“I am glad it has pleased your wife, Quillerson – I must meet her soon – it was a pity our weddings coincided. What of Denham, he is the smallholder you pointed out to me, is he not?”
“I don’t know for sure what he wants, Sir Thomas, he is making a good job of his patch of land and should be bringing in a living – not much cash but the whole family well-fed. He is a clever man, can read and write, from Sunday School, and is teaching his children of an evening, I am told. I expect he has an idea in his head and it may well be worth listening to.”
Denham stood before Tom in the office, medium sized and plain looking, hat in hand, polite but not obsequious, seemed surprised to be invited to sit; he had been in the office before, in Smythe’s day, and had steeled himself to ignore any insult that came his way, was taken aback by courtesy.
“What can I do for you, Denham? You own one of the seven acre smallholdings, I believe, in the Eastern block – barley and potatoes and vegetables and chicken, I think?”
“Yes, Sir Thomas, all up together and growin’ well, sir. I did borrow the use of old Sonner Carter’s mule, what ‘e uses with ‘is cart, for the ploughin’, sir, and did get the land up good and early. Thing is, sir, the land be enough for me and the missus and the youngsters, while they be young, but it can’t be split up betwixt four boys and three girls when I be gone, not and make they a livin’. So I got to get somethin’ else gooin’ too. What I been thinkin’, Sir Thomas, is that they blokes what works the iron down to Artleknock…”
“Irthlingborough, Sir Thomas,” Quillerson interrupted.
“Yes, that’s what I did say, Mr Quillerson, that’s its fancy name, but it ain’t what it’s called. They blokes what works the iron, sir, they don’t ‘ave time to grow they’s own spuds and greens and that, so us could sell ‘em to ‘em. If so be there was land to grow on, that is. And if so be I could find the money to set the seed and buy a donkey and cart and maybe ‘ire on a farmhand for a year or two till the boys be bigger, and then there’s the plough.”
“Is there land, Mr Quillerson?”
“We have bought out four of the smallholders already, Sir Thomas, and will probably be approached by others in the next few weeks. I was considering building pigsties on one of the patches, setting the other fields to greens and turnips and potatoes for them, perhaps running chicken as well, though I was not certain how I would have sold the eggs.”
“Could you run more chicken, Denham?”
“My girls could, Sir Thomas. Baconers, too.”
“Have you worked out exactly how much money you would need, Denham?”
“Depends, Sir Thomas. Can I buy the land from you, payin’ at so much a year? Or do I rent it? Will you lend I the money all at once so’s I can get maybe thirty acres workin’ for me, or a bit this year and more next when I ‘as shown you I can do it?”
“Rent the land for seven years, as much as you want. If you make a go of it then you can buy the land, or some of it, over the next seven after that. How old are your boys?”
“Young John’s twelve, Sir Thomas.”
“So, he’ll be a man grown at the end of the seven years and will have his own family by the end of the next. As we buy up patches of land, odd fields here and there as the chance arises, I’ll give you and yours the opportunity to work them – they may not suit so we’ll make no hard and fast commitment now. Fair enough?”
“That’ll do me, Sir Thomas. Thank’ee, sir.”
“My pleasure, Denham. I’ll leave you and Mr Quillerson to work out the details of how much we should lend and how you expect to pay it back.”
Tom nodded and left the office, Denham standing as he went, a square figure in thick, brown, homespun and knitted woollens indistinguishable from a hundred others.
“A pity the bright ones don’t carry a sign over their heads, Verry,” he said as he entered her work room. “John Denham, the smallholder, more clever than a dozen of the rest put together, but you would never tell to look at him. He wants to work vegetables for the market down the road in Irthlingborough where the ironworkers need to buy food, will put all of the land we have bought from the smallholdings to use. I am prepared to let him buy some of the patches, the inconvenient ones for us, the rest he will rent. The problem, however, will be to get his cart to market in wet weather. The road to Finedon is worse than the main road south, and that is shockingly bad, as we discovered. I must talk with Quillerson, see if there is anything to be done at less cost than a turnpike.”
It would be possible, Quillerson said, to hire a cart and a pair of heavy horses and a driver for eight shillings a day and then to haul broken stone from the quarry in Finedon – the overlay to the iron deposit was hard enough for road building. In a typical dry day the cart would make four or five round trips, depending on how far they were along the road, bringing perhaps thirty hundredweight in each load. Two men would be needed to spread and tamp the stone at two shillings each a day. On the lower, wetter patches they might produce thirty yards of carriageway in a day; on the hills they would only need to fill in and level the ruts, might well cover a furlong; one hundred and twenty days to make good the road from Finedon village to Marchant’s farm track. Say a cost of ninety pounds allowing for a few bob to the quarrymen. Two carts were available, one from Mudge and the other from the coal merchant in Irthlingborough, both needed back by harvest time; using them and four men it would be possible to finish the job in summer.
“Do it, Quillerson; it’s only fair to Denham, and it will allow us to get to church every week, which we must do, I understand, as well as keeping the road open part-way in winter.”
Quillerson nodded, commented that they would not be popular with anyone wanting to move a heavy load in the whole area for the next three months, taking the use of the only two carts.
“Why only two, Quillerson?”
“Horses, Sir Thomas – heavy dray horses are very few in this area – most of the ploughing is done with small horses, with the result that we can only use single-share ploughs, slowly and expensively. There is still a span of oxen at work down towards Thrapston, on the clays there where a light horse simply cannot do the job. The heavy horses are all working in the towns now, pulling drays or wagons for the breweries and foundries and mines – they buy them all up at the auctions, having more money than us farmers.”
“Even more need to breed our own – have you taken that in hand, by the way?”
“Wilkins has talked with Charlie Barney and he has put the word out already. The estate’s man is rebuilding the back of the stableyard to their specification, as Wilkins said.”
“The ‘estate’s man’?”
“Nebby Proudon, sir – carpenter and mason and painter, sir – worked here all of his life, and he must be close to sixty now. His wife died five years ago and he lives with his eldest daughter who never married due to her man being taken for the army nearly twenty years ago, having been caught poaching, and never coming home again. Dead, I expect – his regiment was sent out to India. Old Nebby’s father was said to be a Frenchman, or maybe his granddad, but his mother was local enough, a Finedon girl, very chapel, hence Nebuchadnezzar.”
“I should meet him, speak to him – two months here and I had never even heard of the man – not really good enough, I think!”
“Mr Rockingham took some pains not to know most of the people here – they were beneath him, it would seem.”
“Then they must all be pleasantly surprised, I trust, in my very different set of beliefs.”
“I think we have all been surprised, sir, in one way or another. Jackson wants to see you, while I think of it, sir.”
“The otters, Sir Thomas, they’s young be out now. Half past five, tomorrow mornin’, sir, I can take thee down to the stream to see they aplayin’.”
“Can Lady Verity come too?”
“If so be she wants, sir, out of course, she can.”
Lady Verity wished to see the otters at play, possibly because Tom did, but wa
s less than enthralled at leaving her bed at five o’clock in the morning; she rose nobly, however, even taking a cup of tea before setting out.
The morning was rarely fine, sun shining low, shadows dense, songbirds loud as they walked very quietly down to the streambank and stood together under the shade of a pair of old willows, the branches bending down low about them, the new leaves hiding them. Jackson pointed across the stream to a patch of bare mud, a chute some twelve feet long from the top of the bank to the water.
“Wait,” he whispered, holding quite still.
Five minutes and a small brown, almost black, head appeared in the grass, peered about cautiously for a few seconds; content that the banks were safe she moved aside and four tiny balls of fur, not much bigger than rats, scampered one after another onto the slide and skidded into the water, swimming a few yards then running at full pelt back up the bank and onto the slide again. For twenty minutes they ran at top speed, tripping each other, squabbling over whose turn it was, nudging each other out of the way, landing on top of one another with great splashes while their mother kept watch; eventually she gave the signal and ordered them home and they disappeared for the day.
“That’s all we’ll see today, Sir Thomas – sometimes they wants to stay after the old lady tells they to come ‘ome, and don’t they get their arses whopped then! She don’t take no nonsense at all from they, that’s for sure!”
“And you tell me you were supposed to shoot them, Jackson?”
“So they tells I, Sir Thomas – eats the fish they do, the crays especial, like.”
“Well, let ‘em! They can have all the fish they want for me, Jackson.”
“I likes they, too, Sir Thomas, never was one for killin’ ‘em off.”
Verity, trained from birth in the concept of vermin, said nothing; they were very pretty, she agreed, but duty was duty and one really should not permit the water to become infested. If, however, her lord and master wished them to proliferate, then so be it – she had nothing to say in that particular matter. She wondered if she could go back to bed now but doubted that it would seem correct to the staff, all of whom had been up for hours; she would inspect the cleaning and dusting instead.
There were letters that day, the groom on his twice weekly trip to the Receiving Office bringing back half a dozen for the house as well as the normal communications for the estate office.
“From Mama, Thomas, sister Anne has done her duty, has attracted a husband of the right sort and, to my relief, well distant from here. She has accepted an offer from Bridlington, the Earl – who must be forty if he’s a day! Very rich, not very clever, votes safely in the House, when he attends, was supposed to have suffered a disappointment in his salad days – his lady love dying of a sudden fever, as I remember the story - terribly affecting, you know. He has obviously remembered his duty to produce an heir. A strong chance that the effort will be too great for him – Anne could well be an eligible widow before she is thirty, because he should come down well in terms of her settlements, may even match those you have made for me, sir!”
Tom grinned, well aware by now that Verity’s affection for her sister was limited by her distaste for her stupidity – she could not suffer fools gladly!
“When will they wed, my love?”
“They plan to marry from the House in September, giving Bridlington a month of grouse shooting first, which means that we will be called upon to provide beds for a score of the family, there will not be sufficient at Grafham House for all those who must stay. The Hunts will provide a dozen rooms as well, and the Periquito has some thirty chambers and there is the posting house in Higham Ferrers with a dozen beds, or thereabouts. For the rest, some can stay in Northampton – it is not too far to drive of a morning and back in the late evening – and there may be a hotel in Wellingborough, but I do not know of one. Fortunately, my part in the planning will be limited – I shall merely be called upon to put the resources of the Hall to my parents’ command – with your consent, of course.”
“Given, without question or query, my love. Will you wish to refurbish any of the bedchambers? Feel free to do so if you see any need. What of a wedding gift to your sister? I do not believe the Kettering silversmith to be the best source for that.”
“She is of such poor taste that she would probably regard his offerings with delight. We are, however, invited to attend the dinner to be given in honour of the Earl and his mother, the dowager, next week, in London, and, if we went, then it would be possible to make a purchase whilst we were there.”
“When?”
“Thursday next, nine days hence.”
“Send our acceptance, my love. We can leave for Town on the Wednesday morning – post chaise ordered, if you would be so good. I find I must be in St Helens as soon as possible. Morton! Brown to me, please, and a boy to Kettering for a post chaise and four for noon. Tell Wilkins we shall ride in to Kettering in an hour. You should read the letter from George Mason at the Ironworks, my love - give me your thoughts on my best course of action because I am not at all sure what I should do, or, indeed, what I can do…”
A rapid change of clothes, Brown packing a pair of valises at top speed, including most formal blacks, then downstairs to Quillerson with the information that he would be away for the week, all problems arising to be discussed in full with Lady Verity.
“Frederick Mason’s wife – who was well gone with child – dead by her own hand, having first strangled her son, a babe of eighteen months! Horrifying, Thomas! The nursery maid struck down and her head broken, recovering it is hoped, the garden boy seeing her kill the babe and running with the story, the woman waiting for her husband with a pair of pistols, one of which she turned on herself on seeing him accompanied by others. She would have killed him as well, it appears, I presume then intending to murder herself, the whole family gone. Impossible to prevent this becoming public knowledge in the town, probably in the whole county – there will be a scandal which will reflect upon Roberts Ironworks to some extent, though I cannot imagine it will cause lasting harm, the poor woman so obviously deranged. I remember, Thomas, you told me that her pregnancy was not progressing well – clearly it took her mind from her.”
Frederick’s wife was the daughter of the original owner of the Ironworks; Tom told Verity of the fate of the males of the Roberts family, and of the suspicions that had existed in many minds.
“A homicidal maniac, in fact – perhaps you should speak with your nasty little lawyer, Mr Clapperly, suggest that he may wish to discuss the case with the coroner and decide just what evidence should be taken, pointing out that the deaths of other members of the poor woman’s family are not really germane to this enquiry.”
“Yes, a wise move – he is certainly the best man to consult. What of Frederick Mason? Should I keep him or move him on?”
“Retain his services – getting rid of him would make it seem that you might have something to hide. Better he should be present and visible in his job, your confidence in him obvious for all to see.”
“Then that is what I shall do, my love. I must go, I shall, if at all possible, be back by Monday, Tuesday evening at latest.”
The journey was long, wet, tedious as ever, all daylight hours on the road, bouncing and rattling even in the best of chaises, making twelve miles an hour on the turnpikes, struggling to reach six on the old roads, changing horses at every stage to make the best possible speed and arriving mid-way through Wednesday afternoon, in time to reach Clapperley’s chambers before he left for his new house.
“I hoped to see you today, Sir Thomas; the inquest will be held tomorrow and there have been a number of questions asked, none of which I have answered. The doctor is the only problem, he seeming to feel that if he describes the poor woman as obviously insane he will be held at fault for not having her put under restraint, while if he does not state that he observed her to be mad then his own competence will be questioned. As a result he cannot decide what to say, or had not made up his mi
nd when last I saw him.”
“Does it matter to us which he says?”
“Only that he might seem to be incompetent, which would suggest that we had taken little care of Mrs Mason’s well-being.”
“Best he should simply say that he had noticed nothing untoward in her mental state – he had been deeply concerned about her bodily health and had put down any slight oddity in her behaviour to the fact that she felt ill and was worried for her unborn child. To his knowledge – taken from the textbooks, for such cases are very rare – this form of mania comes suddenly, without prior warning. Being a conscientious young man, or an experienced old gentleman, which is he, by the way? He feels himself to be at fault for not having been alert to the possibility.”
Clapperley noted his instructions, nodding as he decided that it would work in court.
“The coroner will hold that the young doctor is in no way to blame, which is probably true, and they will bring in murder and felo-de-se, the coroner stating her to be out of her mind and begging the church to bury her in consecrated ground beside her son. A few pounds in the rector’s pocket and he will have no objections. The paper will report the hearing, of course, but that will be no problem, the editor being well-disposed towards us.”
“Good, suggest to the doctor that he should be paid a retainer to act as consultant to Roberts in case of any outbreak of fever or plague in the works. Fifty a year should be sufficient sweetener, do you think?”
“Ample, Sir Thomas!”
The Masons were together at the house, both dressed all in black, Frederick blank-faced in shock, unable yet to accept the loss of his son, the end of his family, George worried for his balance, afraid that he might cut his own throat. Neither had slept for days.
“I am very sorry, Frederick, more sorry than I can say. You should go to bed, I would suggest, you must attend court tomorrow and will need to look more the thing in front of the people.”
Frederick left the room silently, obediently, possibly through pride – not wishing to show up poorly on the morrow – perhaps in response to his employer’s command.
Nouveau Riche (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 2) Page 12