Illusions Of Change (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 6)

by Andrew Wareham

  His bailiff and agent were both present and made the introductions, and gave comment afterwards. In most cases they simply said that so-and-so was a good enough modern farmer, adding occasionally that one was too keen on the bottle or another could not be trusted around the dairy-maids, all normal enough and no cause for any action. Of one smallholder they said disapprovingly that he was a ‘reading man’, his nose forever in a book, which, it stood to reason, was not desirable for a farmer; a second took pleasure in embroidery, producing very fine work that bettered any of the women in the village – they did not consider it right for a man.

  “A good set of tenants, I would think, gentlemen?”

  “The best, Mr Quarrington. Your father, sir, took great care when enclosure came to select men of the best farming character and his wisdom has paid off, sir.”

  A hard task to follow after such a man, therefore he would avoid it. He would distance himself from the day-to-day running of the estates, taking a greater interest in mines and canals and possibly extending his investments in the industrial field. He explained his intention to his subordinates, to their relief – the last thing they had wanted was an active master who was not bred to the land and would need to learn from his mistakes.

  “That Meeting House, Mr Quarrington, sir, what is taking up space what would be very convenient for the new barn for the winter feed for the dairy herd, what we are goin’ to be building up over the next few years acos of it being possible, like, to send cheeses cheap down the canal and then by trow on the river down to Bristol, like.”

  The bailiff tended to speak his mind, normally in a single sentence and often forgetting where he had started.

  “The dairy herd, and a creamery, I presume? A new venture?”

  “Yes, sir, but we got a creamery what we allus ‘as ‘ad, and all we got to do is knock the end wall out and make ‘er bigger, what we can do easy, like.”

  “Ah… very good. What, then, of the Meeting House?”

  “That’s the place where they Quakers sit quiet on a Sunday, like, sir. Your father joined up wi’ they, sir, and built it for ‘em.”

  The agent nudged him.

  “What? Oh, yes, that’s it! That Meeting House, sir, be just beside the road down to the village and the canal and close to the track leading back of the Home Farm and it be right next door to the lane leading back to the farms down round Bredon way and was we to knock down the top part of it and keep the footings then it would make a bloody good old barn, sir, just where we wants it.”

  Logical enough, but did he wish to offend a very respectable group of gentlefolk, mostly drawn from the middle order of people but including a few of the lesser landholders? His two sisters and their husbands were included in the latter group, old-established squires and veterans of the bench, and he doubted it would go down well in the County was he to evict them from their devotions.

  Jonathan shook his head.

  “They are there, and there they must stay, I fear. We really cannot turf them out, Maxton, it would not be a proper act for the estate. If, of course, over the next few years we discover a leak in the roof or a crack in the walls or some other great defect to the structure, then we may be forced to demolish the building, and replace it with another elsewhere in the village. We cannot, however, be so disrespectful as to force them to move simply for our own convenience.”

  The agent, a quick thinking man who could hear all that was not said, smiled and nudged Maxton a second time, silencing him.

  His sisters and their husbands visited him next morning, obviously arranged by the menfolk at the funeral.

  The younger of the two enquired why he had finally shaved off that repulsive moustache. Her husband looked embarrassed and her sister cast her eyes heavenwards, where they were commonly fixed in any case.

  “The acquisition of respectability, Prudence. On the death of our father it seems to me only right that I should in some ways endeavour to take his place in the County, or perhaps more accurately, my grandfather’s place. Father was a retiring man and his papa was not; I shall be seen more often, I think, like the older man. To that end we shall be going up to Town for the Season, always provided that we may discover sponsors. I think the Masters and the Andrews as well will serve that purpose.”

  Worldly ambition was to be deplored, of course, yet it was only right that their family should be acknowledged amongst the other wealthy landowners of the country. As well as the son and heir she was mother to a pair of daughters only a few years from coming out; she had expected to marry them in the County, but one could always grow more ambitious. She ventured to approve his course of action.

  The elder sister, Charity, had not been blessed with children and her sole ambition was to be remembered for her religion. She did not, could not, lend her countenance to her brother and his wife venturing into the sinfulness of London in the Season. There would be dancing, and the consumption of alcohol, and no doubt Sunday Travel and the scamping of their daily devotions. She bade her brother to look more to the condition of his soul, less to unworthy ambition.

  “I believe the elevation of the Family to be not unworthy, sister. My son and my daughters will, I hope, have cause to thank me, and I shall not forget all that is due to every member of my kin, I assure you.”

  “I am less concerned with our well-being on Earth, brother. Think of Eternity, sir! Where will your soul finally rest?”

  Her husband, much inclined to agree with her, nonetheless felt she must preserve the social amenities, tutted anxiously at her side. The wife, she firmly believed, must be subservient to her lord and master, the Book said so; she subsided into silence.

  Jonathan produced his copy of the Will, passed it across to be read, placed the items specified on the table in front of them. He wanted no public disputes and knew that the Last Will and Testament had fuelled more blood feuds than any other single cause in history.

  “If there might be any other particular keepsake you would like to remember our parents by, please name it.”

  The daughters denied any other wish – their father had taken pains to leave them items they had an affection for, had shown a degree of tender concern that produced tears in both.

  “He was a good man, Jonathan!”

  “He was indeed, recognised as such by all.”

  But the family had become less significant in his lifetime – goodness had a cost that Jonathan considered excessive.

  Prudence’s husband ventured to speak, something he did rarely.

  “Brother Jonathan, hast thou given thought to the matter of our new King?”

  “Much, Brother Micah. To bow before this particular gentleman is not an action that commends itself greatly to me, yet I do feel that we must try to distinguish between the throne and its occupant. A loyal gentleman must support the Crown, no other course is possible, yet one does not have to endorse the every action of the Prince who currently wears that crown. Let us be frank, Brother Micah: I have discussed this very matter with my friend and mentor, Lord Andrews, and he has told me that the present King is not a good man. Indeed, he has given me details known to some in London which brought a blush to my cheeks, and I do not believe myself to be more than normally sensitive or sheltered.”

  Brother Micah thought the exact opposite of him, was amazed, and then appalled.

  “Dost thou mean…”

  “I do not propose to say any more in the presence of my sisters and wife, Brother Micah.”

  “Indeed, thou shouldst not, Brother Jonathan!”

  “Do we wish to see a latter-day Cromwell arise amongst us? I believe I can answer for you and say that we do not. Therefore we must support the Crown, and that, regrettably demands that we must display our loyalty, to the institution but not to the man.”

  “I fear thou hast the right of the matter, Brother Jonathan. Thou art obliged to tread a perilous path and I shall remember thee in my devotions.”

  “I hope all good men, and women, may do the same, sir.”


  Jonathan retired to the room that had been designated as his study. It contained a desk and chair and very little else as yet, but there was a bottle and a shot glass in the bottom drawer. He poured a single finger of rye whisky, toasted himself in considerable satisfaction.

  “Got through that rather well, Jonathan, my son!”

  The least sign of a falling out in the family would become public knowledge within days. If he was to gain the respect of his tenants and County society as well, then his reputation must remain unsmirched, he must be seen to be as good a man as his father had been before him.

  A letter arrived at Thingdon Hall, Patrick Plunkett begging a lodging for a few days while he sought advice on business matters relating to his estates in Ireland; he was in London temporarily and could travel up to Northamptonshire or join Tom in Mount Street. His wife of three years would not be accompanying him, being great with child. Tom replied immediately, welcoming him to Mount Street for four days hence.

  They travelled to London next morning, Tom explaining to Frances that the Plunketts were cousins of the Grafhams and that he, personally, had a small debt of gratitude to Patrick over his handling of the late and unlamented direct heir to the Lutterworth estate. He gave her chapter and verse of the events following his sister-in-law’s wedding.

  “His actions might perhaps be described as drastic, Thomas?”

  “I think I might prefer to describe the young man, as he then was, as an enthusiast, my dear. He displayed a tendency to think his actions part-way through and then rely upon luck to bring them to a happy end, which is exactly what occurred all of those years ago. He must be some forty years of age now, and I know his parents are both dead, Rothwell, as he then was, travelling to Ireland last year and the one before to attend their funerals for the Masters family. Not being directly related I could avoid the obligation – a tedious journey into the bogs and mediaeval mists which I could easily do without!”

  She had never been to Ireland, felt unable to comment.

  “Patrick sent his papers in as a new-made major, one of many, after the battle in the year fifteen. He was injured, a knee, agonising at the time and will be painful still I doubt not. I hope the unending nagging at his leg will not have soured him. He was a heavy dragoon, rode to hounds whenever possible, loved his horses, and I doubt he can sit a saddle any better than James now. He has lost a sufficiency of the joys of life that he may have grown old before his time. On the other hand, he has a wife, far younger than him, which seems to me to be an excellent idea, I would add.”

  She laughed approvingly.

  “The young lady is a Wellesley cousin, so not vastly rich but carrying a great deal of influence. Indeed, if, as one may suspect, the Castlereaghs should be eclipsed in the near future then the Wellesleys will become the leading family of all of Ireland, sinecures to hand out, baronies in the Irish peerage available to the favoured, seats at Westminster for a few, a blind eye turned by the Customs people, perhaps.”

  “A politically astute marriage, made when his parents were still alive, Thomas, not necessarily therefore testifying to his own wisdom.”

  Patrick Plunkett had gone grey and his face was drawn and he limped heavily, dependent on a stout walking-stick. He could still smile however and he was as softly spoken and courteous as ever. He made his bow to Frances and shook Tom’s hand and showed grateful to be welcome in Mount Street, exactly as was proper for a younger man who had begged a favour.

  They dined together, Miriam present as well as Frances and conversation quite inevitably turning to the divorce; the hangings were old hat now and there could be no other topic.

  “Opinion in Ireland is very unfavourable,” Patrick said, “both Catholics and Non-Conformists, who make up the great bulk of the Protestants, hold that marriage is a sacrament that only God can sunder. The King’s actions are therefore wholly out of place. He is the Lord’s Anointed and yet is acting in defiance of God’s Will, so they say. Comparisons are being drawn with Henry the Eighth, who it is generally agreed was a very bad lot. If he continues in this course then he will strain many loyalties in Ireland, and there are not an awful lot of those to begin with.”

  “A pity, but it is useless to try to address him on the subject, one understands. It is not, of course, my task to do so – I have never had occasion or opportunity to speak to him, and have small expectation of ever doing so. I may be prevailed upon to attend a levee, I understand one should at some early date after a king’s accession, but would expect no exchange of conversation at such an event.”

  Frances quietly agreed – he should, and would, be seen at Court.

  Conversation drifted politely on through dinner, changed abruptly when Frances and Miriam withdrew to leave the men to their port.

  “There is famine again, Lord Andrews. The population of Ireland is growing fast and too few of the peasantry will emigrate. On my own acres I have useful work for less than half of the grown males, and almost nothing for the womenfolk. Sure, we export cheeses and hides, but there is a limit to the number of cattle we can pasture. There is a linen mill built in the North, in Ulster, but I do not think there is another such place of employment in the whole island, with the exception of breweries and distilleries. That latter is what is on my mind, my lord. Whiskey.”

  Irish whiskey was a popular spirit in England, selling at least as many bottles as French cognac each year. Gin massively outstripped both and sold at a far lower price; there was no profit in the legitimate production of gin, so much of the market taken by unlawful, backyard stills.

  “By the barrel or bottled under your own name, sir?”

  “There is profit in bottling, but not in Ireland. The bottles would have to go by sea to Liverpool or Bristol, and a winter of storms would leave half of the product smashed in the bilges. Export by the barrel to a bottlers in England, probably to two or three in fact, London, Midlands and North, to cut the transport to the minimum.”

  “So, either build your own bottling enterprise, or buy into one, wholly or in part. Ideally, blowing your own glass, so as to leave no profit in the hands of third parties, and printing your own labels, too.”

  Patrick agreed, the question was how to do it.

  “I am and must continue to be based in Ireland, my lord. I have distilleries on three separate estates and barrels maturing for the last six years in expectation of this day, my father having supported my plan fully. We grow our own barley and rye, of course, and would hope to expand and buy from our neighbours in the near future. Within a very few years we could be looking at thousands of dozens of bottles a year.”

  “Then the question will arise of how to sell the product, at best profit to the bottler. Assume that we can find three bottlers to buy up, smallish country places would be best. To locate managers will not be too difficult, there are always men of skill and some education who would run their own businesses if only they had the money, but they have not and must therefore be content to run those of other, richer men. Finding the customers, though, is outside my experience. Best we should take this to Mr Robert Andrews, the banker; he is not here tonight, he has travelled north to discuss a loan that is apparently ‘turning sour’.”

  “I had thought to finance the enterprise myself, my lord. For many years my father had the habit of putting aside what cash he could as Consols, the funds eventually to be used to make the estate grow and held separate from the family money.”

  “Better to borrow than risk your own money, sir! But, was you to put a few thousands down then the bank would be happier to match your investment with its own. As well, it would not be surprising to discover that the bank had loans out to merchants throughout the country and could encourage some or all of them to trade with your firm.”

  They joined Frances, sat quietly writing her regular letter to her mother, Miriam having gone to the nursery to join in putting her offspring to bed.

  “Easier far to set a letter into the post, I find. I will see her at least twice this w
eek, but will never remember to tell her all I want to say.”

  It made sense, of a sort, Tom presumed.

  “Have we any Irish whiskey in the house, do you know, Frances?”

  She had no idea, called for the butler, a younger man, newly appointed following his predecessor’s rather poorly timed heart attack – he had been found in his pantry, slumped over the silver he had been polishing, not twelve hours before a dinner party which it would have been inconvenient to cancel. They had hired a man for that week, the agency having a gentleman who was in between posts, waiting to take up a position at the next Quarter-Day, while they had interviewed candidates for the house and had come up with Aitkens. He was still in his first year of service, still ‘on liking’, but they were fairly sure they would keep him as a permanence.

  “Aitkens, have we any whiskey in the cellar?”

  “In the bottle, my lord, we have four of a ‘Bourbon’, from Kentucky in America, said to be a very high quality spirit, easily comparable in its way with a cognac. We have as well a small cask of an Irish whiskey, put to one side in case of need; of its quality I can say nothing. We have also a single bottle of a Dorset rye whisky, recently sent to us from Lord Paynton’s estate, and in need, it would seem, of a degree of aging. Of the whiskies distilled in Scotland, we have none, my lord, and I do not know that I could obtain any in London – a letter to a wine merchant in Edinburgh might prove effective. There is, I am told, an amount of whisky produced in Wales, but I do not know if this is with the approval of the Excise, and, again, it would be difficult to access a supply except from a local source.”

  “Very good! Thank you, Aitkens. Tell me, is it easy to obtain Irish whiskey in the bottle?”

  “No, my lord, the cask is the norm. I would suggest that there would be a ready sale for whiskey in the bottle, particularly from the middle sort of people, those who are a step above gin, my lord.”

  “It would seem that your ideas are good, Major Plunkett. Have you any other business you must attend to in London?”