The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga

by Mary E. Pearce

  Within a few weeks, therefore, the quarry at Scurr had been transformed, and although the stone was still dug by hand, in the old traditional way, there was now a mechanical crane, moving on a series of tramways, to carry the lumps of raw stone from the quarry face to the work sheds. The work sheds, which were open-fronted, stood at the eastern side of the quarry, well away from the main workings, but not far from the quarry entrance. In this same area, other buildings had sprung up, forming a miniature township. There was stabling for twenty horses; a harness-room, with hayloft above; sheds for tools, trolleys and carts; and a blacksmith’s shop, with a good-sized forge, so that all essential repairs, including the shoeing of horses, could be done on the spot, without delay. There was also an office for Martin and, at Mr Godwin’s suggestion, a notice-board, ten feet by five, set up on two posts at the quarry entrance, painted with the following words in bold white letters on a black ground: Scurr Quarry; Rutland Hill; Good quality building stone; Lessee: M. Cox, 6, Church Row, Chardwell.

  Martin employed twenty men and the place, so quiet in his father’s time, seemed now to be filled with noise. It was very strange at first, to hear so many tools at work, and the voices of so many men; the masons chatting in the work sheds; the stone-cutters shouting to one another, directing proceedings at the quarry face. There was also the noise of the heavy crane as it travelled to and fro on its rails or revolved, with a slow grind-and-squeak, on the central turntable, which enabled it to change direction.

  Sometimes, standing alone, gazing up at the stone cliff that rose in jagged terraces eighty feet to the blue spring sky, he allowed his mind to dwell on the past, seeking and finding the quietness that always came, a sweet relief, conjured from old memories. Then he would shrug and deride himself, aware that these acts of remembrance carried a hint of regret with them, a weakness he viewed with youthful contempt. The old ways were gone and a good thing too. And although the noise often irked him, the activity itself was source only of satisfaction. For this was how the quarry should be, yielding great quantities of stone, just as it had done in earlier times, fifty and sixty years before, when the new woollen mills had been built all along the Cullen Valley, and the clothiers, growing steadily richer, had built great houses for themselves out in the countryside around. There had been half a dozen quarries at work in the district then, and Scurr had been the most famous of them, because of the quality of the stone. Now it was coming to life again and soon its fame would be renewed. His father’s prophecy would be fulfilled. ‘Our day will come. Mark my words. And when it does ‒ we’ll be ready for it.’ But Martin was ready for it in a way that had not been part of the prophecy, and already, by the end of April, the stocks of dressed stone were such that his father would have been struck dumb at sight of them.

  He did no building work now. His days as a jobbing mason were over for good. All his time and energy were concentrated on the quarry. Often he worked as hard and as long as ever he had done in the past, but now, at the end of a working day, a comfortable home awaited him, with all its many luxuries. A hot tub in the scullery, and a huge white huckaback towel, clean every day, for him to rub himself dry with. A clean shirt and underclothes laid out ready for him, and a tidy, well-made suit of good quality Cotswold cloth. Then to sit down to a well-cooked meal. Not the thin stew, tasting of soot, that had been their daily fare at Scurr, but butcher’s meat, the best to be had, simmered to perfection on the hob of the range or roasted in the capacious oven.

  Afterwards, if the evening were fine, an hour or two in the garden with Nan, or a leisurely stroll around Old Church End, stopping to talk to the folk they met. And ‒ the day’s last luxury ‒ to sit for a while in the pleasant parlour, he with some new book he had bought, reading passages to Nan while she did her needlework: not coarse flannel shirts or make-do-and-mend, as in days gone by, but fine embroidery, which she loved, and delicate drawn-thread work, learnt from their neighbour, Mrs Beech. Her hands were becoming quite smooth and soft, now that she no longer worked in the quarry, and she took a certain pride in them, rubbing them every night with a salve of dock-leaves pounded in honey and cream, and trimming her nails most carefully, until in time they lost their thick horny hardness and became quite clean and delicate. She had nice clothes to wear now; not greys and browns, in the coarsest stuff, but pretty dresses of cotton or silk, in summer colours, pale blue or pale green, made by Miss Gray of Bennett Street.

  ‘Do you like this frock, Martin?’

  ‘Yes, it suits you very well.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s a little showy, perhaps?’

  ‘No, not at all. If it seems so to you, that is because until now you have been so poorly clad. And I’m sure you can depend on Miss Gray in all matters of good taste.’

  Nan had no trouble in making friends. Neighbours in Church Row and Church Lane were soon inviting her to tea with them, and she was only too delighted to return their hospitality. They drew her into the life of the town: the sewing circle and the concert club; the Ragged School Fundraising Group and the Hospital Helping Hands Committee; all of which meant for her an ever-widening circle of acquaintance. And although in one sense Nan was shy, in another sense she was quite the reverse, because this new life, in the swim of things, was so miraculous to her that she took each experience as it came and, having no preconceptions, was never disappointed and rarely hurt. Even when she met with snobbery, it made little impression on her. Endowed with the gift of happiness, she was almost impervious to slights, and nobody could put her down. She had too many other things on her mind to spare more than a passing thought for the petty behaviour of the petty genteel. There was too much to do, every day, every hour.

  For one thing, Martin had bought her a cottage piano, and engaged Mr Lloyd, the best teacher in Chardwell, to come and give her three lessons a week. She was learning dancing with Mrs Sweet and singing with Miss Underhill and the fees for all these lessons together cost Martin six guineas a term. Nan worried about this. The singing lessons, especially, seemed an absurd extravagance. But Martin brushed her objections aside.

  ‘Do you enjoy these things?’

  ‘Yes, but ‒’

  ‘Then you shall have them. I insist.’

  ‘Oh, Martin!’ Nan exclaimed, looking at him with tear-bright eyes. ‘You are so very good to me!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said, in a gruff voice. ‘Who’s good to me, I’d like to know?’

  They had always been very close. Drawn together in early days by their isolation at Scurr, they were just as congenial now in sharing this new life together, revelling in their freedom and the future that now lay open to them.

  ‘I saw Miss Ginny Tarrant today, in the Railes carriage, driving along the High Street. She looked just as pretty as ever and she carried a lovely blue parasol …’

  ‘I saw her, too, as it happens. But that was in Marton Street, when I had just come from seeing Mr Godwin.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘No. She was too far off. And she didn’t see me.’

  ‘You’ve never been back to Newton Railes. And Miss Katharine wrote such a kind letter when Father died. She invited you most particularly. Why is it you never go, when they were so very kind to you?’

  ‘Because I will not presume on that kindness and because I will not be a hanger-on.’

  ‘Oh, but Martin, surely ‒’

  ‘Please, Nan, allow me to decide such things for myself,’ he said.

  During the following weeks three items of interest appeared in The Chardwell Gazette, the first being a paragraph announcing the engagement of Miss Katharine Elizabeth Tarrant and Mr Charles Henry Yuart. The second was a notice announcing that tenders were invited from builders of standing and good repute for the erection of a new cloth mill of substantial size, the same being an extension of the premises known as Hainault Mill, at Catchpool, near Chardwell, Gloucestershire, proprietors Henry Yuart and Son, of Saye House, Chardwell. Applications were to be made to G. M. Chadwick, architect, of
21, North Street, Sharveston.

  The third item was a notice informing the public that operations at Scurr Quarry, Rutland Hill, Gloucestershire, had been expanded and modernized and that output of its excellent stone, already well known in Chardwell and its environs, was now greatly increased. Visitors would be welcome, the notice said, whether their interest lay in the stone itself or in the up-to-date plant. And sure enough visitors came, among them the builder Robert Clayton who, two years before, had repaired the bridge at Newton Askhkey with stone from Scurr.

  ‘I said then I’d be back again and here I am. But I’m sorry to hear of your father’s death. Please accept my condolences.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Clayton had brought his son with him, a fair-haired young man of twenty-three, with a freckled face and candid expression, and a handshake that was strong and warm.

  ‘Edward is my right-hand man. I rely on him a good deal these days, now that I am feeling my age.’

  Clayton was deeply impressed by the changes Martin had made in the quarry and he looked at the stocks of new-cut stone with an appreciative gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Seems you’re expecting an increased demand.’

  ‘Yes. I think there’s building in the air.’

  ‘Mills, not castles, eh?’ Clayton said. ‘Which brings me to the purpose of my visit. But perhaps you’ve already guessed what that is?’

  ‘You’re submitting a tender for the new Hainault Mill.’

  ‘Exactly so. And from what I see here, Mr Cox, the contract is as good as mine.’

  Strolling about, inspecting the piles of ashlar blocks, Clayton began talking business at once.

  ‘Hainault belongs to a man named Yuart but he, it seems, is an invalid and the mill is now managed by his son. Young Mr Charles is in a hurry. He wants to be the first man to bring the new looms into this district, so the builder who promises the earliest start ‒ and the earliest finishing date ‒ will almost certainly win the day. I’ve told Chadwick, the architect, that, depending on my supply of stone, I can begin in three weeks’ time. So unless these stocks are already bespoke ‒’

  ‘They are not bespoke,’ Martin said, ‘except those three small lots over there, which are marked; but it scarcely matters, Mr Clayton, because I can produce as much again during the next six weeks, and if there should be the slightest doubt over future supplies, I would take on extra men.’

  ‘Capital! Capital!’ Clayton said, and took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Let us get down to business, eh?’

  Four days later, the Claytons were at the quarry again. The contract was theirs, signed and sealed, and they had come immediately with a written order for the stone. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and, their main business being soon concluded, Martin invited them home to Church Row.

  ‘We can discuss further details there,’ he said.

  Nan was out in the back garden, on her knees under a fruit bush, trying to pull up a wild briar, when Martin came in search of her, bringing the Claytons with him. Breathless and red in the face, not to say somewhat dishevelled, she was more than a little put out at finding herself facing visitors, especially when the younger man stepped forward and helped her up. But her dismay did not last long ‒ she had too much sense of humour for that ‒ and as soon as introductions were over she was making the Claytons welcome and inviting them indoors.

  ‘Is it all settled about the mill and have you got the contract to build?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Cox,’ Robert Clayton said, ‘and your brother is going to supply the stone.’

  ‘That’s good news. I’m so glad.’

  They were in the living-room now, crowding into the small space between the table and the Welsh dresser, where, on a large cooling-rack, stood a newly baked fruit-cake, an apple tart, and a heap of scones. Nan, having shed her pinafore, led them out along the passage and into the parlour, with Martin following behind.

  ‘Will you excuse me for a moment while I make myself tidy?’ she said. ‘And then can I bring you some refreshment? A glass of Madeira wine, perhaps? Or Marsala if you would prefer it?’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Cox, that’s very kind, but what I would like more than anything else is a nice cup of tea,’ Robert Clayton said. ‘I don’t know about Edward, of course. He will have to speak for himself.’

  ‘Oh, tea for me as well, Miss Cox, if it is not too much trouble for you.’ Edward Clayton stood gazing at her, his expression an artless combination of earnestness and impudence. ‘And perhaps a slice of that sugar-topped cake which I couldn’t help observing on the kitchen dresser as we came through.’

  Early one morning in the following week, Martin drove out to Hainault Mill, to meet Charles Yuart on the site of the new extension and discuss arrangements for delivering the stone. The mill stood on the bank of the Cullen, at a place where the river swung round in such a wide loop that the land jutting into it formed a large, peninsular bluff of some fifty acres. The oldest of the mill buildings was the original fulling-mill, scarcely bigger than a modest farmhouse, its exact age not known; but towards the end of the eighteenth century, when the woollen trade had been flourishing, a large handsome new mill had been built, of four storeys and ten bays, with a loom-shop capable of housing fifty looms. In time this too had been extended until, with all its adjunctive buildings, Hainault Mill formed three sides of a large enclosure, which functioned as its workyard.

  Now there was to be a further addition, larger and more handsome still: five storeys and twelve bays, with a porticoed central section, and a clock tower at the end, surmounted by a cupola. As soon as this new mill was completed ‒ which should be within a twelvemonth ‒ the old mill would be used for spinning and, with extra machinery, would supply the greater quantities of yarn needed to feed the new power-looms. In turn, the old spinning-sheds would be used as a dye-works, so that, in the course of time, all the many processes comprised in the manufacture of cloth would be carried out on this one site.

  Martin had seen the architect’s plans, both for the new building itself and for the alterations to the old, and he knew that no expense was to be spared in making Hainault the most thoroughly up-to-date woollen mill in the whole of the Cullen Valley. And, with fifty acres of good flat land at the owner’s disposal, there was room for further expansion still, should it be needed in the future. Yuart had no doubt that it would, for the West of England, he declared, had lagged too long behind the north: now was the time for it to catch up and, perhaps, even take the lead.

  ‘I’m going to put Chardwell and the Cullen Valley back on the map, beginning here at Hainault,’ he said. ‘That’s why I hired the best architect in the district, so I hope the builder made it clear that I want the very best quality stone you can provide.’

  ‘Yes. He made it perfectly clear.’

  ‘I already know Scurr stone, of course. Also the good reputation your father had as a mason. Mr Tarrant of Newton Railes certainly thought well of him and I’ve seen the work you and he did on the manor stables two years ago.’ There was a slight pause and then: ‘In fact, I gather from Miss Tarrant that you were once acquainted with the family on a somewhat more personal level as well.’

  ‘Yes, I did have that honour,’ Martin said. ‘It is kind of Miss Tarrant to remember me.’ In the same strictly formal manner he added: ‘I would like, if I may, to offer my congratulations on your engagement and to wish you both every happiness.’

  ‘Thank you. I will convey your good wishes to her.’

  Once again there was a pause. Charles Yuart’s gaze was keen.

  ‘You are very young to have been left the responsibility of running your late father’s business alone.’

  ‘I am not entirely alone. I have the benefit of Mr Godwin’s guardianship and may look to him for help and advice at all times.’

  ‘Perhaps I should really be dealing with him?’

  ‘No. The quarry itself, and all its transactions, are in my hands. I should only need to consult him if any problems were
to arise.’

  ‘I sincerely hope there will not be any problems. I want this work to go ahead with the utmost dispatch, and the builder has promised faithfully that it will be finished within a year.’

  ‘Then you may rest assured that it will be, for Mr Clayton is a man of his word.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’

  Yuart now led the way across the site, already marked out with pegs, to an area of open ground beyond, where the stone would be stacked on delivery. There followed some further discussion and Martin, talking thus to the man whom Katharine Tarrant was to marry, studied him with close interest, noting his dark good looks and the strong, almost hawk-like cast of his features. He was conscious of the man’s drive and energy; of his passionate belief in progress and the great renascence that lay ahead for the woollen trade in the Cullen Valley. Above all, Martin was struck by the unimpeachable confidence with which this young man of twenty-seven had assumed the role of leader, forging the way that others would follow.

  The Yuarts were an old family, Flemish in origin, who had come to England in the early part of the eighteenth century and settled in Chardwell as clothiers, a trade they had followed successfully throughout its many ups and downs and from which, in the course of time, they had amassed a respectable fortune, together with the status of gentlemen. This status would be enhanced when Charles Yuart married into the Tarrant family, and as he was sole heir to the Yuart fortune, the alliance was a matter of satisfaction on both sides. But the young couple were not marrying to please their families; nor out of worldly considerations; it was a genuine love match, as Martin knew, for he had watched them dancing together at Newton Railes on the evening of the twins’ birthday party, and even to his inexperienced eye it had been plain that they were in love.

  The business discussion came to an end; arrangements for delivering and stacking the stone were settled; and Charles Yuart, being a man with much to do, excused himself and hurried away.