“Are you determined to marry young Lutterworth off to Jane Masters, Verry? Even for a stupid, tittering female of her order it is a bit much!”
“She will come with twenty thousands, only ten in trust, and a small estate owned by the Masters near Market Harborough to be the inheritance of younger children. He may in fact be sterile, I believe – there is no mention of love-children on the estate, and they are near enough for us to have got wind of them, and he has been a menace to the local girls for several years now. His father is an only child, born late in his grandfather’s marriage, and I understand there to be no uncles or nephews or cousins closer than us – he is the last chance to save the name and the title, so he must be wed, even if it is a long chance.”
“A pity, even so – he is a poor specimen of a man to wish on any young woman.”
“She will not object – any husband is better than none in her case – her mother has a sharp tongue, I am told, is not easy to live with, quite possibly is not very well and is bitter that she has not presented Lord Frederick with a son; not an easy household to dwell in!”
“Five coal mines, Sir Thomas, each feeding coal down the trackways to the river staithes and onto coasters for London; there is a profit, but it is not as great as one might like. What would you advise?”
“At a distance, and not knowing the area, my first thought would be to establish an iron works down at the river. Burn your coke there and use the coasters to bring iron ore in if there is no local mine – the colliers will return empty in the nature of things, not many cargoes can be carried in holds that have been full of coals, so the cost should be low. Large castings, there is a profit there, for the building of factories and mills and warehouses, and the supply is short. Pay high wages, give big bonuses to your managers, and you will see the profits in short order, Lord Frederick, for the better paid the men are, the harder they will work for you.”
“It does not seem right, Sir Thomas, that one must pay more to encourage men to work harder. The labourer is morally obliged, one might say, to work his hardest for his master, irrespective of reward; by paying bonuses one subverts the sense of duty that should be foremost in every Christian man.”
“Unless you intend to hire Irishmen you will be hard put to find too many Christians in your workers, Lord Frederick. Even where chapel is strong I doubt that one half may be found in prayer on any Sunday, and where there is only the Church of England the figure is not one tenth. A good ranting preacher who can entertain an audience for a couple of hours may draw them in for a free show, as it were, but a dry exposition of the Gospels brings very few to their knees. I fear, my Lord, that if you want output you must rely on money rather than their souls’ salvation!”
“It is not good enough, Sir Thomas! The masses must be educated so that they may learn their proper place in life – give them money and they will only waste it, peasants that they are!”
Born a peasant, Tom wondered whether Lord Frederick was offering him intentional insult – but he was the host, should not take offence unless he was forced to.
“You may well be right, Lord Frederick, but until that education occurs I fear we must take them as they come, and that means pay them well and feed them heavily. My experience of being the highest payer on the Lancashire fields was that it attracted the loyalty of the people – those already working for me did not want to lose their place, outsiders wanted to join. I believe my miners and iron men earn me more, man-for-man, than those paid less elsewhere, so, sir, right wrong or indifferent, I put the money in my people’s pockets and the food in their bellies and in return, they make me rich – fair being fair!”
Lord Frederick nodded glumly – it went against the grain but he would do it if it would increase his wealth; his long, thin face was naturally austere, became quite forbidding in his gloom.
“What of steam, Sir Thomas? Is it, do you think, a lasting phenomenon or merely a passing fad?”
“It is the future, Lord Frederick. If ever I start a new enterprise it will be to manufacture steam engines to a more powerful design – but that demands their invention first. It will come, but not from my brain, I have not the flair necessary to be an inventor – I am no Watt or Maudslay. You say you use long trackways down to the river from your pits? Stationary engines to haul the tubs up the slopes would make a great deal of sense, I suspect – I use them at Roberts and in three of my collieries. Whilst I think of it, my Lord, coal tar, from the burning of coal to coke, has a few uses, soap and ship-building that I know of – if you get word of more then I would be very pleased to hear of it for it is a thorough nuisance to me.”
“I shall look out for anything relating to it, Sir Thomas,” Lord Frederick promised, pleased to have something to offer – it was humiliating to be the lesser man, the one who asked advice and could never give it. “What do you think of young Lutterworth?”
“Not much, to be honest, Lord Frederick, but he has the title and needs a wife, or so I am told. Personally, I would be more willing to send him to the knackers-yard and put him out of his misery!”
“So would I, Sir Thomas, but Lady Frederick is inclined to favour him for Jane. I put the estate into male entail when I was married, that being a condition set by Lady Frederick’s father, so Jane does not stand to inherit – it will go to my brother or, more likely, young Rothwell when I die. So she has her twenty thousand and the estate towards Harborough, which is only about seven hundred acres of rough land, hillside mostly, bought for the house to be a hunting lodge, I believe, and he is a good catch for her, in some ways. The title is a good catch, I should say. I would like to see her wed, for her mother has not been well since she was born and she would do better in her own house – but whether it should be that house is another question entirely.”
“What does Jane think, Lord Frederick?”
He could give no answer, it not having occurred to him to enquire.
Jane, it transpired, would be quite content to wed Mr Lutterworth – he was not, perhaps, her ideal beau, but he was the only husband she had ever been offered and was far better than spinsterhood, especially in company with her Mama. As well, the wilderness of West Wales had ceased to have any charms for her – there were no genteel neighbours within a day’s easy return journey and she had grown tired of her own company, would like to enjoy morning visits.
Lord Lutterworth was much in favour of the match, suggested that the happy couple might wish to set up house together in Jane’s little estate at Market Harborough, only a few miles away from them but independent – better far than taking a wing of Lutterworth House for their own. Tom agreed – he would want the Honourable George out of his house if at all possible.
They did not think to ask the young man his opinion of the matter – his parents seeming to believe that he would do as he was told, Jane’s parents regarding him as an unfortunate but necessary side-effect of her marriage and not worthy of consideration. They decided to have a marriage in the spring, considerations of travel making autumn and winter ineligible.
The Hall filled up on Saturday, Viscount Hawker arriving with his wife and son and daughter and two chaises of luggage, two valets and two maids for the four – ‘the very minimum one could consider for a week in the sticks, don’t you know’.
The Viscount was dressed at the height of fashion, perhaps a little too much so for the country, his pale primrose pantaloons and delicate fawn waistcoat better suited to Regent Street than the environs of Kettering, but he was eclipsed by his son, a true dandy and much in advance of fashion, which he hoped, eventually, to lead.
The young man – he was twenty-four or five, much the age of his cousin Rothwell – was dressed to kill, possibly by shock, in lavender pantaloons and tasselled kid half-boots under a long-tailed, tight-fitting, cutaway coat in shiny black with huge silver basket-work buttons; he wore a rose as a button-hole and his cravat was a monstrous artefact of many folds and creases, all elegantly designed to please the eye and held in place by a huge am
ethyst pin. His hair was carefully brushed into a wondrous style, the Wind-Swept, and kept in place by Macassar oil, whilst he smelt of ambergris scent, lavishly applied. He was a wonder to behold and Tom sternly suppressed his grin as he stepped forward to make his greetings.
Overshadowed by her beautiful brother, his younger sister eyed Tom appraisingly and offered her own, low-cut, charms for him to appreciate; she made it quite obvious that she was bowled over by Tom’s manly aura, might well fall flat on her back in admiration. Verity bristled beside him.
“Have you disposed of the good Viscount and his children, Verry? I thought I was to be molested on the front driveway for a moment, was not sure which of them would demand first turn!”
“I do not consider myself to be a prude, nor yet a country unsophisticate, Thomas, yet I do believe those two to be well beyond the pale! She would do better selling herself on a street corner, I am sure, and, as for him, well, I know not what to say!”
“I do.”
“Please do not tell me – I had rather preserve my innocence, sir!”
“What of her ladyship, Verry ? I do not think she said a word to me.”
“Dumbstruck, I presume. From all I have heard, she is probably missing the attentions of her own particular male friend, or friends, in London, Thomas. It is rare indeed to see husband and wife in company, except at family gatherings of this nature. They are very rich, of course, so can afford to live in effectively separate households.”
Whatever their domestic circumstances, the Hawkers epitomised the best of urbane company, were anxious to be pleased, happy to fit in and make an enjoyable occasion of the week; they had much to do.
The Quarrington family arrived from their Gloucester mud, parents, son and heir and two barely marriageable daughters; they were very rich and very worthy, lived the agricultural life very happily and simply. They did not approve of the Hawkers, at all, dressing themselves simply and modestly in wool; an occasional ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ suggested a degree of Quaker sympathy sufficient to raise sophisticated eyebrows; they took water with their dinners.
Mr and Mrs Grahame appeared, from the mail-coach it seemed, brought to the Hall in a Kettering job-carriage; they were in their fifties, owned a farm, were little more than yeomen, but they were cousins and attended family weddings from a sense of duty – they certainly gained little pleasure from the company of the grand.
From Ireland came the Plunketts, nee Masters, the Marquis’ other sister who had married richly and had disappeared from English society; now, with a daughter to bring out next Season, she was reappearing, her husband quiet and obedient at her side. Her son was a lieutenant of dragoons, a heavy, and a wild young man, determinedly so, knowing what was due to his position; Tom took some pains to place him in the company of Miss Hawker, believing that she would be able to tame, or at least tire, any number of cavalrymen.
It was an interestingly assorted table for dinner on the Saturday evening; Verity and Morton had spent an hour on seating the company, ensuring that husbands did not sit next to wives or brothers to sisters and that the brash were separated from the socially reclusive, the drunk from the sober-sided and Miss Hawker from any man she could lay her hands on while the soup was still on the table.
Conversation flourished at table, all except the Grahames aware of the demands of courtesy and conventional jollity; unfortunately, there was very little common ground between them. The Hawkers’ on-dits from Town fell on deaf ears – most of them not knowing the names, the rest uncaring; the Lutterworths’ rural monologues meant little to any of the others; Lord Frederick’s accounts of the tribulations of life in remote Wales brought some sympathy; the Quarringtons’ earnest thoughts on the misery of the poor and the need to return to Arcadian simplicity struck few chords; the Plunketts had been too long away from civilisation to know what was what in the world and Lady Serena was enjoying herself too much, treasuring too many quotes, to make many contributions herself. Tom and Verity tried to bring the table together and succeeded at least in keeping up an appearance of cordiality; neither enjoyed their meal, though the food was again of the best – it was difficult for a dinner to be a failure when the guests were so well fed.
The ladies withdrew and the men clustered to the end of the big table, the Quarringtons sipping austerely at their water glasses.
“You have an excellent chef, Sir Thomas, and I frankly envy your cellar, sir!” Viscount Hawker admired the port he was drinking and cast a satirical eye at the Quarringtons.
“Both inherited with the estate, my Lord,” Tom replied. “My predecessor lived well, if unwisely.”
“What’s this I was told about the ‘Iron Master’ and Mantons, Sir Thomas? Young Ebchester said he had never seen a pistol handled like it in his life.”
“I am a good hand with a pistol, my Lord, born with it, no great virtue on my part. I keep my eye in down on the Home Farm where there is a little bit of a range set up. You would be very welcome to try your hand there if you wished.”
Robert Hawker joined his father in accepting the offer. “Lord Ebchester said you shot a very heavy pistol, Sir Thomas? A military piece rather than a purpose made duelling or target pistol.”
“Habit, Mr Hawker – it’s what I started out with and I have never changed.”
Lieutenant Plunkett, generally quiet in the company of his elders, entered the conversation.
“I carry a pair on the saddle when in uniform, Sir Thomas, but I don’t know if I could hit anything with them! May I join you?”
“Of course, Lieutenant. After breakfast on Monday, do you think, midday or thereabouts? Would you all like to come down and take a glance at that part of the estate while we are about it?”
All accepted, the Quarringtons perhaps in duty bound, not approving of weapons in general, the others with some enthusiasm – even the Hawkers owned estates and drew some part of their large income from them and had some interest, in the abstract at least, in the Land.
The remainder of the evening passed with a reasonable degree of success, the menfolk making polite conversation with the ladies, the young misses forming a group, quite naturally, before discovering that they had remarkably little in common other than a desire to make sheep’s-eyes at Lieutenant Plunkett and look daggers at each other. Rosemary Plunkett smiled hopefully at Mr Hawker, retired in amaze when she realised he too was making sheep’s-eyes at the Lieutenant. Jane Masters sat at the piano, retreating at intervals into the heavier rhythms of London Bach when the strain of Clementi’s lightness of touch grew too much for her; she had glanced at George Lutterworth, full of port and brandy and even less attractive than normal, and was wondering whether a house of her own was really worth it; then she had caught her mother’s eye and decided no price was too high. Jonathan Quarrington sat very quietly on his sofa and wondered, very quietly, to himself, why none of the young ladies had attempted to catch his eye; he did not see Miss Hawker glance across and speculate just whether a Quaker might not be a rare scalp to add to her trophy pole – she was nineteen and had had a very busy five years since first she had trapped the footman in a back attic, but she had never enjoyed the company of a young man of a religious persuasion and, in any case, the poor boy looked as if he needed a widening of his education, it would be an act of kindness. The Quarringtons’ rooms were in the same wing as the Hawkers so it would not be difficult for a young lady of her experience and ingenuity to discover where Jonathan slept and then take some pains to keep him awake; Lieutenant Plunkett could wait – possibly for a very long time, bull-at-a-gate cavalrymen were rarely, in her experience, worth the effort of getting them into her bed.
“Well, Verry? Five more days of this could have its funny side but I suspect I may be old before my time – Brown swore he saw a grey hair this morning.”
“I am not in the least surprised, my love – Nurse was equally worried about my health – she says I should not be rushed about so much, but I am actually enjoying being busy. Do you think I should lock
Miss Hawker’s door, from the outside?”
“Good God, no, my dear! You would force the poor girl to climb out of the window and that would never do – think of the scandal if she fell! Besides that, I expect poor Lieutenant Plunkett would lie awake half the night waiting for her, would end up having to tiptoe in search of her room, and I don’t really think I could deal with farce of that quality!”
“Plunkett? He should be so lucky! I was watching her – the disgraceful little tart! It’s young Quarrington she had her eye on, though why I cannot imagine.”
“Variety, I expect – he will know nothing and will be so very grateful besides. No matter, he is old enough to get an education and may well be the better for it – he is no more than his father’s shadow at the moment, a very little boy, he needs to be helped to grow up – he is the better part of twenty yet acts the part of a twelve year old.”
“Possibly – what do you expect he will do as a result?”
“I have not the slightest idea, my love; to be honest, I care very little either. What I do care about, as host, is that the disgusting little brat Lutterworth shall keep his hands off of the boy’s sisters, and Plunkett’s as well. Twice I saw him peering into the bodice of the younger girl when she sat down near him. Can you speak to their mothers? Warn them that he is not to be trusted? The alternative is that I should speak to him.”
“Would speaking to him be so bad a thing?”
“He will wet himself in sheer terror if I do, Verry – for I will be hard pressed to keep my temper and will scare the living daylights out of him!”
“I shall be glad when Wednesday is over and they can all go home again – not that any of them will leave before Friday. Church tomorrow before dinner at Grafham House; my father can drag the menfolk off to the billiards table and the women can all find plenty to chat about. On Monday you will take the men to your pistols and to walk our acres. On Tuesday there will be two carriages to take any who wish to see Lyveden New Bield and the Triangular Lodge, provided it is dry – both are famous, the Lodge for its Papist construction, the Trinity and all that, Lyveden for the Scottish mutineers. Wednesday is the wedding, Thursday will be a quiet day to recover from the excesses of the celebration. What to do on Friday?”
Nouveau Riche (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 2) Page 18