The debate continued for some time and was then adjourned so that those few councillors as yet reluctant to commit themselves should have further opportunity to make up their minds. Dr Whiteside suggested that this might well be achieved if the three gentlemen in question were to visit the present Infirmary and see for themselves the shameful conditions prevailing there.
‘But I doubt very much if they will,’ he said, alone with Edward and Martin later. ‘What will most likely happen is that between now and the next meeting, Yuart will get to work on Fenyon, Hedges, and Samms, and try to win them over to his side. That’s what he usually does and more often than not he succeeds.’
‘In that case,’ Martin said, ‘I think we should press for a meeting of the ratepayers and thrash the matter out with them.’
‘Yes, but think of the time it will take!’
Charles Yuart was much put out that his scheme for creating a public park had not won the Council’s full support, but there was little doubt in his mind that he would be able to remedy matters. He spoke of it to Katharine that evening.
‘I thought I would ask Joe Samms and his wife to dine with us one evening next week. Then, later, Frank Fenyon. Perhaps you’d select suitable dates.’
‘I have always had the impression that you disliked Joe Samms and avoided him as much as you could.’
‘Oh, the man is a lout, certainly. He will make a noise drinking his soup and bore you with the tale of his life. ‒ How he was born the son of a blacksmith and now has the largest ironmongery business in the whole of the Cullen Valley. But just at present I need his support and … well, it’s surprising what an invitation to Railes can do, with men of his sort … not to mention their good wives.’
‘Is he opposing the park scheme?’
‘No, he hasn’t made up his mind. But others are opposing it, among them Edward Clayton, needless to say, and your old friend Martin Cox, who has recently got himself onto the Council.’
‘Why are they opposing it?’
‘Well, Clayton always opposes me as a matter of course, and Cox being his brother-in-law, I suppose he feels bound to do the same.’
‘That doesn’t sound like the Martin I knew. Even as a boy of fifteen he always had a mind of his own. Perhaps he and his brother-in-law support some alternative scheme?’
‘Well, naturally, there are other schemes on the agenda just now. Probably half a dozen at least ‒’
‘Including Dr Whiteside’s proposal for building a new hospital?’
‘Yes. That has come up again.’
‘Charles, I have something to tell you. Dr Whiteside is quite right. The new hospital is much needed. Ginny and I have been looking into the matter. We went together this afternoon to visit the Infirmary and it is true that conditions there ‒’
‘Katharine! I am very much grieved! You had no business exposing yourself to the risk of infection in that place! As for your sister Ginny ‒ since when has that giddy girl taken an interest in such things? It seems to me she wants something to do!’
‘That could be said of both of us.’
‘You have two children. She has none.’
‘Both Ginny and I, placed so fortunately as we are, have a great deal of leisure time on our hands, and naturally we both feel we should like to do something useful with it.’
‘I cannot see that you have achieved anything useful by visiting a place which has obviously caused you great distress.’
‘Charles, have you ever been there yourself?’
‘No, never. Unlike you I do not have a great deal of time on my hands.’
‘Then let me tell you what it is like ‒’
‘There is no need. I have heard about it often enough from Dr Whiteside.’
‘Then why do you still oppose him?’
‘Because, from what I have heard elsewhere, I’ve always been given to understand that the doctor is prone to exaggeration.’
‘In that case, Charles, you have been misled, because if you were to visit the place, you would find that it is not possible to exaggerate the conditions in it.’
There was a long silence, during which Katharine watched the conflicting emotions at work in him, seen clearly in his face: the angry stare giving way to a frown as his mind reluctantly received the substance of her argument, until in a while his gaze fell and he turned from her with a sharp sigh and a sideways movement of the head, conveying plainly that his anger was now directed towards himself.
‘Yes, well,’ he said at last. ‘It seems I have been most gravely at fault. I should have done what you have done ‒ informed myself more fully on the matter before taking such a positive stand.’ He turned again and faced her directly. A wry smile touched his lips. ‘I’m going to look a rare fool over this, but I have only myself to blame. And I might have been made to look a lot worse ‒ had it not been for your good sense.’
Within a few days every member of the Council had been informed by letter that Charles Yuart’s views concerning the issue of hospital versus public park had undergone a radical change. He explained himself with great frankness: ‘I discussed the matter with my wife and as a result of what she said I visited the Infirmary. That, gentlemen, changed my views.’
He also let it be known that if the hospital scheme was adopted, he would head the subscription list with a donation of one thousand pounds; and such was the effect of his conversion that when, at the next Council meeting, the motion was put formally to the vote, it was carried nem. con. Councillor Sidney Hurne then proposed a further motion, which was also carried: that the new hospital should be called The Chardwell and District Victoria Hospital; that a letter should still be sent to the Queen, requesting Her Gracious Majesty’s blessing upon the undertaking; and that the letter should, as originally suggested by Councillor Yuart in another connection, be accompanied by a gift of cloth woven in the Cullen Valley. He too signed the subscription list, promising a handsome donation. Councillor Yuart then called for a vote of thanks to Dr Whiteside, Mr Clayton, and those others who, from the very first, had advocated the hospital scheme with such conscientious fervour and zeal.
‘It is now up to the rest of us ‒ especially us late recalcitrants ‒ to make such amends as we can by promoting the project with all possible expedition.’
‘And that,’ as Dr Whiteside later observed, on leaving the meeting with Martin and Edward: ‘that, my friends, is turning defeat into victory with a vengeance.’
‘Yes, it’s a favourite trick of his,’ Edward said. ‘He will soon take over the Project Committee lock, stock, and barrel, you mark my words, and we, along with everyone else, will be left gaping in admiration.’
‘Well, we shall see,’ the doctor said. ‘Definitely I think it better that he should be with us instead of against us. But the one person I would most like to thank is Charles Yuart’s wife. I have never met the lady. It’s an honour I hope to be granted one day. Perhaps you, Martin, could arrange it for me, since you have I believe some acquaintance with the family.’
‘Not now,’ Martin said. ‘It has fallen into desuetude. I see Mrs Yuart occasionally, driving through the town, and sometimes her sister, Mrs Winter, and they always acknowledge me most pleasantly. But that is all, I’m sorry to say.’
‘What a pity. I shall have to find some other means of getting to know the lady.’
The doctor, being a straightforward man, solved his problem in the simplest way by riding out to the manor house and introducing himself to its mistress. As a result of this meeting, Katharine became a member of the Hospital Building Fund Committee, and was soon actively engaged in organizing fêtes and bazaars, concerts, dances, and lotteries. Thus Martin renewed his acquaintance with her, not only at committee meetings, but often at the functions themselves. Later, at the Grand Midsummer Ball, held during ‘Hospital Week’, he met her sister, Ginny, too, for the first time in almost six years. They were partners in a Scotch Reel and afterwards stood talking together, drinking cool rum-shrub.
‘
Why is it so long since we met?’
‘We move in different circles,’ he said.
‘Well, the circles have impinged at last, and here we are, two old friends, who have left their youth behind them.’
‘Not the whole of it, I hope.’
‘You have grown quite mature, anyway. And you have a certain something about you that marks you out from the general run of men. I think, speaking by and large, that you do us credit, Kate and me.’
‘I’m glad to hear you say so.’
‘Do you think me changed?’
‘Not in the least.’
‘Which means I must still be pretty, then.’
‘You don’t need to ask me that. Almost all the men here are looking across the room at you. Including your husband.’
‘Oh!’ Ginny said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Don’t spoil things by speaking of George. Husbands are no fit subject for amusing conversation. And I insist on being amused.’
‘Then I leave it to you to introduce a subject more to your liking.’
‘There, now! You couldn’t have said anything better devised to drive all ideas clean out of my mind.’
‘That I refuse to believe. I never knew you at a loss before.’
‘That is what marriage does for one. It stultifies one’s brain in the most depressing way and stifles all spontaneity.’
‘So marriage as a subject of conversation is not taboo, though husbands are?’
‘Marriage as a subject for speculation offers possibilities and is therefore allowed. You have avoided it so far, though I understand from the gossip I hear that it is not for want of candidates. So tell me, as an old friend, is there not one young lady in this town, or anywhere in the county, capable of engaging your interest?’
‘You have set your snare very well. I cannot answer without appearing either a coxcomb or a liar. And neither part appeals to me.’
‘Well, as tonight is a special occasion, and we are renewing an old friendship, I will dance another dance with you.’ Ginny set down her empty glass and consulted her card. ‘The next is free and it is a polka. You are not engaged? Then all is well. We have time for another glass of shrub.’
From the far side of the ballroom, Nan and Edward stood watching.
‘Oh, what a nuisance it is that she should be here tonight, as pretty as ever, and as fascinating! And just this evening of all times when the Chapmans are coming and bringing their niece. Martin and May got on so well when she stayed with them earlier this year and I thought if they were to meet again ‒ There! Look at that! They are dancing together a second time.’
‘Well, there can’t be much danger in it, seeing she is a married woman.’
‘There is every danger that she will revive his feeling for her. Why do you think he’s remained unmarried all this time if it is not because of her?’
‘Oh, what nonsense!’ Edward said. ‘You speak as if he’s a middle-aged man instead of a mere twenty-four. He will marry no doubt, when the spirit moves him, but meanwhile he’s a busy man.’
‘Yes, but why must he always be so busy, making more and more money all the time? What is the point of it? What is it for?’
‘Martin has a gift for it. It’s only right he should exercise it.’
Martin was certainly busy. He controlled three quarries now, all in a high state of production, and that year had obtained a lease to dig for gravel at Culverstone. There was also his work on the Borough Council, and, stemming from this, other work of a public nature. He took a keen interest in education, especially that of the poorer children, and was active in promoting improvements in the district’s free schools. He also took an interest in Pettifor’s, Chardwell’s ancient grammar school, and was on its board of governers. He had paid for the school house to be enlarged; had donated a plot of land to be used as a playing-field; and, by means of an annual endowment, had provided ten free places for boys from poorer families.
That year, too, he had bought for himself a house called Fieldings, standing in ten acres of garden, a mile or so south of Fordover, just off the turnpike road. It was a Jacobean house, stone-built and in good repair, and needed only refurbishing to satisfy his own taste. The garden, however, was another matter, being full of old neglected trees, many of which had to be felled. So now he had yet another interest, re-planning his ten acres: laying down new lawns, planting new trees and shrubs, and renovating the stone-paved terrace, which work he did himself.
He had an elderly cook-housekeeper, a manservant, and two maids to look after him now, but Nan, a regular visitor, still maintained a watchful eye, just as she had done at Church End. She helped him to choose new furnishings; offered sensible advice on managing his domestic staff; and, whenever he entertained friends, acted as surrogate hostess. She was pleased enough to do this but told him she would be more pleased still when he had found himself a wife who could look after his household and preside at his table in the proper way.
Nan was so happy in her own married life, with her growing number of sons, that she longed to see her only brother settled as happily as herself. Her efforts at matchmaking, however, all ended in disappointment. Time and again she did her best, putting suitable girls in his way, and each time her hopes were high; for Martin was agreeable to them all; took delight in their company and even flirted with this one and that; but ‒
‘Nothing ever comes of it!’ she said to Edward despairingly. ‘And new girls are becoming scarce.’
‘Well, if there’s no one to suit him here, who knows what he may find, travelling in Europe later this year? Perhaps he will bring back a foreign wife.’
But this was 1855 and Martin, returning home from Europe, brought only fresh news of the conflict growing between France and Russia; a conflict in which, the following March, Great Britain was also embroiled, allied with France in supporting Turkey against the greed of the mighty Czar.
Soon Chardwell, like the rest of England, was in the grip of patriotic fervour. The fund-raisers were busy again, collecting money to buy comforts for the soldiers suffering in the Crimea, and to help their families at home. At a bazaar held in the Town Hall Martin was talking to Katharine Yuart when her sister Ginny came and joined them. She was wearing a small fur busby and a dark green jacket frogged in gold, à l’hussar, and was selling lottery tickets, collecting the money in a round box painted to look like a military drum.
‘I hear you have bought Fieldings and are turning it into something very fine. It seems you must be very well off.’
‘If it seems so, then so it must seem.’
‘Come, now! You’re a rich man. Why not own up to it?’ Ginny said.
Martin, with a smile, put a coin in her hand.
‘Very well, I’m a rich man, though poorer now by a sovereign,’ he said.
‘That is very generous. I hope you may win the prize.’
‘What is it?’
‘A basket of mulberries from the old tree at Railes. In the Tudor garden ‒ do you remember? I was there early this morning, helping Katharine to pick them.’
‘Ah, well, if I win that, I shall think myself rich indeed.’
‘Why, Martin!’ Ginny exclaimed. ‘I do believe you have just been gallant.’
‘I believe I have,’ he said equably. ‘My education must be complete.’
He did not win the lottery but next day a basket of mulberries was delivered at Fieldings with a note.
‘Consolation prize,’ it said, and was signed Katharine Yuart.
Two years of war brought extra profits to the woollen mills in the Cullen Valley and one clothier at least was said to have made a fortune by producing flannel for soldiers’ shirts and coarse serge for their overcoats. Whether this was true or not, the trade in general continued to prosper, and with the welcome return to peace, various projects were revived. Chardwell, rejoicing in its prosperity, spent freely, and towards the end of that decade had much to be proud of. Its hospital was one of the best equipped in the west of England; the town’s streets ha
d been greatly improved and were now lit by gas; and expensive restoration work had been carried out on St Benet’s Church.
In 1859 there was a scheme afoot to build a fine new Town Hall on a site endowed by a former mayor, but by now voices were heard expressing some anxiety. There were hints that the present prosperous period might be coming to an end. Wool at this time was very expensive and Gloucestershire clothiers, raising the price of their cloth, lost sales to their Yorkshire brethren who produced the lighter, cheaper worsteds. Some of the Cullen Valley clothiers, still paying off the loans by which they had purchased their power-looms, ten or twelve years before, were seriously worried.
Their worries were soon made worse by news of events in America, where, it was feared, the growing unrest would affect trade between the two countries. This fear was substantiated when America imposed a heavy tariff on cloth imported from England. A number of clothiers ceased production and sold up, lock, stock, and barrel, to avoid the threat of bankruptcy. Mills and plant were sold at a loss and in most cases the mill buildings were adapted to different industries. One became a paper mill; two ground corn; and another manufactured flock. A fifth mill, at Belfray, was bought by Martin, who let it to a friend named George Ainley, formerly a shearman at Daisy Bank. Ainley, eschewing traditional broadcloth, set about making the lightweight worsteds and knaps so popular now with tailors and cutters.
‘That is where the future lies,’ he said to Martin. ‘Broadcloth is a thing of the past. It costs too much to make and customers won’t pay the price. They want a bit of variety, too, such as Yorkshire is offering. And I am taking a leaf out of the Yorkshireman’s pattern-book!’
Ainley’s views were well known and his warnings discussed throughout the Cullen Valley. Even some of the bigger clothiers were made nervous by the state of the trade and some, remembering the slump of ’40s, decided to retrench. Others talked of following Ainley’s example and giving in to the demand for cheaper cloth. But braver spirits rejected these expediencies and Charles Yuart was one of them.
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 22
