“He must sleep, George. So must you, by the looks of you. Who is in the house?”
“Housekeeper who they hired on when she became poorly, Sir Thomas, and a maid.”
“Tell them to keep an eye to him, then go home, George. Are your parents still alive? Is there anyone at home in Kent?”
“Neither, sir, just me and Fred left.”
“A pity, I would have wished him to go away for a time. Would he want to stay here, in this house?”
“Maybe, sir, I don’t know. If he don’t, then I will take it if you will permit it, sir, because, to my surprise, I find myself about to be wed, sir.”
“That is very good news, George – I had you labelled as a bachelor for the whole of your days and am very glad you will not be. Who is the lady?”
“Half my age, sir! The sister of the minister at the chapel in Billinge, where I worship every Sabbath – she came to stay with him last year on their parents’ death and we met and talked and worked together at Sunday School, in the nature of things, and I thought she was a lovely young lady and told myself I was an old fool until, last week, the minister’s wife took me to one side and told me how unhappy I was making her! I ventured to speak to her and she said she had been hoping I would say something for six months, and so we have posted the Banns. I do not know if I should delay now, in the face of the tragedy, but the minister thinks not, the circumstances being what they are.”
“He is right. You will take a holiday from the works, of course, for at least two weeks, on full pay. There is a foreman for each shop, is there not?”
“One week, sir, maybe another later in the year, but I could not be away for so long. What of poor Fred?”
“If he will stay, ask him to remain at the New Works. Can we expand, find new lines or build another furnace or change what is being done in some way so as to keep him busy?”
“He’s got nowhere to go, so he’ll stay for the while. If it gets too much for him, the memories, then I’ll try to persuade him to go to America, make a complete break, but I think he will stay – he wants to put in a beam engine, in the works itself, to power the derricks and the cranes and turn a dozen of grinding and buffing wheels, all of them jobs done by hand at the moment. Then he has an idea for a hydraulic lift, using water under pressure, somehow, and a crusher for the slag so as to bring it down to a powder that can be bagged and sold to the farmers, like you said in your letter last month. If he can be got back to work then he’ll be too busy to think, I hope.”
“I hope so too. Look after him, George – it’s everything we feared, and worse, poor lad!”
“I should have stopped him getting involved there, Sir Thomas, I knew I should!”
The inquest was well attended and very well managed, provided the hoped-for verdict of infanticide and felo-de-se, the balance of the mind disturbed. The minister expressed his sorrow for the poor lady and was more than willing that she should rest in his graveyard, her son at her side for all eternity, and the rector, she having been Church before her marriage, was happy to agree that she should be laid to rest in consecrated ground, was even happier that it was not to be his for he had not wished to discuss exactly what might be inscribed on her gravestone.
An hour before the chaise came to take Tom back south the doctor begged an interview with him.
“Sir Thomas, thank you for seeing me, though you may not be pleased with all that I have to say, sir.”
“Doctor Saunders, please to take a seat, sir. There is obviously a problem, what is it?”
“Your Mr Clapperley, Sir Thomas, asked me to take a retainer to watch over the health of your enterprises, and I am disturbed by what I have found, sir, at Roberts Iron Works. You will know there was cholera in Liverpool last year? The truth is unknown, but some medical men at the universities have published, and persuaded me, that they believe that contamination of the water with human waste may be a cause, or one of the causes – it is not proved, not by a long way, others say bad airs and some hold to an excess diet of potatoes, for the disease is common amongst the Irish.”
Tom was surprised – he had not actually expected the doctor to do anything to earn his retainer, but if he was willing to be useful then he should be encouraged.
“My bailiff said that spotted fever comes to any family that digs its well too close to the jakes, in the farming world, that is. It may be different in town.”
“I had not heard that, Sir Thomas – it might bear the theory out to an extent. If so, then it is even more important that I must point out that there is no provision for the needs of the workmen at Roberts – they use the bushes or the slag heap as the inclination comes upon them, and they drink from the stream that feeds the header pond.”
“We cannot afford to lose skilled men to the cholera, Doctor Saunders. I will call at Roberts on my way this morning, will speak to Mr Mason and tell him to give you a free hand. Will you see him tomorrow, if you will be so good, and decide what must be done, and where?”
`“You mean, Sir Thomas, that I must make the decision and be responsible for spending your money?”
“Certainly, Doctor – for I cannot make the decision myself. I would if I could, but I do not possess your knowledge and I have not got the years available for the study that would be necessary. I believe from what you say that there may be a problem with the cholera and I hope you have, in part at least, a solution to that problem, so I must beg you to take the responsibility for me – though remembering that any blame for failure rests with me, for I have given you the order. Will you also take a look at the men’s cottages and ensure that their sanitation is adequate?”
Saunders thanked Tom for his kindness and confidence, but looked very much like a man who would have preferred to write a scientific paper on his theory rather than have the responsibility for testing it.
Home, and it was simply that, the place where his family dwelt and would grow, the place where he would live until he came to his old age and contented death. He had never expected to belong to a place, had thought he would pass through the world untouching and without involvement but now found himself wondering whether Quillerson had faced any problems, had Denham reached an agreement, was Jeremy Ferns to take Hammet’s beef land. Verity would be there, waiting his return, and that was more important than anything else – a day at the Hall before they had to go away to London to dispose of her sister to her life in the North Country, the better part of three days distant.
They stayed at the Clarendon, naturally – it was quite full, there were no rooms except for those who had booked months in advance, but Sir Thomas and Lady Verity walked into their suite, the manager himself escorting them.
“You are expected, of course, my Lady, Sir Thomas and all is in hand for the dinner.”
“I knew that it would be, Mr Monson – the normal arrangement for the account, of course.”
“Certainly, Sir Thomas – you will be very satisfied with the bill of fare, I believe, sir – the Marchioness has informed me that there will be forty-eight at table and we have a plan for place-cards so all will go smoothly. There will be three cabinet-ministers present, Sir Thomas, so the event will attract the attention of the gossip-mongers of the Press; needless to say, none of my people will repeat anything said.”
Verity smiled sardonically, commented that that might be a pity, in the absence of actual information they would be forced to rely on their powers of invention, which would inevitably be scurrilous.
“Fortunately, my Lady, all those of significance will be aware of that fact – for it is rightly said that only the ignorant use the newssheets as their source of information – those in the know, as it were, know better than to believe anything read in a broadsheet.”
“Very true, Mr Monson – it is lucky for us all that those who read and believe the Press have no vote, things would otherwise come to a pretty pass!”
The Marchioness was triumphant – two daughters wed in the one Season, and both to husbands who could only be
described as very good catches, even though in the one case a little out of the ordinary way of things.
“You may say that Bridlington is by way of being a dullard, my dear Verry, and I am forced to admit that you would be right to do so – but at least Anne will understand him! He is very rich and has few vices, one understands – he does not gamble, attends race-meetings only to look at the horses, and does not mount a mistress. Of course, there has been the occasional little boy, but all properly paid for and above-board – only to be expected, in fact, he was five years in the Foot Guards after Eton, sent in his papers when his grandfather died. Bound to have an effect, formative years and all that!”
They nodded gravely – the Grafhams had always cleaved to Harrow and the Blues.
“In any case, it will let Anne sleep undisturbed more often than not, so that will be a blessing to her after the first year, my dear!”
They kept admirably straight faces, Tom feeling he should not laugh at his mama-in-law and Verity used to her habits of speech.
“What of a wedding gift, mama? I do not know what would be best, other than an encyclopaedia, that is!”
“The words would be too long, my dear – something very pretty and utterly useless, I would recommend.”
“Well, mama, he has got that already!”
“Tut, Verry!”
“A pair of peacocks for the family house, mama?”
“Admirable, my dear – they would grace their park, I understand Bridlington has a thousand acres of hillside and lake around the house. He has promised me that I may walk them with him when I visit – I shall look forward to that treat!”
The dinner was long, very formal and tedious, followed by what seemed to be hours of small talk. Tom, being newly-wed, was permitted to stay at Verity’s side and benefited from her introductions and whispered asides, acquitted himself creditably, avoiding political controversy whilst still managing to hold polite conversation on the war and Ireland, the only issues of interest at that moment. He had the pleasure of ten minutes of Bridlington’s attention, surviving by listening, as he had very little to say about foxes or pheasants and even less about poachers, crammers and thrusters; he enquired afterwards of Verity if the latter two were to be found in the hunting field or whether he had been referring to his little boys, but she was not amused.
Lord Ebchester was present – he was a cousin of Bridlington’s – and made an assignation for Manton’s for the next afternoon, he was determined to show Tom off to his friends who still did not believe his account of the Iron Master’s shooting. It interested Tom to discover that he was sufficiently known to have a nickname – he mentioned it to Verity who was clearly delighted, said that it signified acceptance by some at least of the Upper Ten Thousand – most promising in so short a time.
Tom did not have his own pistols with him, borrowed a pair from Manton’s stock and shot casually at ten, fifteen and twenty paces, commenting that it was easier indoors where there was no wind. Ebchester produced his pair of duelling pistols, inherited from his father, who had been a pugnacious gentleman, he added; they were very light, fired a ball of less than a quarter of an inch diameter, specially cast and polished and perfectly spherical, the least flaw fatal to good aim. He invited Tom to try them.
They were perfectly balanced, sat in Tom’s hand feather light, pointing exactly along his finger, inexcusable to miss with them, he felt. It was possible to shoot the pips out of a playing card with the duelling pistols – they were deadly little weapons; firing so light a round, they had to be precise, of course.
“A beautifully made pair, my Lord, I have never handled better, yet I would not wish to take these into a fight because an angry man might not realise he had been killed and they are not heavy enough to knock him off his feet for the two or three minutes before he actually died. For the duello, they are perfect, I would think, enabling the user to decide whether to draw blood or to kill.”
They left the gallery in a group, talking pistols and sporting guns, the two soldiers amongst them enquiring in passing where Tom had fought.
“At sea, during the American War, gentlemen.”
They nodded, he was the right age to have been a wild young boy then, to have risked his neck casually and often, as the scar evidenced; a ‘bad’ man, in the best sense – one to have as a friend not an enemy. No doubt that still applied - even though he had joined the ranks of the couth and genteel there was still a whiff of danger about him.
“What of this war, Sir Thomas? Five years now and still no sign of a victory.”
“Nor of a defeat, gentlemen! It seems to me that while we command the seas we cannot lose the war, but until France is defeated on land we cannot win it. We cannot build an army big enough to fight a continental war, it seems, and must rely on our allies – who must be paid.”
“Prussia conscripts every young man for a year or two and trains him as a soldier before sending him back to the fields. Then, when a campaign is to be fought, they can call them back to the colours between sowing and harvest; train them for a month, fight them for three months on the frontiers and send the bulk back home again for harvesting. We cannot do that – our army must go across the sea to find an enemy and must stay away for a year or two or even longer – we would starve if we adopted the Prussian way, our army must be much smaller.”
Tom thought for a few seconds and then agreed – the gentleman made very good sense – most unusual, for he had been introduced as a Major of the Guards and he had understood it to be a military crime to be unlawfully in possession of an intellect in Knightsbridge.
“So, Major, we must find a campaign that can be fought by an army of, what, a hundred thousand? Or we must continue to pay the Prussians and Austrians and Russians to fight for us, and accept, of course, that they will fight for themselves first.”
“Just so, Sir Thomas.”
It was a short enough walk back to the hotel and Tom did not take a cab, strolling reflectively along the crowded streets and acknowledging a large number of greetings, forced to dawdle in conversation half a dozen times. He stopped and smiled automatically as a voice came from beside him.
“Good day, Tom!”
Half-bald, middle-aged, medium height, a familiar face, from the past, a slight American twang, dressed fashionably but quietly, within reason prosperous – a lawyer or small banker, perhaps, maybe a merchant… No! None of those things.
“Bob Chawleigh! How do you do, Bob?”
Book Two: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter 5
“When did you come back to England, Bob?”
Bob grimaced, implied he had been forced out rather than simply coming back.
“Nearly four years ago, Tom – New York is no place for the small man any more – too much politics. You have to be one of them or you must put a local man in your pocket – expensively – or the new police force and the judges are on your back. And then, you pay your bribes honestly and correctly, never miss a wife’s birthday or son’s coming-of-age, and the local councilman still gives favours to the political bosses first. Still, that’s why they had a revolution, I suppose, to make sure their own people got their proper place in front of the Londoners.”
He shook his head, still unable to understand what had happened.
“It was really messy, Tom, but the English were better treated than the Americans, or so it seemed to me. Most of the Americans who supported the King have gone to Canada; a few of them left everything and ran because they’d got a price on their heads, but most of them were able to sell out to the new bosses, at the prices they were willing to pay, of course. In the towns it wasn’t too bad, though they say it was nasty out in the sticks, tarring and feathering and that sort of thing and get your wife and daughters out quick before the mob got at them. I sold up the little I had when it was clear there was no place for me – got a better price because I was cooperative.”
Much as Tom had expected – in any revolution, any
stirring of society, the scum rises to the top before the cream reaches the surface - if ever it does.
“To be expected, of course, Bob – that was one of the reasons I made no attempt to stay on in New York. There was no future as a trader and agent like me; all the gang bosses were about to change, same theft, different thieves.”
“You were right – if I had known you were going I might well have pulled out with you. As it was, I did well enough for a couple of years and made a living for a while longer. Talking of that, you remember Jenny, your old friend? She took up with Colonel Miller – he became General Miller when the Americans captured New York, a Hero of the Revolution, and the biggest single boss in the whole state – married him, a widow of the war with a young son who looked remarkably like you!”
Interesting, but not important – what was the man doing now, in London?
“You live in London now, Bob?”
“Where else can any man live, Tom? Anywhere else in this country one merely exists. I had enough of living with the monkeys out in the States, I’m not going to do it here.”
“That’s a point of view I have heard before, Bob.”
“I came back with a few guineas in my pocket, bought a house in Town and set up a small club for gentlemen. It makes a living. Not like you, of course – I think we have all heard of your successes, Tom, you have become a well-known figure. Still, I must be going – no doubt we shall meet again.”
Tom was sure they would – that was a warning, almost a threat, he believed. Chawleigh knew enough about him from New York to be an embarrassment, though he would probably have to keep his mouth shut for fear of being held an accomplice, the rope applied quite equally to accessories as to principals when it came to killing; but… if he had discovered anything about Antigua he could be an active menace who might cause Verity to be upset – and that was not acceptable. He hailed a cab, gave the direction of Michael’s office in the City.
Nouveau Riche (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 2) Page 13