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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Pick Quarrington’s brain, my dear – he has experience of the enclosure of a wet valley, could have much of value to offer for us along the River Nene towards Thrapston. If we can borrow the nags, from your father and Parker, then we can all ride out together.”

  “A note to Mr Parker on Monday and I am sure it will be possible.”

  Sunday breakfast was the earliest of the week, so that the pious could be in church for ten o’clock; Jonathan Quarrington came downstairs with a surprised but happy expression on his face and devoured eggs and cold beef and toast in massive quantities. Miss Hawker came down a little later, also with a smile on her face. Tom, observing covertly, decided that there was more to the boy than he had expected, he might, indeed, even have surprised her.

  Parson Nobbs preached before a congregation more than twice as great as normal, and much richer; the plate came back to him gleaming with gold guineas and silver crowns, his year’s income increased by a half in one stroke. There would be no more such weddings he realised, decided to seek his curate immediately – the windfall would cover all of his expenses very conveniently.

  Jonathan Quarrington took Tom off to one side when they came back from church – an hour of prayer had had a sobering effect on him.

  “Sir Thomas, I find I need advice, urgently, and am very unwilling to go to my father, sir.”

  “Do sit down, Mr Quarrington! I think I should say that I have some idea of the nature of your quandary – I have eyes, sir, and much more experience of using them than your parents might have.”

  The boy blushed – it was definitely time that he became a man in his own eyes, Tom thought.

  “Ah, I do not wish to name names and bandy about a young lady’s reputation, Sir Thomas, but, last night… I did not sleep alone, Sir Thomas!”

  “I do not mind naming names, in the privacy of my library, Mr Quarrington, and will not mention Miss Hawker outside it.”

  “Oh!”

  “I presume you did not expect the young lady’s company, but enjoyed it very thoroughly when it was offered?”

  “Yes, Sir Thomas – but, now, sir, what am I to do? I should offer marriage, but my father would not approve, I fear, and would leave me without an income. What, sir, if she should be with child?”

  “She will not be, Mr Quarrington, of that I am quite certain – she is well able to take care of herself! As for marriage? No, sir – you must surely have realised that you are not, by a long way, her first bed-partner, and nor, I suspect, will you be her last. I believe, sir, that she has a kindness and an affection for you and decided that you would meet her needs – and, make no mistake, sir, a woman has needs as much as any man when it comes to the bed.” The young man expressed his absolute amazement at such a concept; it had never occurred to him. “She may come back to you tonight, she may never speak another word to you – her choice, she has initiated this little contact between you and she will decide what to do next. My advice to you, sir, is to take what the night may bring, do your very best to please her as well as yourself, learn all you may, and be thankful for a warm and pleasant armful – this is already a more enjoyable week than you expected, I’ll be bound! Say nothing to your parents – they might be upset and what they do not know will not harm them.”

  It was not what young Jonathan had feared – he had braced himself for outrage, for condemnation, had more than half expected to be banished from the house.

  “So, I should repeat my sin, Sir Thomas?”

  “Not if you fear it will jeopardise your soul, young man. I consider this to be a very minor matter, but you must make up your own mind. Do not make a fuss in public, I beg of you – your parents deserve better consideration than that sort of embarrassment. As well, if I may make so bold, you should give some thought to your own career. How old are you now?”

  “Twenty next month, Sir Thomas.”

  “At your age I was a merchant in New York, with twenty thousand in my pocket from my own endeavours.” Tom saw no need to mention that these efforts had included the theft of the bulk of his fortune. “I had fought more than once and had this little bit of a memento on my face already. What have you done?”

  “Nothing, Sir Thomas.”

  “Then you should change that, Mr Quarrington. Do you wish to become a soldier, sir, or has the family any interests overseas?”

  “Not soldiering, Sir Thomas – a commission holds very little attraction, sir. My mother has cousins in Pennsylvania, sir, and I believe my father has invested some funds there and further to the south, a plantation of sorts which he has mentioned as a cause of some concern to him.”

  “Then, sir, there is your opportunity – beg his permission to go out to the States as his emissary. You are a man now, and should play the man’s part. Make that point to him, sir – strongly.”

  Tom rather doubted the boy had a strong bone in his body, but possibly Miss Hawker would find one for him. He took the boy down to the small dining room where there was a cold luncheon laid out, delivered him to a seat beside Miss Hawker, innocently smiling at her, much to her private amusement. He lounged across to the side of Mrs Plunkett, sat over a plate of cold meats – she was not a small woman and needed to keep her strength up.

  “Your daughter not with you, ma’am?”

  “Walking the lawns with Lady Verity and Jane Masters and those huge dogs, I believe, Sir Thomas.”

  “Young Lutterworth is in here, I see.”

  “You noticed as well, Sir Thomas?”

  “I did, and I should prefer her brother not to take a whip to him till after the wedding, ma’am – and then he may have to wait my turn first!”

  “I have spoken to Patrick, Sir Thomas, and he appreciates that there must be no scandal – he has a little more brain than he chooses always to display.”

  “Good – he is a likeable lad. I must speak to the Quarringtons too – those girls are a little less well protected by their brother.”

  “A weak young man, but may well have some backbone injected into him, from all I can see.”

  “It seems quite likely, ma’am, but I shall not drop this problem on his plate – he should get on with growing up first.”

  The Quarringtons, when he spoke to them before dinner, had seen nothing and were much inclined to doubt Tom’s opinion of young Mr Lutterworth – he was not the most prepossessing of young men, that they willingly admitted, but they would not imagine such villainy of any gentleman of birth and breeding.

  “Your opinions are your own to form, of course, sir, ma’am, but I would wish to protect any guest in my house and I believe the young man to have an unsavoury reputation for his dealings with young women, though not, of course, of his own class. I may have misinterpreted what I have seen, I hope I have, but I think you might be well advised never to leave the girls in his company only. Perhaps my experience overseas, where things are often different, has made me over-suspicious – I hope so.”

  “On that topic, Sir Thomas, my son has quoted your example to me in saying that he should seek to stand on his own feet for a time, to leave the nest, as it were. From what the boy says, you would not consider him too young to go abroad on his own?”

  “He should be his own man by now, Mr Quarrington, not a boy at all. Had he gone to sea he would be a lieutenant by now, might even have his first command; many a soldier becomes an ensign at fifteen and has stood in the line in front of his platoon, has taken command of his company when his captain has fallen. Had he gone to John Company when he left his school he would be in India now, a man in the estimation of all and performing a man’s duties.”

  “He did not go to school, Sir Thomas, it seemed to us better to educate him at home.”

  “It is time, and past time in my estimation, Mr Quarrington, for him to leave home for a year or two so that he can come back as a man, his own man and your partner in the estate he will inherit. Otherwise, I think, he will never be more than your son in his own mind.”

  “You are right, Sir Thomas �
� he must be made to grow up!” Mrs Quarrington, a very meek, dutiful lady, had not before asserted herself and, judging by her husband’s surprise, very rarely did so at all; her intervention was decisive, her husband rapidly agreeing that Jonathan should go to the plantation with authority to set all in order and do what was necessary to bring it into profit.

  Tom retired from their presence, sure in his own mind that Mrs Quarrington had her suspicions of her son’s recent activities and had decided to take the opportunity to remove him some three thousand miles from the young lady’s ambit. He suspected she was very wise, for her son was heir to a very comfortable fortune and had displayed certain attributes that the girl seemed to value as well – she might well decide that he would make a desirable husband.

  The pistol shooting went well, none of the men matching Tom’s skill, nor expecting to, but all except George Lutterworth able to show willing, Lieutenant Plunkett managing to hit a man-sized target at twenty paces, the others at least placing their rounds very close. Mr Lutterworth had to be helped to load and then assisted to hold and aim the hand-gun, lacking the muscle to keep it steady and the brain to keep it safe; he did not like the loud bang, either.

  They walked the estate afterwards, Samson in their company, Delilah, due to whelp any day, staying tucked up in her blanket in her loose-box. It was noticeable that the big dog did not like Mr Lutterworth, curled his lip at him whenever he strayed too close and kept an eye on his location at all times, just in case he should make a nuisance of himself.

  “A dog of discretion, I see, Sir Thomas.”

  “Not the most intelligent animal I have ever come across, Lieutenant, but probably bright enough to sum that one up. Thank you for your discretion, by the way, sir.”

  “My pleasure, Sir Thomas. Is he really to be wed to that poor little Masters girl? She is not much but she deserves better than him, surely to God!”

  “I do not approve, Lieutenant, but I can see why she might not wish to remain longer in her own home.”

  “So can I, Sir Thomas! Bad luck for the poor little biddy. Is this part of the Home Farm, Sir Thomas, or a tenant’s land?”

  They had come to the drainage, almost completed, the new pond filled and the ditches almost all cut across the reed beds. They all had questions to ask, comments to make – improvement was the catchword of agriculture of the day and every estate had waste land that was being, or was about to be, brought under the plough. Even Mr Lutterworth showed willing, though he had to be pulled out of the mud patch he stumbled into; none of them laughed, a triumph of manners and good breeding.

  The wedding came off, neither bride nor groom running away in last minute fear, and the feast afterwards was successful, the clans of Bridlington and Masters, mostly long known to each other, mixing and socialising well. Tom found himself almost as much on display as bride and groom, a figure of notoriety and interest to almost all – millions were rare and their reputed owners were bound to be famous. Verity chose the occasion to tell her mother of her condition, being now reasonably certain of her state, thus adding greatly to the older woman’s enjoyment of the day, although the prospect of grandmotherhood made her feel somewhat long in the tooth on reflection.

  Thursday was as quiet as Verity had predicted – many of the guests nursing hangovers, the rest simply tired from a long day and late night. On Friday, planned to be the last day for almost all, the men rode out together to inspect the Marquis’ lands along the Nene and to see country that was new to them. Lieutenant Plunkett was mounted on one of Parker’s hunters, as befitted a cavalryman; so, to the surprise of all, was George Lutterworth and showing reasonably competent in the saddle – general opinion was that he had to be good for something and probably felt at home in the company of horses, being of much the same intellect. Mr Hawker, naturally, bestrode the handsomest horse in the field, a beautifully turned out grey from the Marquis’ stables, one of the few legacies remaining from his father. The rest of the men had taken their choice of the riding stock in Tom’s stable, were adequately mounted for the morning, as long as they did not ask for too much.

  They walked the tracks through the sloughs and ox-bows along the bottoms and then turned back on the higher ground of the valley side, agreeing that there was a vast deal to be done and that a canal was the best and most practical solution and would allow the works on the river to continue over several years of diversion and drainage. Lieutenant Plunkett seemed to become bored with the decorous pace of the older men, and with the topic of drainage; Tom looked suspiciously at him, he had shown himself well-mannered, naturally courteous, much too polite to show impatience to his elders – he wondered what was on the young man’s mind.

  “What is the spire over to the north there, Sir Thomas?”

  “That must be Addington, I believe, Lieutenant – about two miles away, I think.”

  “Dry land, sir?”

  “All on the tops, Lieutenant, good riding country.”

  “Excellent! What do ye say to a steeplechase, Hawker? That grey of yours is pretty enough, but I doubt he has the legs of this hunter I’m up on – I wish he was mine, I can tell you!”

  “Too big, high in the flesh, Plunkett – still it needs be powerful, with a clumsy great dragoon on top, a Paddy at that!”

  They continued to mock each other for a couple of minutes, a reasonable liking for each other having grown during the week; they took pains not to notice George Lutterworth trying to volunteer to join them until Tom, who was increasingly sure that there was an ulterior motive in Plunkett’s mind, invited the young man to speak up.

  “If it’s a race, I’m on! Five guineas says I will get there first!”

  “No need to take your money, old fellow,” Plunkett responded, “for I think your horse matches neither of ours. Add to that, horses are my trade, sir – I am sure I have more experience cross-country than you!”

  Tom nodded – the speech was a very specific provocation, made absolutely certain that the idiot would insist on racing. He wondered idly just what was in Plunkett’s mind.

  There was a convenient hillside close to hand that would give a view of the first mile or so of the impromptu course and Tom led Viscount Hawker and the Quarringtons and Mr Grahame and Lord Lutterworth and the elder Plunkett up the slope while Lord Frederick remained to act as starter.

  “Choose your own line, gentlemen, hedge or road or field, but no trampling of crops! First to reach the steeple wins the race! Are you ready? Go!”

  Hawker took an immediate lead, closely pursued by George Lutterworth, the lieutenant content to stay ten or so lengths behind them. Plunkett senior was agreeably surprised, said he thought his son must finally be attaining man’s estate, was riding with his brain engaged.

  “Normally Hell-for-Leather, first in the field or nowhere to be seen, off at a fence much too high to be sensibly attempted!”

  Tom began to worry – he hoped the young man would do the job well, not leave untidy ends to be cleared up.

  Hawker cleared a five-barred gate, an easy jump, a clear take-off and space to land; Lutterworth followed, the lieutenant closing on the pair as they crossed rough grass to a hedgerow. There was one thin patch in the hedge where the ground on the other side could be seen clearly and the three naturally aimed towards it, Hawker still a length in the lead, the other two suddenly neck and neck. They were a good half a mile away, too far for any detail to be picked out, but Lutterworth was seen to set his horse for the jump and then, as the animal took off, apparently changed his mind, tried to swerve away. Lieutenant Plunkett pulled his horse up in the field, called to Hawker, waved him back; the onlookers dug their heels in and galloped hard to the scene, to the crumpled figure in the hedge and the limping horse.

  A blackthorn branch had snapped and its sharp end had penetrated Lutterworth’s belly, was sticking out of the small of his back; if he was not dead already he could not survive any attempt to move him.

  “Sure and the gap was wide enough for us both, I was certai
n, Sir Thomas.”

  “I am sure it was, Lieutenant Plunkett. I do not think you should blame yourself, sir.”

  Lord Lutterworth knelt briefly by his son, shook his head and stood up.

  “I must return to the Hall to tell his mother, Sir Thomas. Will you make the first arrangements to move him, if you please? Lieutenant Plunkett, I am quite certain that no blame attaches to you, sir – an accident in the field. If you would excuse me.”

  Tom caught Quarrington’s eye. “Would you go with Lord Lutterworth, sir? He should not be alone just now.”

  “Of course.”

  “Jonathan, will you go to the farmhouse over there,” Tom pointed to a building a quarter of a mile or so distant. “Beg for the use of a cart if they have one that is at all decent, a strong man or two and a bill-hook or felling axe.”

  The young man turned his horse instantly, stomach revolting as he realised the import of the last words and praying that he would not be the one who had to cut the body free.

  Tom walked to the body, checked the neck for a pulse, squatted down to see what needed be done to release the corpse, swore to himself as he wondered what he should say to young Plunkett. The ‘accident’ had been perfectly intentional, he had no doubt of that, but he might well have expected no more than a severe shaking, perhaps a broken arm or leg, to be the result. He stood up, turned away in disgust – the body stank, that revolting, familiar old smell of opened guts that took him back to the Star and New York. He glanced at the white-faced lieutenant, who had never been to war, had never killed before, took him to one side.