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

by Andrew Wareham

  There was a short reception line which Robert joined, waiting a very few seconds to shake the hand of his tall, grey-haired, heavy-set host, more quietly dressed than most of his two hundred or so guests in conventional evening wear without the resplendent pins and fobs and rings that announced the prosperity of almost all in the room. He was rich, Robert knew, therefore found no need to announce the fact, rather like his father.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Mr Andrews – you look very much like your father, sir. I met him only the once but was much impressed with him, a very able young man, I thought, and I understand he is now one of the leading businessmen in England, with his then, ah… associate… Mr Star.”

  “Lord Star, sir, still a very close friend and, as I am sure you know, very big in cotton in Lancashire. My father is much more into iron and coal and steam and steel but Lord Star has built his own empire in cotton spinning and, to a lesser extent, weaving.”

  The colonel seemed very surprised, shocked almost, to hear of Joseph Star’s peerage, but made no comment. He introduced his wife, a well-preserved and still-slender lady in her fifties, and then his son, Thomas Miller, a man of thirty-five or so.

  Robert was quite sure he had never met the gentleman but he seemed somehow familiar, reminded him of someone he knew, perhaps. Thomas led him off, evidently primed to escort him for the evening, introducing him to bankers and merchants and politicians and at least six of newspapermen, rather to Robert’s surprise, not expecting to find mere ‘scribblers’ in the company of gentlemen.

  “The newspapers are very important in our new democracy, Mr Andrews, their writers often men of considerable fame and influence. It is generally seen as wise to speak politely to them and answer their questions, impertinent though they often may be.”

  There was a warning in the words – not a threat, more of an indication that he should beware of the newssheets. Why?

  Miller introduced him to any number of the guests, too many to remember, as he must have been aware. Most of those he met seemed anxious only to shake his hand and be able to boast of rubbing shoulders with the heir to an English barony. He noted that it appeared to be obligatory to crush the fingers of the newly-met, decided he must cultivate his own handshake. He found himself in conversation with a banker, regretted with him the excesses of the late, foolish war, agreed that it was essential to bring the two nations onto terms of friendship, commerce being the best way to achieve this, closer relationships between the leading families also of great value. The banker’s wife smiled and introduced her daughter who had been talking with friends and had just adventitiously rejoined the family group; she was a young girl, only just out, Robert imagined, a couple of years his junior, quite pretty, vivacious and anxious to chat with him – perhaps she had never met a member of the English aristocracy before. He was invited to a soiree a couple of nights hence at the banker’s house, Mr Buller, very happy to second his daughter.

  Before the evening was over he had spoken with another four young ladies and had been invited to the houses of them all. The Americans were very hospitable people, he thought, greeting him with open arms.

  There was a supper at midnight and Mrs Colonel Miller took him down on her arm, smiling in the friendliest fashion at him and her son on his other side. They paused in front of a stand mirror to allow other guests to pass through the door in front of them, Robert blinking in surprise as he realised just who Thomas Miller reminded him of. He rather thought that he might look just like that in another fifteen or so years. The raised eyebrows of other guests took on a new significance as he realised that a number of other people in the room had come to the same conclusion. It would seem that he had an elder brother – what the hell should he say or do?

  “How is your father these days, Mr Andrews? Is he keeping well? He must be into his fifties now, I believe.”

  “Fifty-three, I believe, ma’am, and still strong and active – I do not believe I shall be calling myself Lord Andrews for quite a number of years yet. I certainly hope not!”

  “We may be in the way of making a visit to England next year, Mr Andrews. Possibly we shall meet your father then.”

  “All three of you, ma’am?”

  She smiled sweetly, perceiving no undertone to his question, he hoped.

  “No, Mr Andrews. Thomas will stay behind to mind our business interests – we could not all of us be away for as much as a twelvemonth.”

  “I shall write my father, ma’am, telling him the news. I am sure he will be very pleased to welcome you at Thingdon Hall.”

  Colonel Miller joined them, delighted to hear of the invitation but wondering if it might not be possible to visit the Roberts Works, especially their famous cannon foundry.

  “You have a special interest in great guns, Colonel Miller?”

  “The larger pieces are not cast in the States yet, Mr Andrews. I am interested in possibly building a foundry for the purpose, in the longer term, using the expertise of an existing producer in partnership, for the while perhaps purchasing a number of cannon for government contracts that might come my way. Experience in the last war – a foolishness not to be repeated, I sincerely trust – tells us that we must defend our coasts more effectively. Long forty-two pound cannon for our forts, for example, and perhaps heavy mortars as well, would be sensible purchases.”

  “The New Works could probably supply your needs, sir – but I am no expert in that field – indeed, I must confess, I have very little knowledge of the business as yet, sir!”

  “One would not expect you to, Mr Andrews. I have shares in a number of plantations, but I would not have the first idea of how to hoe cotton!”

  Robert was not convinced, was suspicious that he might be being patronised, was starting to wonder whether he was being used, and what for. Colonel Miller was an intelligent man and very experienced in the field of politics, far too subtle for a young gentleman little removed from schoolboy status. Time to change tack, to show that he had ideas of his own.

  “The late wars disclosed a number of shortfalls in England as well, Colonel Miller. Timber, for example, is difficult to come by, especially long, straight-grained beams suitable for roof joists.”

  “Or for ships’ hulls, Mr Andrews?”

  “I should think so, sir. I know, from talking with my younger brother, that barges are already being made using iron for their hulls, somehow – how they float I have never understood! I would imagine that eventually larger ships will be constructed of iron as well, though not, perhaps, in the immediate future. The need for more ships is quite clear – the trade with India is growing every year, for example, so there will be a demand for timbers for their construction. Much is purchased out of Upper Canada at the moment but there would be a need for more, both soft woods and hard.”

  “I had expected the English to rebuild their trade with the Germanies, Mr Andrews. Much closer, a short run across the German Ocean rather than two months to the States?”

  Robert had not considered that point, was forced to improvise an answer.

  “Language, Colonel Miller – the Germans will not speak a civilised tongue! As well, sir, I think that as a country we are tired of entanglements with the Continent – for twenty-five years we paid them vast sums of gold to end the wars with France and in the end we had to do most of the work ourselves. Now, they are back to their old squabbles. The Russians and the Austrians are more concerned to do each other in the eye than to seek a long-lasting settlement of their problems; the Prussians want to control every land that speaks their tongue; the Poles want to be independent; the Turks want a number of things but will not tell us what; the French want us all to forget their monstrous invasions and let them keep the borders of 1789; the Spanish wish to turn the clock back to 1500; the Portuguese wish to be left alone to get on with their lives again; what the states of Italy want, God alone knows, and He has not told the rest of us!”

  Robert was quite proud of himself – he had quite thought he had ignored all of t
he political gabbling that had washed over his head at the dinner table, but evidently some had stuck. Colonel Miller seemed impressed at any event.

  “So, Mr Andrews, you would say that England will wash its hands of Europe, will turn back to overseas trade rather than, for example, try to build new industry in northern France and the Rhineland areas where there is coal and iron ore in plenty?”

  “Yes, sir. Investment in the politically unstable parts of Europe would only be safe if England was to keep up a large standing army, and the cost of a big army and a navy capable of protecting our Far East trade would be mutually prohibitive.” He distinctly remembered his grandfather using exactly those words. “One or the other, sir, and I believe that the navy will win out. We will not build an army capable of European warfare.”

  “Or, that seems to say, able to mount a major invasion of any overseas state.”

  “I am unable to imagine any modern state that we might wish to invade, sir. There will be a need to keep the peace in India, and perhaps in parts of Africa, and to maintain forts in our various colonies, but other than that I believe our military endeavours will be very few. I am not privy to the workings of our government, sir – I could not be at my age! But all I have heard says that a quarter of a century of war is more than sufficient. I really do not expect to see England at war again in my lifetime, except in response to a threat of invasion.”

  Robert met the Millers again at the Bullers’ soiree, was relieved that the Colonel greeted him in the friendliest fashion. He had wondered whether there might not be a degree of constraint bearing in mind the similarity of appearance with his adopted son, but the Colonel, for some reason, made no comment whatsoever on that matter, though he must have been aware of the undercurrents of gossip – a political man thrived on rumour, must always know the latest.

  “I have spoken with a number of people lately, Mr Andrews, all of them very glad to hear that England has no military ambitions amongst the civilised countries of the world. There had been a fear, obviously, that England might wish to maintain the large army that the war with France had forced it to create, led, as it is, by Europe’s greatest soldier. The successes of the Peninsula and Waterloo might have encouraged the creation of a European Empire – but that worry has been allayed. Your ambassador has, of course, said the same thing, but it is reassuring in the extreme to hear the same message from another source of influence. Please pass my thanks to your father and grandfather!”

  Robert smiled and said that he would be very pleased to do so, leaving unsaid his hope that he had guessed correctly. If there was a British invasion fleet in mid-Atlantic or docked at Antwerp he was going to be in a very difficult position. He made a promise to himself never to be ignorant again – if he was regarded, because of his family, as the voice of powerful figures then he must know what was happening in the world of affairs.

  The young ladies greeted him very enthusiastically, hanging on his lips, applauding his every word and attempted witticism. Thomas Miller, at his side almost as an escort, a bodyguard, raised a sceptical eyebrow as Miss Buller applauded his humour.

  “I know you are not wed yet, Mr Andrews, but are you promised to any young lady in England?”

  “Me, Mr Miller? Certainly not… oh!”

  “I think that you might be very well advised to discover a pre-existing commitment in England, Mr Andrews – a match arranged by your parents, perhaps?”

  “I am heir to great wealth, of course, Mr Miller…”

  “So are several of these young ladies, Mr Andrews. I think the title might be of greater significance to them.”

  Robert smiled his thanks, shifted across the big room, away from a group of young men who had congregated together, close to the buffet tables – and the wines – and less under the eyes of their parents, no doubt mildly disapproving but unwilling to exert authority in public. The men, all of about Robert’s age or a year or two older, were becoming noisy.

  “’When the wine’s in, the wit’s out’, Mr Roberts. I suppose we have all taken a glass too many in our time, but not quite so publicly, perhaps!”

  “What is the uniform, Mr Miller – are they all from the same regiment, all in your army?”

  It was a very dashing uniform, reminiscent of the plates Robert had seen of Napoleon’s cavalry – gold lace and aiguillettes and crimson silks very prominent, breeches and topboots and little jackets elegantly draped on athletic young figures, and wrapped in hopeful disguise around the more portly. Two of the older members of the group wore a more familiar blue uniform, like that of an English naval officer, and one young man sported a smart but restrained green similar to that of the Rifles; these three were stood slightly to the side, with the group but not part of it perhaps.

  “Militia, Mr Andrews – young volunteers who would have performed acts of vast heroism if only they had been available when the actual fighting occurred. They are very fierce in their condemnation of the dastardly British and stalwart in their desire to defend the Republic, especially now that the war is over. The three regular officers were involved in the conflict, I believe, two at sea and the third in a battalion of foot; they have, as we say, ‘seen the elephant’ and know first-hand what war is about. Courtesy forces them into the company of the young men they grew up with, but they are certainly less boastful, though I know very well that each has a story that would be well worth telling!”

  “I have been told before, Mr Miller, that the louder the mouth, the less it is worth listening to.”

  Twice during the later hours, Miller unobtrusively moved Robert along to another group, away from the increasingly obtrusive militia officers – there was no need to court trouble. In the end a pair of them very deliberately shouldered their way past him and forced a confrontation with, quite possibly, the first Englishman they had ever met, clumsily and intentionally knocking into Robert and causing him to spill his wine, splashing one of them.

  “Get out of the bloody way, you fool! Well, have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  Robert had not had the opportunity to speak, was inclined to be contemptuous of so obviously rehearsed a line; the man was half-drunk, probably, but sober enough to try to make trouble. An apology, in front of a hundred people, few of whom had had the chance to see what had actually happened? It would be a humiliation, or would be seen as such, would be seen as compromising to his honour. A challenge would be premature, might well be seen as creating an unnecessary fight. The middle line would be better.

  “I’m sorry, sir – I did not see you and you are quite clearly too drunk to look out for yourself.” He raised his voice. “Is there a servant here who can help you to a bed to sleep it off? Or are you one of the footmen? You seem to be wearing livery!”

  Five of the young Militia officers stepped forward as one, found the regular lieutenant standing in front of them, staring them down.

  “This is not your quarrel, gentlemen, and I trust you do not intend to turn it into a vulgar brawl?”

  Miller had gripped the troublemaker’s arm, prevented him from swinging a punch.

  Robert stood his tallest, smiled calmly, apparently unmoved.

  “You insult my uniform, sir!”

  “Not at all, sir, merely the lout who disgraces it with his drunken stupidity!”

  “You will meet me for that, sir! Name your friends!”

  “With pleasure, sir. Mr Miller?”

  “Certainly, Mr Andrews.”

  Robert withdrew from the salon, waited in an ante-room, chatting with a very apologetic Mr Buller, the banker upset that trouble should have occurred in his house, even more worried that Robert might sustain harm that would affect the bank’s business. He was hoping to be very closely involved in the financing of the defence industry that seemed to be a part of government policy since the humiliation of the war – the Americans had won the Battle of New Orleans but were aware that they had not done very well elsewhere on land.

  Miller came through after a few minutes consultatio
n with the regular officers who had enforced themselves as seconds, pushing the belligerent boys into the background.

  “Tomorrow morning, Mr Andrews. Choice of weapon is yours, I presume you would prefer the smallsword?”

  “Pistol, if you please, Mr Miller.”

  “Are you quite sure, sir?”

  “Wholly, Mr Miller. What is your practice here? One shot only or a continuation if both miss?”

  Miller grimaced – his man seemed determined to kill.

  “Where the offence is seen to be gross, then second shots are generally permitted, Mr Andrews.”

  “A drunken fool – the world would probably be a better place without him… but, it is hardly necessary for me to be the instrument that removes him. Give him the option of second shot, Mr Miller, but do not insist upon it, if you please. Certainly pistol, however – I am no great hand with a sword.”

  A duel with the smallsword ended with ‘first blood’, was far less likely to result in death and was often seen as little more than a game, a way for young men to pose and make a name for bravery and ferocity without taking too many risks. Pistols were a different matter.

  Robert had given some thought to the matter of duelling since he had landed in America and had discovered the practice to be far more widespread than had been the case in England. Had he stayed on British shores then he might reasonably have expected never to have been involved in a duel in any way during his whole life, but America seemed to be different. Clearly, if he was challenged then he must fight – to run would be to destroy him in business and social life equally, and the word might well eventually spread across the Atlantic. He was sufficiently prominent, his father was anyway, for the embassy to hear and, inevitably, pass the story on in garbled form. If he was going to fight, then he was going to win, that went without saying, so he had long decided to choose pistols, though he wished he had his father’s knack with the handgun rather than his own little more than average competence.

  They met at dawn, tradition demanding that they must, though why Robert could not determine. He had slept well, to his surprise, but he hated grey mornings, a nasty cold wind whipping in off the sea reminding him that winter was almost upon them. Shirt sleeves seemed obligatory, but not open-necked, there had to be a neat tie-cravat. He was freezing but must not shiver – that could be misinterpreted as fear. He glanced about him – surgeon, seconds, cabmen, a dozen or so of onlookers, including Colonel Miller, and all wrapped up in heavy overcoats with mufflers about their necks and leather or woollen gloves and hats over their ears, and him exposed to the elements. His opponent looked no better, rather ill in fact – he probably had a filthy hangover to cope with as well – served the bugger right!