“Don’t blame yourself for his death, young man! He is no loss to his parents or to the whole world, or, most especially, to the young girls in the house! Where are you garrisoned at the moment?”
“Cork, Sir Thomas, our depot.”
“Good, best place to be for a while, out of sight, out of mind – better than in London where there might be people to talk. Please believe me when I say that you will always be very welcome at Thingdon Hall, Lieutenant Plunkett, and I shall look forward to seeing you again. You should stay for a few more days yet, I think, certainly to attend the funeral and be seen to be welcome in the company of his parents. Ah, here comes Jonathan, farmer and at least three of his sons by the look of them, and a couple of labourers besides; a donkey cart – not elegant but it will have to do.”
Brief introductions – the farmer was a Grafham tenant which made things easier in many ways – and then an inspection of the body.
“Jack be our butcher on the farm when it comes to killin’ a hog or a calf, Sir Thomas, he’ll be best at this.”
One of the labourers stepped forward, bill-hook in hand.
“Do you hold the poor gentleman’s feet out the way, Johnny,” he instructed one of the boys. “You hold his head and shoulders steady, Ned.”
Blackthorn was tough wood and this was an old stump; it took a couple of minutes and a dozen blows to clear a space and then cut the branch through, spilled blood splashing the three men quite thoroughly. They laid Lutterworth out on the cart, pulled a length of sacking over him as tidily as they could.
Tom reached into his pocket, gave the men a guinea apiece.
“Thank you! I would not have wanted to do that job myself. Burn those boots and clothes – you will not want to wear them again – and come across to the Hall. My housekeeper will fit you out with new replacements.”
“I better take the poor gent to my big barn, Sir Thomas, for the Crowner to see ‘im and say whether there’s to be an inquest on ‘im.”
“Do that, if you please, Rowsthorne. Will you send one of your boys with the message for me?”
The coroner would be a local magistrate – it should not be the Marquis, the death taking place on his lands, and Tom would be a witness, besides lacking any experience – almost certainly Major Hunt would be called upon and could be relied upon to find no extraordinary reasons that might lead to a formal inquest; it would be a sad accident, at most a few lines in the local newssheet.
Book Two: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter 7
The funeral was delayed only a couple of days by the formalities of the law, in part because riding accidents were a part of life, they happened every year in virtually every parish and especially to headstrong young men; horses were dangerous and in the nature of things killed the incompetent, the rash and the foolish. Equally importantly the people involved were too rich and powerful to argue with; if the heir to the Lutterworth barony had died by accident in the company of two lords and a baronet and several other very rich gentlemen, then accident it was with no need for silly inquests. They buried him at Finedon, several reasons being cited, including the hot weather, but Tom suspected that the main justification was that the bills all came home to him rather than being borne by the Lutterworth estate. It was all very quiet and understated, the coffin reasonably well attended because the bulk of the family were in the area already and all those who now stood in line to inherit thought they should show willing. The estate was not entailed and, while it was worth only a couple of thousand a year, it was not to be sneezed at; the male line of the Lutterworths had died out, or would on the death of the present lord, but there were Masters cousins in the female line in plenty and all of them more or less equal in seniority and claim to be remembered in the Will. The Plunketts seemed to doubt that they had much chance of the inheritance but for the rest the possibility was there and should not be jeopardised by any lack of courtesy at the funeral.
There were very few signs of grief, not merely because good manners forbade excessive public display. His parents seemed as much relieved as distressed by his taking-off and the bulk of the Masters were more inclined to be thankful that he was gone before there could be a public scandal. Jane Masters shed a few tears, but they were more for the death of her hopes of escape than for her potential husband.
Lady Serena shook Lieutenant Plunkett by the hand and announced that all was well that ended well, a sentiment that most shared even if they were less willing to publicly state it.
Parson Nobbs was perhaps the only one of those present at the funeral who showed open glee, but that was at a second, unexpected rich congregation who had again displayed a very satisfactory generosity, so much so that he had already written his letter to the bishop begging him to recommend a suitable young man to the curacy. The letter had occasioned much thought, for it seemed meet to suggest that the fortunate young divine should not be of too powerful a conviction in his beliefs, should certainly not be an enthusiast or be of a reformist persuasion; the gentleman should, in short, be no more and no less than that, a person of breeding and manners first, religion second. The bishop would, of course, be used to such requests, but even so, it was a courtesy to him to use veiled language when demanding a parson who would be, ideally, at least an agnostic – even the Church of England had to keep up a certain level of pretence to piety.
Tom, unaware of the calculations, had been consulted and had given his permission for Parson Nobbs to go into retirement, had said only that the curate should be a young man who could, if suitable, be offered the living when the occasion arose on Parson Nobbs’ death, thus minimising the changes and disruption to the parish. Being quite poor, the living could hardly be sold at all, very few rectors would wish to buy an income of two hundred a year, and so it made sense for it to be given in such a way – it was not suitable for a younger son of the Masters family, for example, and he was not prepared to add another two or three hundred a year to its income to make it eligible.
Lord Frederick came to Tom on the day of the funeral, slightly hesitant in his manner; he was to leave for Wales on the following morning and made all of the normal thanks to Tom for his hospitality before broaching a final request.
“Jane, Sir Thomas, has enjoyed her stay here very much, the company of other young people especially – I am sure she would be very happy to remain with you for another two or three months, if it suited you, that is, returning to her home for Christmas, perhaps. I think her mother’s health might benefit from a period of quiet solitude as well. I worry sometimes about these pains in her chest… they seem too deep seated, as it were… her mother died of a growth, you know, Sir Thomas, and I cannot but worry… However, be that as it may…”
Verity nodded in the background and Tom instantly made the invitation, they would be pleased indeed to have Jane’s company, particularly in Lady Verity’s condition when a young female companion would always be welcome.
The house emptied, Lady Serena last to leave and promising herself the pleasure of an early return visit, explaining herself quietly to Verity.
“I like your man, gal! Can’t say that about many of the sex! Dealt with young Lutterworth very efficiently, I believe – I suspect that young Plunkett served him a very good turn there but he would have been just as well off if he had had to do it himself! I talked with young Plunkett, by the way, before he went off to Cork, or wherever it may be – my place is mine in freehold, I made that the condition for letting my father pack me off there, and the young Lieutenant is now my heir, he deserves that much at least of the family. Paying for an agent to run the place for him it will still be an income of fifteen hundred clear for him, which will be welcome before he inherits his own acres, I expect; if nothing else, it will give him a place for a second son to settle into, and that will always be handy.”
“It will, ma’am, I have often thought it so unfair that Rothwell will inherit all and Frederick and Jack almost nothing on my father’s death.”<
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“Jack, certainly, my dear, will be on his own, but I cannot see Rothwell managing to inherit – he will never live long enough.”
Rothwell had been very quiet during the week of his visit, almost as if he lacked the energy to make a stir; a keen horseman, he had barely visited the stables and had not ridden out at all. In the evenings two or three glasses of port and a single brandy had been enough to make his head nod where in previous years it had been half a dozen glasses of each serving to make him noisy. He had driven up from London in his own carriage, but it was noticeable that it was his groom who had taken the reins, a thing he would never have previously permitted. There had been a general assessment of the young lord’s condition, and an easing away from him at table and in the drawing-room, as if whatever he had might be contagious; it was very noticeable that none of the match-makers had raised his name although he should have been the most eligible of young bachelors – neither Plunkett nor Quarrington had wanted him for a daughter.
“He has promised to return here for Christmas, Lady Serena.”
“Damn near four months away, gal; he’ll be lucky!”
In fact Rothwell lasted only another four weeks. He developed a rapid deterioration in his physical coordination, sufficiently marked that he had to admit it to himself, and followed that with a frank discussion of his condition with his father. What was actually said was between him and the Marquis – the old gentleman never disclosed his advice to his son, but the young man put a pistol to his head that evening, returning to his rooms, paying off his valet and groom as generously as he could before sending them away. Interestingly, investigation showed that he had used two pistols, the first misfiring when he had fumbled its loading.
There had to be an inquest on Rothwell, but the newssheets found no reason to publish the fact – there was far too much influence in the background for any journalist to wish to mention his name. He was buried quietly, in London, in an obscure churchyard, a poor curate suddenly becoming far wealthier and raising no objection to a suicide lying in his consecrated soil; his parents attended the grave but strictly ordered their daughters’ husbands not to appear. The notices in the society journals regretted the Viscount’s sudden death and gave no further details; none of his London friends joined the cortege, aware, probably, of the welcome they would receive.
The First Lord included an instruction in his monthly despatches to the Admiral on the West India Station and Captain Masters, Master and Commander of the Speedwell sloop, was informed of his new title and was ordered to Portsmouth where it was expected that he would request to be placed on half-pay, his naval career no longer appropriate for him.
The Marchioness saw Verity on her return from London, told her of all that had occurred and expressed her hope that Frederick would not go the same way as his elder brother; perhaps if he was offered some sort of ‘occupation’, not work as such, but something to keep him busy and interested in the Kettering area rather than idling in Town.
Tom swore quietly as the conversation was passed across to him – just what was he supposed to do? The Volunteers would provide some activity for the young lord, if he wanted that, but hardly more than a day a week; he could not, realistically, be invited to interest himself in the construction of the new canal, much too dirty-handed. Day-to-day involvement with the drainage of the valley towards Thrapston, consequent upon its enclosure, was, however, entirely eligible as an occupation for a gentleman.
The first stages of recruiting for the Volunteers had commenced with a restrained argument with Major Hunt. A dozen young men had put their names forward as officers, offering to lead the platoons and companies recruited in their own parishes; all had been of ‘good’ family and schooling, none had had military experience or had been employed or had ever done anything at all other than ride out to hounds and shoot pheasants and partridges; the major had regarded this as quite normal, it was exactly what one expected of ensigns. Tom had rejected them out of hand on the grounds that whilst they would be very brave, without question, they would also be wholly unable to fight a campaign of ambush and retreat such as the American irregulars had mastered.
Major Hunt thought that he would rather have died than stoop to back-shooting and subterfuge; Tom insisted that he would rather his people won than lost with honour.
“If you fight with honour, Sir Thomas, you cannot ‘lose’ – one may be defeated, certainly, but that is not the same thing as to lose.”
“These people are our tenants, our labourers, their families, Major Hunt; if I permit them to die then I have lost, unless they have died to defeat the enemy. My honour is not worth the death of my people.”
Neither could understand the other.
“Uniform, Major Hunt; they are not to wear scarlet, I believe, and the French wear blue. What do you suggest?”
“Green or brown, I think, Sir Thomas – loose trousers with big pockets and leather gaiters over their boots to protect their legs from brambles and such. A thick leather belt with a pair of pouches, big enough to carry a day’s biscuit and cheese, say, hard rations against need. A water bottle on the belt as well. A heavy brown coat, with leather patches. A small knapsack with a blanket rolled on its top. They must have a hat, but of what sort may be argued. Infantry habitually wear shakos, but they are silly things, really, just serve to make the men seem taller.”
“Best would be leather, with flaps to cover the ears and a piece at the back to let down in wet weather so that the rain will not trickle down their necks. Many of the farmhands here wear their like every day, and they will serve to distinguish them from other battalions.”
“Sixty rounds and a spare pair of socks in their knapsacks – they must look after their feet or they will never march their miles. A mule or a pair of donkeys to each company to carry their rations and a reserve of a thousand rounds. The baggage train can be kept to a very bare minimum, Sir Thomas, apart from the company beasts. The surgeon will need a cart and a tent and his assistant and we will need a quartermaster to look after at least one hundred rounds per man, and spare flints and a dozen or so of muskets and a grindstone for the bayonets and three days’ dry rations as well – I think we can assume that we will not be out long enough at any time to need to boil up our own beef. Officers can be kept to one mule per head, I think, because the campaigns will be short and close to home. We must have some officers, Sir Thomas.”
“We must, I agree, and I would suggest one of your young men and one older, more senior, to each company, a sergeant to each platoon or half-company. We need men who have experience of drill and musketry, and I have no idea where to find them. Have you any suggestions?”
“Scotland? I know that some Scottish regiments disbanded their second battalions after the American War and it is a poor country so there may well be men in their thirties or early forties who served then and would welcome an income again. We could well advertise for two men, say, to take rank as Volunteer Captains at an income of, say, five shillings a day, and their messing, which would amount to about the same as a full-pay captain’s nine or so shillings. I would be honoured to pay for one, Sir Thomas, and provide him with a cottage and servants, for I would expect them to be married.”
“I would cover the other, of course, Major Hunt. They could train up our sergeants during the week and so kill two birds. I would like the sergeants to be tenant farmers or yeomen, if possible, men who already employ some of the labourers who will make up the rank and file – there will be a habit of obedience there which can only make things easier for us.”
Hunt was less convinced – there might also be a degree of familiarity that would compromise relations. What, for example, if the sergeant had to give an order that might very probably result in the death of some of his men? What if they had to retreat, leaving a rearguard behind, or had to assault a heavily defended position? No easy thing to do at any time, even less so if you might have to face their wives and children every day for the rest of your life.
“You are right, Major Hunt, but, is there a better alternative?”
They could think of none, put the word out that they would be taking the names of volunteers from the following Sunday.
The official summons came from the Sheriff and Tom presented himself to be sworn as a magistrate. It was all rather low-key, a matter of routine to the officials, a commonplace sort of thing, they implied; perhaps it was, but it also gave Tom the power, in company with two like-minded men, to hang or transport, or free, any local malefactor – it made him literally the arbiter of life or death in his area.
He attended his first court in a rather sombre, reflective state of mind.
One poacher, caught red-handed for the fifth time in three years, a young man who preferred to idle his life away rather than work at his trade – he had been apprenticed to a blacksmith and had mastered the trade but would not stick to his forge. Billy Morris had been picked up by Mr Parker’s keepers who had been on the watch for him for three nights since finding a half a dozen handfuls of barley soaked in brandy put down under trees where pheasants habitually roosted; when they grabbed him he had four birds in his game-bag, their necks wrung as they sat on the ground in a drunken stupor – much quieter than shooting them.
Mr Jonathan Latimer wanted to remand Morris to Quarter Sessions and have him hanged, he had been given the chance to reform, more than once, but had spurned their generosity. Major Hunt agreed with Tom that he should go to the navy – they needed skilled men at sea, blacksmiths could become armourers or ships’ carpenters very easily and he might well learn habits of industry aboard ship, and if he was idle the navy would have him dancing at the gratings with no compunction at all.
The other cases that first day were minor nuisances – men who had thrown their household waste into the village stream rather than go to the bother of burning or burying it; families who had allowed their children to run wild, damaging gardens and fences and making a noise at night; householders who had neglected their duty to take part in repairing the local road. In each case there was an admonition or a small fine, a shilling or two, and a threat of greater punishment. Three boys of twelve or thirteen who were in the habit of hanging about together in the streets of Finedon and were suspected of throwing stones and other irritations found themselves marched off to the carter’s wagon with Morris, all four cuffed to the one chain and away to Harwich and the service of their country.
Nouveau Riche (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 2) Page 20