‘Please do, Admiral Braddock,’ Henry said, standing up. ‘One thing, what was this flag officer’s name?’
‘Hassall. Never liked the fellow myself. Too much given to showing off.’
‘If you’ll forgive me, I’ve arranged to meet someone.’
That someone was a fellow Master Mason called Tobias Sowerby. He owned and ran a comprehensive business, transporting goods around the locality by horse-drawn vans: further afield it was by barge. People moving between Deal, Sandwich and the surrounding parishes needed his services to carry their chattels, while the local tradesfolk, not willing to bear the expense of their own conveyances, plus a carter and possibly two, often hired Sowerby to move sale goods.
There was a bit of a frisson to this meeting. Henry, having lost, he later established, a cartload of tea to Dan Spafford, sought to mitigate the damage by billing Sowerby and demanding recompense. He reasoned it was from his man the stuff had been stolen. The demand had been refused, with the arch observation that if Henry Tulkington wanted goods distributed, he might have to do it himself, unless he wished to insure them.
‘I hope you’re not still smarting from our last encounter, Tobias?’
‘Why would I?’ was an obvious lie. ‘The matter was settled.’
Henry smiled and laid an affectionate hand on Sowerby’s shoulder. ‘And if I admit I was in the wrong’ − that caused a deep intake of breath: Henry Tulkington was not a man much given to apology − ‘I was in a bit of a passion, as you would be to see your possessions filched. I spoke in haste and I now regret it.’
Sowerby had his own problem: this man was his best customer by a county mile, while it mattered not to him the nature of the goods he was being asked to carry. Indeed, it allowed him to charge a premium, the basis of the demand for recompense, one which had permitted him to undercut his rivals on normal commerce and drive several out of business.
‘I came today with an offer to meet you halfway, Henry.’
‘Why, that’s noble, Tobias.’
‘So the matter is now settled?’
‘It was settled in my mind, before I ever got home. But I will recall your kindness should I ever be tempted to let my temper get the better of me again.’
Henry, all bonhomie, handed over the details of what required to be delivered within horse carriage distance, some to private addresses, mostly to various coaching inns, where those doing the buying would bring their carriages to meet the Sowerby vans. In addition came Dirley’s list of what was required to be despatched by barge, a regular run to a warehouse at Chelsea Harbour.
If he was smiling and calm, it was all outward show; behind that facade he was seething. Sowerby meeting him halfway did not fit the bill, he should have coughed up the lot. Henry was as aware as the man himself how he used the profits from moving contraband to grow his enterprise. The swine should have been grateful to him for his prosperity and taken a chance to show it in silver.
One day, Sowerby would end up like others, bleeding and battered, dumped in a muddy ditch, getting what he deserved from John Hawker. How he wished it could be him handing out the deserved retribution and he conjured up the scene in his head. The confrontation, the denials, the blows delivered, the pleas for mercy, utterly ignored as a hard boot finished Sowerby off. It could not be, he had to hold back from that: his responsibilities prevented Henry from proving to those who crossed him the price they would pay for their stupidity.
But he truly wished to be the deliverer of punishment. It was a point often made to Hawker, if few other people, a notion the man scoffed at. For all his power, Hawker knew Tulkington was a weed who would as like faint at the sight of blood.
As he rode home, Henry’s temper seemed to increase, until he was loudly denouncing various souls, going all the way back to his childhood. Those who had taken advantage of his inability to grow – at aged thirteen he had still looked like a child. The same people then guyed him for gaining inches by the week, until he towered over people he’d previously been obliged to look up at. If he gained height, it had not been matched by bulk, which left him still the victim.
No one humbugged a Tulkington − not his fellow pupils at school, the likes of Roger Colpoys or his sister and her friends, with their insults they thought to disguise as witty sallies, which was doubly frustrating for he could not touch them. There were others who had been shown the error of their opposition. Sowerby surely deserved to be next.
But not yet: he was needed. Henry, as he passed through Upper Deal, had calmed somewhat, moving on to turn over in his mind not only Sowerby getting his just deserts but how he might be financially ruined as well. It was a sad conclusion, by the time he reached his gate, that he needed the man too much to do that which he wished.
He would have to stick with him. The only other option was to take over the organisation of transport himself, which flew in the face of how Dirley and his father had arranged his inheritance. But he must find a way to send him a message and remind him who held the whip hand.
He could recall, although he was not far beyond being breeched, a time when Sowerby was no more than one man driving a dilapidated cart, with a patched canopy and drawn by a near knackered horse, too old for the plough. He had risen from near beggary to the ability to more than hold his head up in the Lodge. But his elevation had come from the Tulkingtons on certain conditions.
All transport charges were settled in cash, John Hawker advised not to look too closely when tax gathering, part of the arrangement being that he kept no records of their transactions. Therein lay the purpose of the premium payment, to shield the name of Tulkington from his activities.
Edward Brazier knew he was engaged upon something that had more hope attached to it than any possible chance of a positive outcome. Joe had gone through his possessions to dig out from under a mass of other objects his telescope. This, from a vantage point of a dipping incline, some five hundred yards distant, was now trained on the Colpoys’ house, while his protection was dotted around behind him, to make sure he was not disturbed.
The building was typical of the area, four-square and red-brick, quartered with regulation windows of large sashes and small panes, added to enough chimneys to rate it substantial. It was set in a dip and well away from the barns, with haystacks in between. There was a water tower on the highest nearby point, speaking of no need for the courtyard well, which alone denoted prosperity. No formal gardens fronted Home Farm, as at Cottington Court. It was a beach shingle driveway, with chickens darting around pecking for food.
Having been there for some time, he had seen a trio of carrot-topped children, trailed by excited dogs, go about their morning tasks, collecting eggs from the hutches into which the fowl retreated at nightfall, turning over the filth of the pigsty and taking indoors a milk churn brought to the house from the cowshed. In both build and such duties, it reminded Brazier of his own childhood home in Hampshire, bringing to mind the smell of freshly baked bread. That always managed to give his maternal grandfather indigestion, which had him drink near-boiling water to relieve it. His father was often away at sea, but when he was home Brazier felt complete.
As a ship’s surgeon he dealt with the common ailments of tars and was circumspect in description, so it had been a few years of ignorance for son Edward before he witnessed, at too close a hand, what those ailments were. Sailors were permanently costive from too restricted a diet, which required extraction by a long probing spoon dipped in oil.
Delirium tremens brought on by an excess of harboured rum rations, too swiftly consumed, or a long period of drunkenness ashore − and that usually meant the pox as well, which brought out mercury and the terrifying probe. Worst of all were the results of a severe flogging for some heinous crime; a mincemeat back added to the luminosity of battered flesh, running with blood, fresh enough to glint in the morning light.
When Roger Colpoys emerged, it was obvious he was the master of Home Farm. It lay in the overbearing way he waved his riding crop, added to
the adopted spread-feet stance of impatience, when whatever unheard instructions he issued took too long to be obeyed. Brazier could see, but not hear him, shouting at his children and that pleased him, though he had no idea why. They did their best to ignore their irate sire even when he was remonstrating them from the elevation of the mounting block. Eventually he had his horse brought out, got astride it and, with the gate opened in readiness, rode off at a fast canter. And then there was nothing.
Home Farm fell, as it would, into its daily routine: servants going about their duties, piles of stinking hay being forked out of the stables onto carts, to join the collected dung being taken to the fields as fertiliser. The arrival of a dog cart set his blood running, until it disgorged an elderly, stooped cove, carrying books.
If Dutchy, Peddler and Cocky could not see as clearly as their captain, it took no great wit to comprehend little of interest was going on and time was flying by. Peddler was moaning about being hungry, for the sun had peaked, which got a scoff from his mates for his rumbling gut.
‘Happen they’ll hear that belly rumblin’ doon the hoose, Dutchy, what d’ye reckon?’
‘They will if you fart, you Scots git,’ the victim of this jibe growled.
‘Fool’s errand this one,’ Peddler insisted. ‘By my reckonin’, the Turk can’t go near the place.’
‘What tell’t ye that?’ asked Cocky.
‘If he could, we would have knocked at the door right off, as sweet as kiss my hand, to be shown in to a farmhouse breakfast.’
‘Some folk,’ Cocky cawed, ‘the sensible ones, dream about wimen. Wi’ you it’s eggs and smoked ham.’
‘Lasts longer as pleasure, Cocky, old mate. Fill a sack, instead of drainin’ it.’
‘Coach comin’, lads.’
Dutchy’s warning had all three sink into the tall meadow grass, left with the sound of clopping hooves, as a Berlin approached the gate of Home Farm, that opened by a lad rushing to the duty. Even at a distance, once the step had been lowered, the trio could see two women alight. Only Edward Brazier, using his telescope, could put names to the figures.
He felt a near physical pain to see Betsey, replaced by a flash of anger as he identified the inevitable aunt. A swift shift showed Annabel Colpoys in the doorway, a gesture of welcome very obvious. Words were being exchanged and he could not hear them. Would the Colpoys woman convey back to Betsey his determination to rescue her? If not, what could he do?
Brazier needed no secret gate to gain access to Cottington Court. A man who could climb a hundred feet of rigging in a howling gale would not be troubled by a mere brick wall. But the obstacle was not made of stone. He needed to know that Betsey would be waiting, of which he was reasonably sure. If Betsey was a regular visitor to Home Farm, and she had been there a day or two before, would this be the best place from which to snatch her to safety? These thoughts occupied him as the three women disappeared indoors.
But about what were they speaking? With Sarah Lovell present, he doubted it would be about him, unless it was deeply unflattering. Now they were out of sight, he could allow his thinking free rein, even if, in doing so, he visited upon himself the maximum degree of discomfort. To add to that and complicate any half-formed plans, he saw the two coachmen from Cottington take up station without the gate, one with a fowling piece very prominently displayed. Precautions were being taken, a notion no doubt emanating from Betsey’s brother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The previous meeting with Annabel Colpoys had been bizarre: this one was even more so. At least Roger, with his forced cheerfulness, was absent, but two of this trio of women were engaged in a strained conversation, with only Sarah Lovell seemingly impervious to the atmosphere. In some ways she was acting as if a different person, less self-contained, talking, indeed quietly boasting, about her life prior coming to live at Cottington Court.
Annabel did not know her as well as Betsey; her aunt was not a regular visitor to Home Farm, in truth no visitor at all, unless part of a general social gathering, so Annabel had to be less aware of the change in her behaviour. While seemingly listening in rapt attention to the level of the Lovell couple’s social pre-eminence, the two friends were trying to communicate, by look and slight gestures, an almost impossible message to convey.
‘I think it is fair to reflect that our opinion mattered,’ was imparted with smug satisfaction. ‘Mr Lovell was admired for his sage commercial advice, while I know that my good opinion, on the behaviour of the society to which we were part …’
‘Surely you mean the society of which you were leader, Aunt Sarah?’ Betsey interrupted.
There followed a remarkably quick transformation in expressions; first the self-righteous look disappeared, to be replaced, for no more than a split second, by the pinched appearance of someone who knew she was being challenged. But that evaporated just as swiftly, to be replaced with a condescending smile.
‘One does not like to boast, Elisabeth, but you are, of course, correct. My opinion was canvassed by many on the merits, or otherwise, of any proposed action, which might even have marginally detracted from the accepted norms. Standards had to be maintained, for if they are not, what ensues?’
‘You are so right, Mrs Lovell,’ Annabel interjected, clearly seeking to strike a middle way, but managing to get in a barb as well, given she was looking at Betsey. ‘The behaviour of some people beggars belief.’
Sarah Lovell had no choice but to agree, but her niece had some hope she might be drawn to reflecting on her own actions. In the very short silence that followed, Betsey and Annabel exchanged another look, which had within it the slightest nod, an attempt to pass the message that the note had been delivered. The response was so vague, Annabel had no idea if her friend had got it.
Betsey’s mind was operating on two levels, the first obvious. But she was also wondering if she should burst this bubble of self-aggrandisement in which her aunt was indulging, for she knew it to be gross exaggeration. There was a temptation to ask her where said Mr Lovell, that paragon of advice on money matters, was now. It had ended up with both of them living off Tulkington charity.
How much other people knew about her misfortunes was moot. She never openly discussed it, even within her adopted home and it was not even extensively aired by the family. This was not from a feeling of disgrace, but from an assurance that it was no one else’s business. Samuel Lovell had upped and left without explanation and it seemed crass to over-enquire. Thus, the surprise was total when Sarah Lovell addressed the point directly, quite forgetting some of the things she had just said.
‘I cannot tell you how badly my husband took it to find that people in whom he placed absolute trust were so dishonest in the most egregious way. He was brought low by trust, Mrs Colpoys.’ The look aimed at Betsey was flinty in its defiance. It seemed to say, check me if you dare! ‘But he is an astute man of affairs and is, I am sure, working to repair both his reputation and our position in society.’
He had been gone for years! Being well raised, she did battle with the desire to tell the truth, but what won over all was the need to keep this woman onside. To challenge this utter farrago of an explanation for being deserted by her husband would be futile. Likewise, undermining her claim to social prominence. Nothing Betsey had heard in the years since her aunt had shared Cottington led her to suspect there was even a sliver of truth in any of her assertions.
It was not hard to see through what was being implied: that Samuel Lovell, through shame at his position, had gone off, in secret and without explanation, to repair his fortune and would return in triumph, when that happy estate had been achieved, to reconnect with the woman he loved and had so disappointed.
‘Men do too often suffer from feelings of shame.’
Annabel said this with a sad face, leaving Betsey wondering if she was talking about Roger. Sarah Lovell was looking at her in a funny way, which hinted at the notion her wholly imagined, sainted Samuel, was being made to sound vapid, but there was added
a soothing addendum.
‘And the pity is, they will not share the burden, for, despite their common opinion, we women are stronger than they by some margin.’
‘How very right you are, Mrs Colpoys,’ was the firm agreement, from an enthused Aunt Sarah. ‘They are frailer than they know.’
‘Some men are, of course, strong on the course they have set, and I’m sure your husband will be that.’
If Sarah Lovell preened in agreement and was so busy feeling vindicated, she failed to notice the last remark was aimed directly at her niece, who got the message clearly: Annabel was telling her Edward Brazier would not waver. She was thus happy when her aunt declared they should be going.
‘I would wish to be allowed to call again, Mrs Colpoys,’ Sarah Lovell said, when she was back in her cloak, which got an odd look from her hostess. ‘In the company of Elisabeth, of course. I know how close you are to each other.’
‘You are most welcome to call, as is Betsey, although I would wish for some prior warning. With three children to see to, I must be sure I can afford you proper attention.’
‘I think you will find, Mrs Colpoys, that when it comes to the proper exercise of good manners, there are few who can surpass me.’
It was as well she turned away then to take her gloves from the waiting servant, which allowed her to miss the look of fury on Annabel’s face, quickly masked as she addressed Betsey, moving to embrace her.
‘You know you are always welcome.’
‘Perhaps you could call on us, Annabel, and bring the children over to play in the woods and around the lake, which we used to do ourselves.’
Just about to agree, the response was dampened. ‘Yes, Elisabeth, we must enquire of Henry if that would be appropriate.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘I believe it was to visit Home Farm, sir,’ Grady responded, ignoring the glare that went with the question. As usual he kept his eyes from contact, aiming them just above his master’s head.
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