The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  Definitely time to do something – perhaps Mrs Morris would be the answer.

  She dwelt in a merchant’s house of the previous century, large, rambling, full of chambers, great and small, inconvenient to modern tastes, the sort that commonly became rookeries, a family, or more, of the poorest in every room and paying pennies in rent, dirty, smelly and eventually burning down to a drunken mid-winter’s fire. A few of the big old places became offices, sub-divided into attorneys’ and doctors’ chambers; one or two served other purposes.

  The ground floor was given over to the domestic functions, kitchens and such, and visitors were led up a broad, open oak staircase to a first floor landing, a hallway and four large salons – it seemed probable that internal walls had been knocked down, three and four chambers made into one. The proprietress was waiting for them in the largest room, bay-windowed and airy but not, perhaps, spotlessly clean – she lacked the housewife’s eye it would seem. She had an abundance of other attributes, however, including a bosom that was quite the largest Tom had ever seen, well displayed and heavily underpinned; she was of uncertain age – if she knew how old she was she had carefully forgotten – a dubious blonde dressed in several yards of glossily purple satin variously decorated with pins and brooches scattered at random and showing stones coloured as diamonds, sapphires and rubies, some of them quite possibly genuine. Her voice was nasal and powerful, overlain with an attempted but ill-taught gentility; she could have done well as foremast lookout in a gale of wind.

  “Good morning, Mr Clapperley!” She did not make a curtsey, which was as well for decency’s sake.

  “Good morning, Mrs Morris. May I present Mr Thomas Andrews?”

  They shook hands, no gentle clasp, she had good muscles, which thought took Tom’s mind back to Antigua and brought a spontaneous grin. The twisting scar had its normal unfortunate effect, causing her to step backwards.

  “Oh, Christ! I ‘opes you don’t bite, mister!”

  The patina of gentrification did not survive shock, it would seem, to her embarrassment. She squared her shoulders, to the danger of anything within a yard’s range, smiled determinedly, rebuilt the layers of courtesy.

  “I am sure, Mr Andrews, you would like to inspect the property and to discover the details of my little business. Do tell me if you find anything especially interesting.” She thrust her bosom forward hopefully, did not seem surprised that Tom did not take up her offer – it had been some years since she had interested a young man without first paying him.

  Tom nodded and smiled again, it having worked so well first time.

  “The salon we are in is used for welcoming our guests and as a lounge for those who wish to sit and chat for a while over a glass; we serve a midnight buffet on Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings.”

  There were mismatched tables scattered about the room and a long dining table against the wall, presumably where the buffet would be set out. All of the tables, whatever their size, had only two chairs, or, if close to a wall, a chaise longue, variously upholstered in green or gold and all slightly grubby. Tom raised an eyebrow to Clapperley, received an imperceptible nod. It was a knocking shop as well, the men would make their choice in this room, which was as he had expected, betting and whoring tending to go together naturally.

  “The Blue Room, Mr Andrews, through here, is devoted to faro and such other games as may be desired, whilst the Yellow Room, on the other side of the hall is kept quieter for the whist players. The Green Room is not always open but is used normally once or twice a week to stage little entertainments.”

  She opened the green doors, the only ones closed, to display a couple of dozen heavily upholstered wing chairs in a semi-circle about a raised dais, the walls behind it covered in mirrors and a chandelier directly above loaded with wax candles.

  “I am sure you can imagine our little pageants, Mr Andrews.”

  Tom was not sure he could, or wished to; Clapperley’s leer was more than ordinarily pronounced.

  They left the Green Room and Mrs Morris waved her hand towards a thickly carpeted stairway at the rear of the hall, said that it led up to the private rooms.

  “Do you open for business every night, Mrs Morris?”

  “Never on Sunday – we would be closed down within the week if we broke the Sabbath and in any case, the best paying customers are not available then – they are all in church or chapel!”

  They chuckled together, all three having an appreciation of the arts of hypocrisy.

  Back in the main salon they sat down at the dining table to discuss finance, tea offered and accepted, no mention of alcohol at business.

  “I could repay you your cash today, Mr Andrews, with one month’s interest, but it would leave me tight for working money. I would prefer to keep it for a twelvemonth, spending some on restocking the wine cellar and a little on furnishings and holding the rest against need. I would meet the interest monthly, and would repay the principal on the twelvemonth day, unless you wished to discuss a further advance then, which I might or might not wish to take – at this distance I do not know.”

  “That sounds open and above board, ma’am, and I will be very happy to proceed on that basis.”

  “Mrs Morris tells me that she is putting on a show next week, Mr Andrews, on Wednesday. A five guineas contribution and an audience of twenty or so for an hour or two of fun and gig.”

  “I rather fear I am already engaged for that evening, Mr Clapperley.”

  “It is a way of meeting up with other enterprising businessmen, Mr Andrews, breaking the ice, as it were.”

  Tom promised to have another look at his diary to see if he could rearrange his meetings; a little consideration and he left things as they were – an audience of twenty, not all of them active businessmen out of a community of a hundred or so, big and small together, in the St Helens area, might lead to perhaps ten contacts and work for Roberts from say one half of them. On the other hand, he might easily become known as ‘not quite the thing’ and be avoided by the respectable. The scar was the problem here, it identified him, which could be advantageous, making him stand out in a crowd, but it also meant that people would notice it, ask who he was and casually comment on having seen him at Mrs Morris’ house and create a reputation for him.

  Habitual visits to Mrs Morris would be harmful to the firm, but it would be possible to make a more clandestine contact, out of hours, to solve a pressing problem.

  “Mrs Morris, a pleasure to see you again. I wonder if we might discuss a matter of some convenience to me?”

  “Of course, Mr Andrews, do take a seat!”

  The accent was at its most genteel today, Tom noticed, easily matched his own; he wondered if she also recognised the falsity of his dialect – no matter, they were essentially of the same ilk.

  “Put simply, Mrs Morris, and to be wholly open, I am new to the business world and to this locality and must establish my name from nothing – I certainly must not gain a reputation for loose conduct, the chapels being what they are. As you may have noticed, my face is not unmemorable, once seen never forgotten!”

  She sought for tactful words, realised there were none.

  “You mean that bloody great scar across your face, Mr Andrews – it ain’t that ugly but it ain’t invisible either. People who see it are going to comment and want to know who you are and how you got it; you would soon be known as the ironmaster who can be found at the gaming tables. It would ruin you, for sure, you are quite right, sir. By the way, now that we are talking about it, how did you come by it?”

  She showed a sympathetic intelligence, and it was a fair question once he had raised the topic himself.

  “At sea, Sugar Islands; we boarded a prize, not expecting a fight, and a fool slashed at me with a knife he had hidden. Stupid thing to do – it seemed there had been a mutiny and he had killed the captain on the previous day, expected to be hanged for it and thought he had nothing to lose.”

  “Stupid of him – I suppose he lost all
he had on the spot?”

  “He did, ma’am – and he would have been untouched otherwise – why should we care if he had mutinied on a French ship?”

  “’The guilty flee when no man pursueth’, or so I was told when I was young, Mr Andrews. If I am asked, and I expect I might be because I am thought to know everybody in town, I should say that you were injured in a naval action and left the sea with your prize-monies? A very respectable thing to have done – everybody loves a sailor.”

  “Why, yes, thank you, ma’am – I had not thought of that, but it will answer questions without their needing to be asked.”

  “Now then, to business, ma’am. I have little interest in gambling – to be honest, it seems slow to me, lay down your money and see if a card turns up, not much in that. I am, however, unmarried and will stay that way for some time, until the firm is established at least, probably another ten years, and then an advantageous marriage may well make sense, if no other sort occurs. And staying single has obvious disadvantages…”

  “So a discreet companion would be a pleasant indulgence, but you must not be seen to frequent this house, for there would certainly be comment, and it would be more than a little unwise to mount a mistress out at your place – the gentry can do that, ironmasters may not. I presume your need is for grown-up female company, sir, but if your tastes run in other directions I am sure that that can be catered for.”

  Tom blushed, hastened to assure her that his interest lay exclusively with the female sex; it did not occur to him that he needed to comment on the adult specification, never having heard of those interested in small children.

  “A little house, a cottage in one of the secluded lanes on the outskirts, would be best, where you can call and stay two or three nights of the week without arousing comment, though it would be best if you did not live there; it will be known, of course, but will be discreet, not flaunting your indiscretions in the public eye – a lot of very respectable men do it. A hundred will buy and furnish a small place; as much again each year would staff it with a cook-maid and a skivvy and a young lady of discretion, though you would wish as well to spend more on presents and clothing for her, I doubt not. Two weeks or so should suffice, I expect, Mr Andrews, I shall send you a note.”

  The note came in three weeks rather than two, Tom possessing himself in patience, sure that he had not been forgotten.

  “I am so sorry for the delay, Mr A,” Mrs Morris gushed, thrusting her massive person upon him – the silk was heliotrope today, embellished with rubies, garnets and jet brooches and pins placed in pleasing disorder.

  “Not two days after we spoke, Mr A, I was apprised of the existence of a young lady, newly come upon the town in Birmingham and wishful to move away from her home area where she might be known.”

  Tom’s eyebrows raised, he was not at all sure what she was implying.

  “A young miss of respectable parents who made a slight mistake a few weeks ago, Mr A. The piano tutor, it would seem, persuaded the poor girl to play upon his organ!”

  She roared at her own wit, inviting him to join in.

  “Needless to say”, she continued, having got her breath back, “Mama discovered her with her skirts around her waist and raised the household, Papa, it would seem, pursuing the enterprising gentleman down the street with a fowling piece, though with what success I do not know! Miss Mary, being no longer an honest maiden, was put out of the house, onto the coach into town with her ticket in her hand and five guineas in her pocket and bidden to make her own way in life thenceforth – she had brought shame and Papa was a stern chapel-goer, one who truly loves his fellow man. She reached the coaching inn and was stood at a loose end, knowing not what to do, and the landlord, familiar with the sight, sent word to my friend Mrs Jerrold who offered the poor lass the sanctuary of her ‘boarding-house for young ladies’ for the while. A week or so and she persuaded her to come up here to me, away from the nasty local old tabbies of her home area, not that any were ever likely to meet her in Birmingham, ten miles away from her home. She is ‘helping me with the housework’ at the moment, dusting in the Blue Room. She is not with child, luckily, and is a well-made girl, quite pretty and knows how to conduct herself in genteel fashion, apart from one minor slip, that is.”

  They peered through the door at a young girl of seventeen or so who was busily cleaning and setting the room to rights, glad to be useful to the lady who had been so kind to her. As Mrs Morris had said, she had a good figure and an attractive face under auburn hair, for which Tom had a particular weakness.

  “She is certainly a pretty girl, Mrs Morris, but from what you say she will hardly wish to go into keeping and I will have no part in forcing her, ma’am!”

  “Neither you should, sir, and you would have me to reckon with if you tried, sir. That said, she has no other course open to her – I will talk with her and bring her to a proper frame of mind. She has already discovered that a maid in service must have a character, must be vouched for by parents or by a previous employer, and she has no other skills at all, how should she have? When faced with the alternatives I have no doubt what her choice must be, and then it is up to you to keep her content in her lot, sir. Do you come back here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and I shall have your house keys and my own attorney – not Mr Clapperley, a good man but inquisitive - to sign up contracts and give you the deeds.”

  Mrs Morris spoke long to Mary that night, explaining in the friendliest fashion that she could hardly expect to remain in her house, a guest forever, and asking what she thought to do with her life.

  “I don’t know, ma’am. What can I do?” She fought the tears back, tried to behave like a sensible adult, making her own way in a world that seemed suddenly to be very cold and unwelcoming.

  “Well… you can’t get work as a maid in service, but you might be able to find a place serving in a hotel or a pub, pretty girls are welcome taking drinks to the men at the tables.”

  As Mrs Morris had guessed, Mary’s sole knowledge of alcohol was the Demon Rum, coming as she did from the chapel; entering a den of iniquity would imperil her immortal soul, working in one would damn her for sure.

  “No, no, not that, ma’am! Is there nothing else?”

  “Not as work, my dear, the only other thing to do is to accept the protection of a gentleman. You could have your own little house with cook and maid to look after you, your man visiting you occasionally, a night or two each week.”

  “You mean, a husband, Mrs Morris,” she offered hopefully.

  “No, my dear, I am afraid that girls in your circumstances do not usually get married.”

  “But… that would be to live in sin!”

  “Better than dying in the gutter, my dear!”

  Mary found the flat common sense of that comment to be quite unacceptably unemotional – this was tragedy and should be treated appropriately.

  “It would mean letting him…”

  “Do what the tutor did? Yes, frequently.”

  “But I did not like it at all when Mr Jevons said he would show his love for me – it wasn’t very nice and it made me sore!”

  Mrs Morris kept her temper and her patient smile with some considerable effort. Just what did they teach these young girls of today?

  “After you have had a bit of practice you will find that you quite like it, my dear, and it won’t be as if you are just doing that all day, every day – not more than a couple of hours a week, when you think about it.”

  Mary remained unconvinced – she had a strong suspicion that Mrs Morris might be right, but she must try to find an alternative.

  “Is there really nothing else at all, ma’am?”

  “Yes, you can go into a bawdy house.” She thought that a daughter of the chapel was more likely to have heard the old-fashioned term while the word ‘brothel’ should never have sullied her maidenly ears.

  “Oh! But they are very bad places, they are where wicked girls end up!”

  “That is right – they are
the worst of places. In exchange for your meals and a few pennies you must ‘entertain’ every man who wants to pay for you, ten and twelve a day, every day, until you die, worn out, old and often diseased.”

  “No!”

  “Then I shall tell Mr Andrews that you will go with him tomorrow morning, shall I? He has bought a very pleasant little house for you – he has seen you and thinks you are very pretty and would like you to be his friend, his and nobody else’s. Think about it and tell me in the morning, after you have packed your bag.”

  Mary slept little that night; she thought of running away, but had enough sense to realise that she had nowhere to go and no money to live on – she would end up selling herself, with many fewer advantages than Mrs Morris seemed to be offering. She cried herself to sleep, wondering if Mr Jevons had known what he was doing to her and whether he would have cared; she decided in the end that she had been a fool, a silly child, and now she must make the best of what little she had left. It wasn’t fair, even so.

  She came to breakfast in the morning in grown-up mood, amazed herself by displaying an appetite for food – she had thought she would have been unable to touch a thing.