Nouveau Riche (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  Book Two: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Digital edition published in 2014 by

  The Electronic Book Company

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This ebook contains detailed research material, combined with the author's own subjective opinions, which are open to debate. Any offence caused to persons either living or dead is purely unintentional. Factual references may include or present the author's own interpretation, based on research and study.

  Nouveau Riche

  Copyright © 2014 by Andrew Wareham

  All Rights Reserved

  Contents:

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Scene Setter

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Book Three in the Series

  Scene Setter

  Nouveau Riche follows the fortunes of Tom Andrews, who in Book One, The Privateersman, escaped from England to avoid the hangman’s noose. He was shanghaied onto a privateering ship, where he discovered that he could lead men and had the ambition to become more than a small-time fisherman and petty smuggler.

  The privateer sailed to the Caribbean and enjoyed success before a bloody battle left Tom as the senior survivor. He fled to New York, accompanied by Joseph, a part Carib freeman, and carrying a large amount of booty they devised illicit ways to make more money, until they were betrayed and were forced to return to England.

  They settled in industrial Lancashire at the beginning of the first great boom in cotton, iron and coal; as unscrupulous businessmen they quickly became wealthy. This wealth allowed Tom to buy a landed estate in Northamptonshire and soon after moving in to his new home, he met the beautiful, Lady Verity Masters, the daughter of an impoverished local aristocrat.

  Author’s Note: I have written and punctuated Nouveau Riche in a style reflecting English usage in novels of the Georgian period, when typically, sentences were much longer than they are in modern English. Editor’s Note: Andrew’s book was written, produced and edited in the UK where some of the spellings and word usage vary slightly from U.S. English.

  Book Two: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter 1

  A pity that she is so far above me, Tom mused, not for the first time since returning from his venture to church.

  As the hours passed he continued to reflect on their brief meeting: The most fetching young lady I have ever seen, and just when I am seeking a wife - for I must be wed, I cannot make myself master of an estate without a lady at my side. But the daughter of a marquis, eldest at that, is impossible for a nameless manufacturer . . .

  He sat with a cup of coffee, staring out of his windows at the hillsides a furlong or so away, then suddenly stirred, spoke out loud to the empty room.

  "Impossible? Nothing's impossible for Tom Andrews! I've made a million from nothing! I was born in a fisherman's cottage and have become master of a great estate. Unlikely, perhaps... but impossible does not exist for me."

  “Thingdon Hall’s new owner, Mr Andrews, is a change from Mr Rockingham, Mama – not, I think, another in his mould, considerably less of the provincial dandy and definitely not handsome!”

  “A welcome change, my dear; well turned out, the London touch to that coat, no provincial tailor cut that cloth, and the scar must have been gained in the American war. Mr Telford told Papa that Mr Andrews had been a sailor then and had made a first fortune from prize money.”

  The Marchioness seemed inclined to approve, to Lady Verity’s surprise, she had never heard her to be in favour of the lower classes before, particularly when they had so forgotten their place as to possess money.

  “Which was very respectable, Mama, but he has since become very rich from mills and things - money-grubbing!”

  “So we are told – but he is definitely not a vulgar person in himself – well dressed, correctly spoken, courteous and not bumptiously pushy like Mr Rockingham, the previous owner. Certainly no instant invitation to ‘come and share his mutton’!”

  “Mama, he did not!” Lady Verity was scandalised at this revelation of the depths of Rockingham’s uncouthness.

  “He certainly did, my dear – your Papa and I passed Mr Rockingham on the road to the village and he waved to us, introduced himself, shook Papa’s hand and told us how pleased he was to meet us, now he need not go to all the fuss and bother of calls and cards and that sort of nonsense! Papa was not pleased, especially when he named Smythe, his agent, to him and expected him to be greeted!”

  “I was not at all pleased to be given a very friendly smile by that gentleman, Mama! Mr Andrews has at least removed that particular menace from our society. Ridding the place of Smythe was a godsend”

  “Yes, and very quickly – another point in his favour. He is, of course, unwed, and must be in need of a suitable lady for his estate.”

  Lady Verity’s eyebrows, and chin, rose in indignation, her shock of auburn hair flowing with her head movement, her normally laughing blue eyes, glaring in exaggerated outrage.

  “He is also nameless, Mama!”

  “Quite possibly, my dear – you would certainly not wish to display him in the salons of Mayfair – which you, of course, have never especially enjoyed as an unmarried damsel.”

  “Are you by any chance suggesting, Mama, that I might wish to display him anywhere?”

  “Verity, my dear, you will not marry at all otherwise, and that would be a pity, for you would like to be a mother, I believe. We have no money, my dear; you have not caught a suitable husband in three Seasons and will not catch one in this Season, so an unsuitable one is well worth considering! The look in his eye said that you would not have to smile twice at him – he certainly liked what he saw!”

  Lady Verity was not flattered to be informed that, after Mr Smythe, she was attractive to another very mere ‘mister’, one who dirtied his hands with trade, moreover.

  “They say he is worth a million, my dear – that being the case he will be Sir Thomas within a year and could be Baron Andrews in ten, provided he smiles at the right people.”

  “And provided they did not faint at first sight of him!”

  “Yes, that is a problem, I will admit, my dear – the scars on his face ensure that he will never be awarded the palm for elegance. I will say that I could name you six young ladies of our order, girls known to you, who have made matches with bankers, merchants, even a manufacturer, in the past three years – men of limited charm in most cases and certainly no more handsome than Mr Andrews. I liked the look of the man, I will confess – he seemed both strong and polite, and probably kind-hearted – and I am sure I would love his money!”

  “Oh, Mama! Unworthy! He is no gentleman!”

  “Not by birth, obviously – he will become whatever his wife makes of him, and his children would be born to the purple, will mix freely in Society. As well, my dear, the benefit to the Family would not be
small – your brother Jack wishes to become a soldier when he leaves Harrow this summer, and will have to be content as an ensign of foot in an unknown regiment and to live on a monkey’s allowance. And if Rothwell gambles away any more of our funds there will be no Season for us next year.”

  “So, I am to sell myself, Mama?”

  Lady Verity was becoming more thoughtful than indignant, she was well aware of the advantages a rich husband could offer and had always known her duty to her family.

  “Not at all, my dear – I much hope you will give yourself in marriage to a man you esteem and can live happily with. I will not mention ‘love’, for that is a much overrated emotion, perhaps better suited to the lower orders of society than to us, but affection is another matter. I would recommend you to try to meet and get to know Mr Andrews. If you then find him intolerable, so be it, or, of course, if he finds no great liking for you – the field will then be clear for your sister, Anne.”

  Lady Anne had been listening open-mouthed and with a frown on her brow.

  “Oh, Mama! I could not! Is he very rich?”

  Lady Verity stared with more than normal distaste at her empty-headed, beautiful sister, thinking as so often that she would have killed for hair and skin like hers, and committed suicide if she suddenly gained a brain of her order.

  “He is worth a million, my dear.”

  “Yes, Mama, so you said. Is that a big number, Mama?”

  The Marchioness retired to her sitting-room to think and plan. In the normal way of things Mr Andrews would call during the week and would give her butler his cards and then retire into proper obscurity, unseen by the family. They would be moving to London in a fortnight for the Season and she rather wished to attract his attention to her elder daughter before then, for there were any number of sufficiently well-bred and pretty girls locally who would not be away for the next two months. She called Crane, her butler to her and issued her instructions.

  An accidental meeting with the Thingdon butler, Morton, was arranged, the Grafham’s man despatching a groom with a note, and the two confidential servants discussed the matter.

  “Lady Verity, you say, Mr Crane? The elder?”

  “Yes, Mr Morton, madam thinks they may be well suited, and he does need a wife of sound social standing and able as well to guide him through the pitfalls of society.”

  Unspoken was the proviso that his wife would need some significant degree of intelligence.

  “He certainly should have a wife, Mr Crane, and not, one might prefer, drawn from the ranks of those awful people in Burton. Lady Verity would do very well indeed at the Hall, though the gardener might well be unimpressed by those animals of hers. My master will make his call at eleven o’clock on Thursday, Mr Crane, unless unforeseen circumstances supervene.”

  The two gigs parted, taking them to their respective domains, the match made as far as their not inconsiderable powers allowed.

  “Cards to the Grafhams on Thursday morning, sir. I shall arrange for the carriage to be ready at half past ten o’clock, sir – not an occasion for the gig, nor should you ride as you will wish to do when you visit your neighbour, Mr Parker, tomorrow, sir.”

  “I will?”

  “Undoubtedly, sir! It will permit you to wear less formal dress, thus showing you wish to be a neighbour, not a more distant acquaintance.”

  “Very subtle, Morton!”

  The butler bowed, held Tom’s chair as he rose from the breakfast table and walked to the office for his morning conference with Quillerson, his bailiff and agent who he had promoted after sacking the detestable Smythe. An hour later he was called out to meet Parker, the other landowner of local importance.

  “I believe you to be Master of our hunt, Mr Parker?”

  “I have that honour, sir.”

  Parker was very reserved, unwilling to make any comment on that particular topic until Tom had made his intentions clear.

  “I do not ride to hounds myself, Mr Parker – the war in America has left me with inadequate mastery of my horse for my safety or that of others in the field. I understand that the Thingdon Estate has traditionally been a major supporter of the hunt fund?”

  “It always was, sir, but your predecessor, Rockingham, had ambitions to mount his own pack, and no doubt be his own Master!”

  “A singularly foolish conceit, I believe, sir – and one that seems in many ways typical of the gentleman. I shall not be furthering that particular stupidity, sir, and will instruct my bailiff to reinstate the Hall’s subscription, in full. Young Quillerson will know all of the details, I have no doubt.”

  Parker, already primed by his brother-in-law, Major Hunt, who Tom had previously met, to expect a much more rational and less arrogant being at the Hall, relaxed in his chair and accepted a second glass of Madeira, complimenting Tom on the quality of the wine. Rockingham in like circumstances had responded with a lecture on wines and how to choose them; Tom merely smiled his thanks but said that the cellar had been well-stocked when he entered the house and he had had no occasion to instruct Morton to order more.

  “I will say, Mr Parker, that I find this a very palatable glass myself and will be very glad to ask Morton just what it is and tell him to get more of the same. I have been in the habit of drinking very little and have not learnt my wines as I should – but one of the greatest disadvantages of being a manufacturer, sir, has been the chapel-going habits of my compeers, men who were my customers and suppliers and whose prejudices had to be bowed to – the Demon Rum, you know?”

  In common with most landowners, Parker had no love for the Methodists and their respectable middle-class morality. He did not mount a mistress and nor was he habitually drunk and he did not appreciate preachers who insisted that the leisured classes were depraved to a man. He said as much and enjoyed five happy minutes of denigration of tub-thumping Bible-bashers who lacked good manners and common decency quite equally; he was very pleased to discover that the new man thought in exactly the right way on such matters.

  “A pity that you do not hunt, Mr Andrews, but you are quite right not to, you know – nothing’s more dangerous to the rest of the field than a weak rider who, through no fault of his own, cannot control his mount. Very wise, sir!”

  The Marchioness was an elegant woman in her mid-forties, like Verity, quite tall in stature, but unlike Verity’s auburn mane, she had tied-back and slightly greying, blonde hair. She happened to be at home and at leisure at eleven o’clock on Thursday morning, Lady Anne banished to her piano practice in the schoolroom, Lady Verity in the gardens with her two dogs, under mild protest. The carriage deposited Tom and Crane the butler opened to him and accepted the pair of cards proffered.

  “If you would care to wait just a minute, Mr Andrews, I believe her Ladyship to be at home this morning.”

  Thirty seconds later he ushered Tom into the small salon opposite to the library, a somewhat threadbare room, long overdue for refurbishment, the curtains worn, the chairs shabby and the floor until recently covered by a carpet which had been lifted and presumably thrown away – the boards changed markedly in colour round the edges of the skirtings.

  “Mr Andrews, I am glad to see you, sir. Do sit down!”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Tom was unsure of himself – this had not been in the careful instructions he had been given.

  “I find I need to discuss a matter of business with you, Mr Andrews – just in the parish, the disposition of one of the almshouses in Finedon. Prior to the recent enclosure the almshouses were maintained by the Thingdon Estate, their occupants being selected by the rector – the bequest stipulates three indigent widows and two widowers of the parish. Do you intend to continue the responsibility?”

  “This is the first I had heard of it, ma’am – I am surprised that the enclosure award did not dedicate some acres to their upkeep – I believe that to be normal practice. Is there a reason why it was not followed here, do you know?”

  “Mr Rockingham did not accept that there was a respo
nsibility upon him, could see no reason why as many as one hundred of ‘his acres’ should be dedicated to wastrels.”

  “I should have known, ma’am! The estate will maintain the almshouses and their occupants, your Ladyship. Leaving aside legality and tradition there is a simple question of common humanity, ma’am. I presume he was advised by the man Smythe, in whom humanity did not seem to be a strong trait.”

  “Thank you, Mr Andrews. Do you like dogs?”

  Tom was surprised by the sudden change of topic, and was about to say that he had very little experience of the animals when he saw the Marchioness looking out of the window; following her eye he saw her elder daughter accompanied by a pair of enormous beasts ambling at her side, tongues lolling.

  “I do not think I have ever seen dogs like those, ma’am. What are they?”

  “Mastiffs, the old bandogs, we believe – Samson and Delilah by name. They tipped the scales in the barn at ten stones two months ago – what they are now I shudder to think. There will undoubtedly be puppies…”

  “Are they as quiet and docile as they seem, ma’am?”

  “They are, Mr Andrews, if by ‘docile’ you mean stupid, even by the standards of dogs!”

  “They are very handsome, ma’am – do you think I might beg one or two of their litter?”

  “Speak to Verity, Mr Andrews – they are hers.”

  “I shall certainly do so, ma’am.”

  “Then I suggest you do so now, sir – there is no time like the present, after all.”

  “I had not wished to inflict myself upon her Ladyship, ma’am – I am well aware that I am not of her, or your, social standing.”

  “A more tactful man might not have made that comment, Mr Andrews! Please to believe that I do not consider your company to be unacceptable to my daughter. You seem to be a right-thinking man of good character, sir, and that is more important to me than the accident of your birth.”