Born To Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “But they are only fourteen!”

  “Very true, but I think it likely she has made her mind up, probably for these last five years, and I doubt that Joseph will escape her, or wish to. It is clear that she is a very good friend – he was able to talk steam with her!”

  “A determined young lady indeed! I would more than welcome an alliance with the Stars, as goes without saying. A visit in the New Year, do you think?”

  “Parson Nobbs has finally died, Thomas – ninety if he was a day!”

  “So young Mr Sanderson may become rector at last. Will he take a curate immediately, do you know?”

  Verity pursed her lips – she really did not know and was sure that she ought to. She spoke with Mrs Sanderson, Jane Masters that was, two or three times a week, both socially and on parish business, but she was not privy to their plans for the rector’s death. The reverend was a conscientious shepherd of his parish, and quite well-liked in it, but he had no overwhelming calling, no burning desire to save souls – which quite probably contributed to his popularity, his gentle, friendly tolerance being appreciated by all except the Holy Joes of the community. It seemed probable that he would welcome the opportunity to retire to the little estate outside Market Harborough to raise his son and daughter and indulge in a little, genteel, farming.

  “I will call upon him this morning, Verry.”

  Jane Sanderson, the comfortable mother of two, was a very different young matron to the nervous, uncertain spinster of twenty. She welcomed Tom, chatted rationally about parish business and happily discussed their plans for the future. Most of the family’s income came from her so she took a part in the conversation quite naturally, managing neither to patronise nor offer a false deference to her husband and showing a very clear affection for him, a feeling he plainly reciprocated. Theirs was no great love-match perhaps, but they were very happy in their life together, a source of contentment to Tom whenever he saw them. Both were the better for having come into the orbit of the Andrews family.

  Mr Sanderson was inclined to renounce the living, if Tom would permit him to do so. There were disadvantages to the whole parish in an absentee rector, for very few curates would ever be as fortunate as he had been, as happy in their lot.

  “I believe, Lord Andrews, that is, in fact, I have been informed by the bishop and others, that a number of young gentlemen who have served in a military capacity in the late wars wish to sell out from the Army and serve in a more peaceful role. I can see that years in bloody combat may have caused many to yearn for a gentler life, for the balm of the English rural scene. I understand that there are a number with small incomes of their own who would be very happy to take even a poor rectorship, able to subsist quite comfortably in their independence.”

  It made sense – if young Plunkett had been right in saying that some two hundred thousand of soldiers would be dismissed from the colours then there would be a good ten thousand of officers who were surplus to requirement as well. Many would be broken in health or spirits by their arduous service, fit only for the fireside, but there would be some who would welcome a quiet existence in a small parish, their adventuring days over.

  “I will place no obstacle in your way, Mr Sanderson, except to say that I shall be sorry to see you go, even the short distance to Market Harborough, and will expect to see much of you in the future! Will you make contact with the bishop? I regret to say that I have never met the gentleman – our paths do not seem to have crossed socially and I have had little occasion to venture towards Peterborough.”

  The reverend would do so – the bishop kept in close contact with him – knowing the lineage of his wife – and would wish to discover his intentions now that the rectorship was his. It had already been intimated that he might look for rapid preferment in the Church when he had finally obtained his living. He explained this to Tom, saying that he had no ambition to sit in the Lords himself; mentally surveying the quality of those bishops who did, Tom could not fault his decision.

  “Has Lutterworth’s Will been published yet, Mr Sanderson? I expect it will be known in the area before we hear of it here.”

  Cousins of the Grafhams, Lord and Lady Lutterworth had died within a day of each other in high summer, succumbing to a food poisoning after ordering cook to bake a leg of pork that she was sure had hung too long – they could not afford to throw food away, they had told her. Servants’ hall had fed on bread and cheese that night, smirked in self-satisfaction in their pews at the rear of the church as the funeral service was read. There was no entail and no heir of Lutterworth’s body so the Will was of some interest to the Masters family.

  “I believe your name has been mentioned, my lord, and I would expect his lawyer to be in contact with you quite soon. I understand that the Will explains his choice of an heir, in quite explicit terms.”

  Mr Wolfe, attorney-at-law and the sole practitioner in the small town, arrived at the Hall two days later, bringing with him a surprisingly large folder of documents to be read, signed or simply filed away.

  “Lord Lutterworth had become rather eccentric, my lord, in his last years, and devoted much of his time to his Will, to the selection of an heir, changing his mind not infrequently. He made no bequests, my lord, left no pensions or gifts of any sort.”

  “You mean that he made no provision for any of his servants, Mr Wolfe?”

  “Quite, my lord.”

  “Did he place any conditions on me? I presume he expected me to look after the servants?”

  “I believe not, my lord. The estate is yours in its entirety, freehold and unmortgaged, some two thousand acres split into twelve farms, enclosed but hardly improved at all, the rent roll amounting to no more than two thousand one hundred pounds. The bulk of the Will is devoted to explaining why he chose you as heir, my lord, but I expect you will not wish it to be made general knowledge – it does not redound to his credit.”

  Tom put his hand out, read the three quarto pages, snorting in amusement and outrage.

  “Not Grafham because he allowed his heir to become entangled with a Yid. Not Hawker because his daughter is a whore and his son a pansy. Not Plunkett because his son killed Lutterworth’s, even if he claimed it was an accident. Not Grahame because the man is no more than a peasant, nor Quarrington because he is a ranter. Not Lord Frederick Masters because he married out of his class. Only me left of the males, and I am a pirate and a grubby money-maker, but at least I am honest about it. He does not approve of placing money in the hands of women so Ladies Verity and Anne are not to be considered. He would have left his funds to the Anti-Slavery Society, except that he thinks slavery to be a good thing, despite all that Rothwell says, and all the other charitable associations are tainted by Methodies, so the money has to stay in the family and at least it will stick to my fingers. You have applied for probate, Mr Wolfe?”

  “It has been granted, my lord.”

  “Good. You have a list of the staff, of course, with their years of service.”

  Wolfe dug the sheet out of the folder, saying that he had presumed, dare he say, hoped, that it would be required.

  “The butler – forty years in the house from a boy of eleven, and not a penny left him – I can only hope he is not too upset!”

  “He is not, my lord – he did not expect anything from the late lord, hoped only that there will still be a place for him and for Cook, who is his wife.”

  “Three maids and a gardener and a groom – bare bones, Mr Wolfe!”

  “The late lord would not spend out of his limited income, not to ‘feed idle mouths’, my lord. I understand that he managed to save the better part of five hundred pounds every year, all placed into the Funds in safety. He would not pay for a bailiff, acted as his own agent for the estate in effect, and would not shell out for any improvements or even necessary maintenance on his farms. There is the sum of nearly thirty thousand pounds in Consols, my lord, as is detailed here.”

  The attorney handed across a sheet of paper that summarised
the ledger it had rested upon.

  “An income of a thousand a year in itself, Mr Wolfe, but it does not appear to have been reinvested?”

  “No, my lord. I believe, am almost certain in fact, that he took the income in gold and placed it into safekeeping, had done so every year since the Revolution in the year of eighty-nine. But I do not know where. In the cellars perhaps, or in a hole in the gardens, or stuffed up the bakehouse chimney for all I know.”

  “Lutterworth’s treasure – perhaps I should tear the house down to try to find it, but perhaps I shall not bother, he is just as likely to have frittered it away in illicit pleasures. Did he expect a revolution in this country, do you know, Mr Wolfe?”

  “I believe so, my lord – it would seem that lesser mortals no longer knew their proper place and the aristocracy had forgotten its duty to keep them in submission, as was only good for them. The world was going to the dogs, one understands, my lord, but he intended to survive the inevitable downfall of all that was good on Earth.”

  “Mad as a March hare!”

  “Eccentric, certainly, my lord.”

  “Quillerson! I have inherited Lutterworth’s estate, and I believe it to be a broken-down shambles!”

  “I heard that it had come our way, my lord. From all I understand I believe you are optimistic in your assessment.”

  It took Tom a few seconds to assimilate Quillerson’s meaning. He was not particularly amused.

  “It is just too far distant for you to be able to give it the daily attention it will need for the first few months. What do you suggest?”

  “Arthur Mudge, my lord, the second son, twenty-three or so years old and a bright young man. You will remember he was one of our scholarship boys at Kettering School, my lord?”

  “He was too, I remember now. What is he doing with himself?”

  “He went to articles with attorneys in Northampton when he was just sixteen and then set up for himself in London, having been recommended to some dealers in corn and hides there. He was establishing himself quite well, was set to become a prosperous gentleman when his chest let him down – forever coughing and hacking and wheezing until his doctor told him to go home to the country, promising him that another winter of London fogs would be the death of him. He has been at home for three months now, is feeling better and thinking of perhaps putting up his brass plate in Kettering, but there are already three separate attorneys there and little trade for a fourth.”

  “And he is a farmer’s son, knows the land, is a clever young man and could easily be persuaded, you think, to take on the agent’s role at Lutterworth?”

  Quillerson nodded.

  “Talk to him, if you please. If he will take the job on, discuss a wage with him and then bring him to me. The place must be brought round – I will not permit the people there to remain, as I suspect, in squalor. We will go for a first visit, all three of us, next week.”

  They decided in the end that it would be better if the family stayed at the Great House in Lutterworth for a few weeks, to establish their presence in the area, to be seen. Verity sent Mrs Beckwith across with three maids and one of the footmen to make the house habitable, a wise precaution. The groom came with a message the following day.

  “Mrs Beckwith writes that the roof leaks, three quarters of the rooms have been shut up for the past twenty years, and the kitchens and cellars are a disgrace. She begs permission to hire on extra staff for the meanwhile, to throw out and burn a great pile of trash that once was furniture and is now the home of mice and mould, to bring in the builder to the roof and to refurbish the kitchen, and to purchase crockery and pots and pans sufficient for a civilised way of life. She further suggests that we delay our visit for at least another week.”

  “Do it.”

  “The question arises, Thomas, of what is to be done with the house. It would not be well to leave it empty.”

  “Eventually it can become our Dower House, do you think? For the while, are there any of your family who would welcome a refuge in their declining years?”

  Every family had its maiden aunts and spinster cousins who would be only too glad to accept a free lodging in a big house, to escape from the meagre pair of rooms that was all their tiny income would afford. Set up in a country house, returned to the comfort of their childhood with gardens to walk in and perhaps a dog to pet, they could escape from genteel poverty - so much more rigorous than the poverty of the labouring classes for they could not accept charity from the vicar or hand-me-downs from the lady of the manor; nor could they poach the odd rabbit or go out gleaning at harvest time. Verity had no doubt she would be able to find a tenant.

  “Two thousand acres, Mudge, let as twelve farms for some strange reason. I am not at all sure why Lutterworth would have done that.”

  “I’ve looked at the papers you gave me, my lord – they are not equal in size. Two of the holdings are of the better part of seven hundred acres, and by the looks of it the other ten places were all carved out of what had been a third farm, all more or less of the same size, about sixty acres and mixed – a few sheep, some pigs, a dozen or so of dairy cattle, ten or twenty acres down to corn. No doubt the gentleman had his own reasons, my lord. I have heard tell of other estates where young girls have found a way of laying their hands on a few acres for themselves and their kinfolk.”

  Tom had not considered that point. No doubt Lutterworth had found it necessary to silence a number of local misses who had met his son before that young gentleman’s adventurous career had come to its abrupt end.

  “It’s a way of obtaining a dowry, I suppose, Mudge, and I believe the young man to have been none too fussy about asking first. Lifetime tenancies at very low rental, I presume?”

  “Pennies, my lord, and them not always collected. What are we to do with them, my lord?”

  “Off hand, I do not know. How far is it to Leicester or Nottingham, would it be possible to run milk or butter or cheeses into the towns, or vegetables like Denham does?”

  “Fifteen or so miles to Leicester, I believe, my lord, from glancing at the maps of the county, not impossible, though I doubt fresh milk would survive too well. I shall examine the proposal very carefully, of course, but feel that it may offer a way forward, may eventually lead to a proper rent.”

  They left early in the morning, a team of four horses to the travelling coach because although the overall distance was short there was no turnpike, they had to travel the country lanes over the low hills and wet valleys, pleasant enough to ride but unfriendly to wheels. Almost all of the parishes they crossed were enclosed, fenced and hedged fields on the flatter land down to corn, the hillsides carrying beef cattle and well-bred sheep, the farmers properly prosperous, as they should have been at the end of a long war with foodstuffs in short supply. It was an almost identical landscape to theirs, little to attract their attention except when crossing the busy canals to the north of Market Harborough. Then they came to their inheritance.

  “Around the Kilworths, I believe, Verity, the bulk of the land was Lutterworth’s. Mudge tells me we shall recognise the farms when we come to them.”

  She pointed to a cluster of ramshackle buildings at the side of the road a quarter of a mile to their front, coming into sight as they climbed a few feet up and round a bend from a small stream, itself unbridged and roughly forded.

  It was worse than Tom had imagined. He had seen urban slums, the rookeries and tenements of the new industry, but they were red brick and slate, the squalor disguised to an extent, but here the few shacks stood out in isolation, their misery flagrantly displayed. Farmhouse, eight labourers’ cottages, three barns and a half dozen of various sheds huddled together around a mud-patch yard, all of them roofed by rotten, blackened thatch sheltering decayed brickwork or crazy, sagging timber. Where there was a fence it was broken, half of its palings missing. The ditches were choked with weeds. The hedges were covered in briars and untrimmed in years. The track itself was no more than a pair of wheel ruts winding betwee
n potholes. There was a family of pigs wandering dispiritedly, snuffling half-heartedly at the soil in search of a mouthful, or even a worm or two.

  “No children playing, Thomas – either they are put to work in the fields or they lack the energy to run about.”

  “And this must be one of the two big holdings, the pair that should be most prosperous!”

  The patchwork of small holdings came next. Those visible from the road were if anything, poorer than the farm.

  “Mudge, you will have to be resident here, I fear – there will be work for the next five years.”

  “At least that, my lord. With your agreement, I would like to take the West Wing of the manor house as offices and rooms for me, my lord. I think it must have been the residence of the heir and his family in a past generation, secluded a little from the bulk of the house with a large door of its own. While I remain unwedded – and I have no plans at all to change that state at the moment – it will be easier for me and, I think, convenient for the estate.”

  Mudge showed them the rooms he had in mind and they agreed it was entirely rational, should be done.

  “Have you visited all of the tenants yet, Mudge?”

  “Most, my lord. The two greatest holders will be here in the morning, if it suits your convenience, to discuss what is needed and what can be done and when. What expenditure can I make, my lord?”

  “Your decision, Mudge. Aim to break even in seven years, if possible.”

  “In effect, my lord, I should spend the rent of seven years, so that at the end of that time we are where we started, financially?”