by William Hunt
“And from all the talk I’ve heard lately,” Jeb Musslewhite sombrely added… “I’ve a good notion as to what this is about.”
At a late hour, George Bell trudged disconsolately homewards to Moorend. He was tired and worse for wear. It had been a long trying day. Uppermost in his mind was that gallivanting daughter of his. "What was to be done about the girl?" He vexedly wondered.
Upon placing his flail in the lean to shed, he went through the front door, and to his great surprise, there stood before him… was the source of all his disquiet… It was Melody herself… looking as pretty as a picture in her Sunday best frock and bonnet.
George Bell stopped and swayed unsteadily, momentarily stupefied. He hadn’t expected this. Then, he shut the door and placed himself foursquare in front of it.
Alice had the spent day baking bread, whilst the children collected blackberries for a jam spread. All were oblivious of the excitement that had scandalised the village over the last twenty-four hours.
“What’s this I hear then, our Melody?” Her father called out in a truculent tone. At the sound of his voice, everyone looked anxiously up. George Bell was on the whole a mild man, but he was in drink and his voice spelt trouble.
Melody stood stock-still and never replied.
“My! What a state you’re in, George!” scolded Alice as she made her way to her husband.
“And why take on so?” she asked with puzzled concern.
“She knows!” George Bell glared at Melody menacingly.
Frantically, Melody attempted to get past her father but to no avail. He roughly pushed her back from the door. Such treatment from father to daughter had never been seen before. The house went into shock, and the children quickly sought sanctuary in the scullery, and peeped fearfully round the doorway.
“Let me go!” Melody demanded, and entreated her mother to intervene.
“Let her pass, George. What ails you, man?” Alice remonstrated.
“I am Master here, and she will not!” He insisted determinedly.
Melody began to cry in her temper, and Alice comforted her daughter. All the while her eyes flashed angrily at her husband.
“Fie George? Melody’s helped with the rent, now our girl must hasten back to Home Farm.” But George Bell wasn’t listening. He’d spotted the linnets.
“Our Melody stays, but those buggerin’ birds can go!” He shouted, and stepping forward he grabbed the birdcage from the table, yanked open the door and tossed the lot outside.
Melody screamed with rage and dashed herself against her father’s bulk. For a few seconds, Alice attempted to referee, but motherly love was uppermost, and she interceded on Melody’s behalf. Clawing and scratching the two women turned on him. But George Bell was redoubtable in defence. Yells, epithets and spiteful words rent the air; but ever and again, he rebuffed their assaults and threw them back.
One hour later, he remained in front of the door sat on a stool.. His face scratched and bloodied, his trembling hands placed on his knees.
Upstairs, mother and daughter had retired to bed. The sobbing of the distraught Melody could be heard, alternating with soothing words of comfort from Alice.
Timidly, (and by way of a peace offering) George Bell’s little son Timothy brought over his father’s churchwarden clay pipe filled with tobacco.
“’Ere you be, Dad.”
George Bell lit the pipe with a candle spill and silently sat smoking and blinking, whilst his two children stood watching him in awe. Transfixed and traumatised.
One thing they knew for sure. Their father was master of the house. And to vouchsafe this state of affairs, George Bell was to stay at his post without sleep for the rest of the night.
The church clock of St Mary’s chimed seven. At the lych-gate in the fading light, with only the headstones and crosses of the dead for company, Rupert Valans paced up and down and waited in vain.
For an hour he stood taut… listening for any sign of Melody’s approach. Then the clock struck eight. Except for the distant bark of a farm dog, all was quiet and still. Finally the young man reluctantly conceded defeat, and taking to his horse, slowly clip clopped away into the darkness.
Charlie and Politics
Great excitement was paramount, on this, the first meet of the Hardcourt hounds. Invitations had been extended far and wide, and a good turnout was expected.
Throughout the morning, those farming gentry zestful of purpose had brought their own kennelled fox hounds in couples and three’s to the meet, until all merged into a sizeable pack outside the stone steps of Hardcourt Hall.
Such gaiety of proceedings saw the huntsman attired in plush hunting pink frock coats, elaborate white mufflers and wide brimmed black high hats.
The ladies were not to be omitted, and Johanna Portlock in the company of the Comtesse Lisa and Mlle Rosalyn joined the meet riding side-saddle together.
The French party were unfamiliar with the style of hunting they found in England. Long accustomed to bigger (and more formidable) quarry, the object of their sport was usually located in afforested surroundings. But by prior instruction, the French aristocrats had prepared their dress and deportment accordingly.
The Comtesse Lisa (quite taken by the ceremony of the occasion) broke with etiquette and addressed her husband in their home tongue.
“Tout cela pour un renard, Henri?” She remarked in some bemusement. The Comte replied in the language of their hosts.
“It is the way of things here, Moi Cher?”
“Reynard is well-respected in England Mama,” Mlle Rosalyn gently chided her mother, who responded to her daughter remarks with a lingering incredulous smile.
Major Alan Bullimore was also present… and on this day, he was accompanied by a certain Captain Nathania! Brown of the Third Grey Dragoons, recently on leave from garrison duties in Ireland.
Along with Major Bullimore, Captain Brown had served under Lord Arlingham’s command in the America’s when he was but a subaltern. His presence did not go unnoticed, and the acting regimental officer was cordially welcomed to Hardcourt Hall.
The gathering swelled, and the stirrup cup was taken round. Lord Arlingham naturally presiding as ‘Master of the Hunt’ consulted with Head Keeper Jasper Ely as to where the first draw might begin. Then with a shout ‘hullo’ and sharp toot of the horn, the hunt set off to the coverts.
Scattered across the estate, the ten-year-old coverts were laid out on the orders of His Lordship, when he returned from the American colonies. The newly established woodland now grew thick and tall.
Stands of Ash and Sessile Oak saplings reached upwards beyond the touch of a horseman’s outstretched hand. And the fox was quick to take advantage of the artificial harbourage.
“Were off to Hanging Covert,” Toby shouted to Rupert, who nodded absently. This particular covert teetered on the slopes of Windmill Hill.
“When Charlie breaks out, cut a dash with me,” Toby enjoined his friend.
“For goodness sake, Toby let the hounds do the work, and stay back,” his mother called anxiously after him.
Toby simply laughed, and pushed his mount forward regardless, barely maintaining a respectful distance behind the hunt whips.
As horse and hound streamed across the fields of stubble towards Windmill Hill, Rupert recalled his encounter with the maid that summer past.
Yes, there was the gateway (long since repaired), marking the spot where the young woman had wantonly stirred his first feelings of youthful desire. But she had spumed him, had she not?
In the days following his fruitless wait at St Mary’s Church, a profound change crept over Rupert. His once intense feelings of adoration for Melody, now gave way to implacable rancour. That he! A Valans! Had been subjected to such casual treatment by a lowly village maid, burnt fiercely within his breast.
Notwithstanding Rupert’s wounded pride, the hounds were loosed in Hanging Covert. The hunt reined up and waited with anticipation. Soon the hounds gave tongue. There had been
a find. From the far side of Hanging Covert, a dog fox broke out at a run. The chase began in earnest.
And so, the day went. As the hunt proceeded the field became strung out. The bolder riders began to leave the less adventurous behind, whilst yet others dropped out of the chase altogether.
The ladies especially were among the early departures having cantered to the first draw, before promptly returning to Hardcourt Hall with their husbands: the Comte de Moritz and Squire Portlock in close attendance.
At three o clock, the horn blew time and the hunt, now some miles from its starting point, began to trek slowly back home in dribs and drabs. Dishevelled riders, lathered horses and dirty hounds brought the first meet of the season to a satisfactory conclusion.
Afterwards, those fortunate enough to be guests of Hardcourt Hall retired to change before dinner was served. And over the dining table the day’s events were recounted. All in all, it was an auspicious start. The hounds had put up four foxes, with two kills to their credit.
Later (as was customary) the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen at the dining table with their claret. Now as always, these times were put aside for more formal topics of discussion.
With the military presence of Major Bullimore and Captain Brown augmenting the company, Lord Arlingham took the opportunity to gauge a soldier’s first-hand viewpoint, on matters of colonial governance, and the political significance pertained therein. With this in mind he turned his attention to the junior officer.
“It is good to have you with us again, Captain Brown… An old regimental officer is most welcome at our table. And whilst I’m at liberty to enquire… Your thoughts on the state of our Irish colonies at these parlous times would be most valued, sir.”
Thus, invited to speak his mind, Captain Brown didn’t mince matters and got straight to the point:
“Frankly my lord, the Irish realm is beset with disaffection. From land disputes at the bottom, all the way up to those who would usurp the Crown itself”, he bluntly stated.
“At the core of it all is the French disorder. Of that there can be no doubt,” he further warned.
“And what is your remedy to rectify this unhappy situation?” Lord Arlingham probed.
There seemed to be two issues troubling Captain Brown. Firstly, he held deep misgiving as to the continuance of the Independent Irish Volunteers.
“Their loyalty is most uncertain, and some take no oath to the Crown at all,” Captain Brown remarked with rising indignation.
“They are loose cannon, my lord!” Concurred Major Bullimore in forcible terms that brooked no argument.
And secondly, Captain Brown was bound to say that the total absence of tenant rights was a source of constant friction in that country. He wondered if perhaps a parliamentary bill of tenancy reforms might be judiciously guided through both houses at some future time.
On the first matter, Lord Arlingham could reassure all listening that the days of the Irish Volunteers were numbered, and moves were already afoot to have them disbanded.
But regarding the matter of land reforms, His Lordship was diametrically opposed to the cavalry officer.
“We cannot be seen to be beneficent in these highly charged political times, sir,” he informed Captain Brown. “To do so would be perceived as England’s weakness and further embolden republican aims.”
Meanwhile, the impatient Toby eyed Rupert in expectation they might be excused from the proceedings… as was their time-honoured practice.
Rupert, however, (most unusually) followed the conversation with interest, listening intently to the points expressed and, much to his father’s surprise, he began to expound a forthright opinion of his own. “I totally agree with Papa. To falter in our dealings with the lower orders can only encourage rank insubordination. Do you not think so, Captain?”
Captain Brown was most obliged to the Honourable Rupert, and thereafter fully concurred with the prevailing views of his hosts. He furthermore apologised for any prior misunderstanding he may cause on this particular matter.
At this juncture, Lord Arlingham saw fit to draw attention to Captain Brown’s recent action in the line of duty:
“But Captain Brown, we are in receipt of a communique from Magistrate O’Neil of New Ross regarding a certain disorder on our Wexford estates. Which I believe you yourself played no small part in quelling.”
“Ah yes! Indeed, my lord,” Captain Brown admitted the fact.
“Then be so good as to explain how you dealt with these rascals.”
Now with the undivided interest of the table, Captain Brown outlined the outrages perpetrated by these peasant gangs on those carrying out their lawful duties upon His Lordship’s Wexford estates.
Thanks to the alacrity of Magistrate O’Neil, warrants were swiftly issued, and under the overall command of the Third Greys, the culprits were swiftly rounded up and brought to justice.
Examples were made, notably one of the ringleaders, a farmer by the name of ‘Daniel Hughes’ was hanged, and the ungrateful tenant families turned off the land for knowingly colluding with such villainy.
Unfortunately, another man indicted on the warrant. A certain John Hughes – who incidentally was the eldest son of the aforementioned Daniel Hughes, had absconded before his arrest, and escaped justice.
“Nevertheless… The forces of the Crown remain ever vigilant,” Captain Brown assured the party. And he had no doubt whatsoever that the lawless fugitive would surely be apprehended one day and receive full measure of the King’s justice.
To hearty sounds of approval from around the table, Captain Brown was congratulated on the resolute discharge of his duty.
“And now gentlemen, I think it is time to join the ladies.” With this announcement, Lord Arlingham brought the proceedings to a close.
The party rose and vacated the dining room. The cavalry officers engaged in small talk with the Comte, whilst Squire Portlock made a threesome with Rupert and Toby.
As the presiding host, His Lordship was last to leave the dining room, but before his exit, he tarried to look out across the open lawns, and beyond to the sturdy wrought iron gates of Hardcourt Hall.
It was a view he held close to his heart. One he fondly remembered when but a mere boy. And years later he’d stood on this very spot admiring the self-same view with his dear wife – Lady Caroline.
And in the fullness of time, his son Rupert (of whom he was justly proud) stood to inherit Hardcourt Hall and its Gloucestershire estates… the precious Valans’ residence of some five hundred years standing.
And home was England… But was England so secure? He wondered fretfully. The unsettling news to be found in every mail posting and (no less) the printed articles in the weekly columns of the Gloucester Journal told another story.
Captain Brown’s account of Ireland bespoke further perils to his beloved country. Alas! It seemed England was beset by treason at home and revolution abroad.
Lord Arlingham broke from his brief reverie and left the dining room with his mind decided. The foreign contagion must be nipped in the bud, before the multitudes of Gloucester were infected by these wild ideas and borne along the road to anarchy and ruin.
It was time to speak out for England. And from the pulpit in God’s House, the word of the Lord would break as thunder over the congregation… Here it was to be told.
Mixed Messages
A few days later, the little gig bearing the Reverend Abel Rudhall, called in to Hardcourt Hall. By now the first signs of autumn were visible on the mature horse chestnut trees that bordered the estate grounds. The reddening leaves and ripe green spiky pods bearing the encased glossy brown seeds dropped from above and lay scattered on the lawns below.
But the rector gave no thought to the autumnal changes taking place. At this moment, he was in receipt of an urgent missive requiring his immediate presence at Hardcourt Hall. It concerned a matter (as yet unspecified) that needed the prompt attention of the Church.
�
�I understand you wished to see me, my lord,” the curious rector respectfully inquired, as he entered the drawing room.
“I do indeed, Reverend Rudhall.”
Lord Arlingham bid the clergyman be seated, and without further preamble, launched into a discourse on: “Pressing issues that must be addressed without further delay.”
For some time now, His Lordship along with many others, were greatly disturbed by the events taking place within the Kingdom of France.
Over the last year or so, whenever he took his seat in the Upper House, or read from the pages of ‘The Gloucester Journal’ his attention was drawn to yet one more outrage perpetrated by those Parisian upstarts who presumed to speak for that country. Their actions constituted nothing less than an affront to the very cornerstones of civilised Christian society itself.
“Do you not agree, reverend?”
The Reverend Abel Rudhall hastened to assure Lord Arlingham that the Church of England fully shared his disquiet. Had not the French National Assembly abolished the levy of Church tithes? Was it not written in the Old Testament that tithes were to be given?
His Lordship roundly embraced the rector’s observations.
“Exactly my very point! These rascals have more liberty than is good for them. But if they can, they will spread their mischief here… It is our duty, therefore, to ensure they do not succeed.”
And to this end His Lordship proposed that the rector – “make preparedness” – to deliver a keynote sermon denouncing the “so-called French Revolution”.
His Lordship let it be further be known, that both he and Rupert would present themselves at St Mary’s Church to hear the proposed sermon. And in the event, the Comte de Moritz and his family would accompany them also.
“But be they not of the Roman Catholic faith?” queried the rector, somewhat taken aback at this unexpected development.
