first of its kind, I believe, and perhaps could be celebrated as such.”
Saul Mostyn was very earnest, utterly committed to his function of surrogate philanthropist, and convinced that the patron of so worthy an object of charity should be publicly acknowledged. Tom was less convinced, had in fact very little desire to be fawned upon.
“Let the Institution be its own reward, Mr Mostyn. I believe I have stored up enough riches in both Heaven and Earth to need no more applause.”
“Yes, my lord.”
It was not for Saul to argue such a cause; he would no doubt disagree on other more important matters at a later date and wished to build up his credit.
“The question of discipline in our workplace arises, my lord. I rather doubt that I have legal authority over our inmates, my lord – they seem not to be wards, pupils or employees in status.”
“Explain.”
“The boys, my lord, are all orphans of one sort or another – some from parishes, others from Church refuges, one or two simply recommended by a pastor or parson. All from counties within fifty miles – North Wales, Cheshire, Lancashire, Derbyshire mostly. They are aged between eight and twelve years. It might be argued that the younger lads had been transferred from one residence to another and retain their status as orphans in care, but the older boys, certainly those of ten or more, would be expected to be sent to an employer, possibly but not necessarily indentured.”
“Indentures must be purchased, I believe?”
“They must, my lord, and the youth to whom they are granted is then bound as an apprentice and must serve his master for seven years, receiving training in the mysteries of his trade and his keep and bed. An apprentice who runs away may be flogged or birched and returned to service; on a second offence transportation is not uncommon – there is a basis of discipline in criminal law.”
“So… no indenture means no hold on the boy after what, ten years of age?”
“Just so, my lord. We might, as an example, protect a youth for five years, clothing and feeding him and teaching him the ways of the engine-room, and he could simply walk out one fine morning and be lost to us.”
They might be in the business of charity, but they were not to be training steam engineers gratis for their competitors.
“Not acceptable, Mr Mostyn. Definitely not! I will talk to my Mr Michael and see what we can come up with. For the while, sir, simply do not mention the problem. Let the boys believe that they are bound to us – they soon will be!”
Tom completed his inspection of the new building, situated on the River Dee not so far from Chester, not too close to Liverpool but near enough to the yard to make occasional use of its facilities and for a steamer or two to visit regularly. The red brick pile looked much the same as any other institution – solid, square, inelegant and functional – except that it had a pair of steam engine chimneys to the rear and a large timber boathouse next to a section of stone quay. There was a substantial coal house as well.
A month later Tom returned, noted with satisfaction black coal smoke to the rear and heard a steam whistle; the boys were learning already.
“The boys are enrolled in our Free School until age fourteen, Mr Mostyn, yourself in loco parentis as is any master. Provided they have showed aptitude and passed their lessons satisfactorily, then they will be granted indentures, free of charge, for seven years, achieving mastery of their trade at the age of one and twenty years, when they become adults. They will by that time have spent four or five years at sea in the engine-room, one would expect.”
Saul immediately saw that they would certainly be doing a man’s work for the last three at least of those years – all unpaid, receiving their keep and perhaps a few pence pocket money. This could be very profitable charity for Roberts Shipyards. Equally, orphans who would otherwise have become drudges in cotton mills or coal mines would learn one of the most skilled of trades and would be set up for life. On balance, the boys would gain from the transaction, and there was, after all, no such thing as something for nothing.
“So be it, my lord.”
The boys peered out of the window at the two men pacing the grounds; they knew Mostyn, he had addressed them when they had first come into the Institute.
“Other bugger’s even older than Mostyn, Ja
cky.”
“Shuddup!”
The pair looked up at the blackboard, showing every sign of interest and attention; the usher, intuitively disbelieving, scowled at them. Both were already literate, possessed of an adequate vocabulary, did not need the class in the way that most of the other boys did, and they were occupied mainly in improving their handwriting to a standard copperplate.
“Jacky and William! Why must you improve your penmanship?”
“Beg pardon, sir. It is to be able to write clearly on drawings and to make reports to the captain and the owners.”
They chanted the prescribed answer in unison.
“Thank you, boys. The older gentleman is Lord Andrews who is the owner of Roberts – which pays for the Institute. The food you eat; the bed you sleep in; the lessons you sometimes learn – all come from his pocket!”
The remainder of the class was now staring out of the window as well. A hand rose.
“Beg pardon, sir. Why?”
“Think, boy! Why do you think he would?”
There was silence for a while, then Jacky raised his hand.
“I reckons, sir, that ‘e needs ships’ engineers, so ‘e’s got to train some. As well, maybe ‘e’s a good bloke.”
“There is such a letter as ‘aitch’, use it please! The word ‘bloke’ does not exist in my vocabulary and should not in yours; ‘gentleman’ will do in this case. Other than that, boy, your answer is correct. You will, if you work hard, become ships’ engineers, which is a respectable employment for any young man, with a probability of a good wage and a settled career. Better far than going as a piecener in a mill, or hefting a pickaxe in a coal mine, I believe.”
The orphans all knew that children who started breathing coal dust young were coughing red by the time they were thirty; if they were sent to a mill, cleaning out under the moving machinery, they would be lucky to reach that age, whole and healthy. They had been two months in the Institute, the first classes of up to twelve year olds in a three-parts empty building; the meals were good – their plates were full – and tasty too; none of them had been flogged; they slept unmolested in their beds at night, a very new experience for several. Most of them did not believe it could last, but it was a wonderful time out from the real world while it continued and they would do nothing to jeopardise this new existence.
The Old Order (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 7) Page 9