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

by Andrew Wareham

  “Arrange for them to see me – I cannot give them other land in exchange, because we have the agreement with Denham. I shall have to come up with something, though, if they have grounds for complaint.”

  Quillerson nodded, but had no suggestions to make – this one was for the owner to sort out.

  Tom had no more than half his mind on the estate and its problems for the while - Verity was immense, close to term and rapidly running out of patience with the whole business of child-bearing. It was, she said, not all that it was cracked up to be, most of this stuff about the ‘female gift of motherhood’ had probably been written by men who had not had to put up with it themselves. She thought she had a week to go; Nurse suggested three days and her mother, now in residence, was of the opinion that it could be any moment; Tom had more sense than to have any opinion at all on the matter, merely offered his arm as she slowly, splay-footedly, waddled by.

  “Tell me again, Sir Thomas! Exactly why does the name require an heir?”

  “It is generally felt, by other people, to be a very good idea, my dear.”

  “I shall not give my opinion of other people, and their ideas – it would not be polite… oh! Oh! Oh dear!” She clasped her belly anxiously. “Do you think you could call Nurse, or any of the females, Sir Thomas?”

  He ran.

  Quillerson produced his two smallholders from Finedon, judging it a good time both to keep Tom occupied and to ensure that he would be sufficiently preoccupied not to be too generous to them, he did not want the estate’s land to be given away, not even a very few acres to set a precedent.

  “Daish and Makin, Sir Thomas, who were Commoners and were awarded four acres apiece at the enclosure. The smaller grants were all made from the land nearest the village, so that they could be easily worked part-time, but it transpires that their land can hardly be worked at all, sir.”

  “Sit down, please, Daish, Makin, and we shall see what can be done, though to an extent it is too late now. The land should have been looked over by the Commissioners before they gave it to you.”

  “Beg pardon, Sir Thomas, but that Mr Smythe of yours told they it were the best of plough land, and they believed ‘im.”

  “Not my Mr Smythe, Daish. I sacked him on my first day here because he was a cheat and a thief and a bully. He was Mr Rockingham’s man, not mine. However, the estate has some blame to carry here, you are right to that extent. What is to be done? I cannot give you land in the eastern smallholdings because I have made a promise to Denham, and I will not break my word to him.”

  They had no answer, because they wanted land of their own, good acres that they could cultivate to feed their families with potatoes and vegetables and pig-meat, the rest of their time working at their trades, one at the forges, the other in the tannery at Irthlingborough. With their gardens and their wages together they could have been very comfortable, secure, their children well-fed and safe; with just sixty or seventy pounds in cash they would have nothing for the future, the money soon disappearing in clothes and shoes and schooling and leaving nothing permanent behind.

  “Do you know if there is any land for sale in the area?”

  They shook their heads.

  Quillerson said that he had heard that old Plonker Parsons was thinking to sell up, having no family and getting past the work himself.

  Brief explanation said that Parsons was a small yeoman with land on the hillside below Finedon, on the road down to Wellingborough, possibly thirty or forty acres, two miles from the village and mostly rough pasture, bad land.

  “Could be made better, Mr Quillerson – it’s bad because ‘e let it go, couldn’t be bothered after the fever came and they all died except ‘im.”

  “Fifteen years ago, Sir Thomas, his wife, five sons and a daughter on successive days, and him completely untouched, not even a running nose!”

  Tom shook his head – there was nothing sensible to be said.

  “So then, Daish, Makin, if he was to sell would you take, say, five acres apiece of his land in exchange for your present holdings? The extra acre would make up for having to walk a bit farther and for the land needing to be brought round.”

  The two professed themselves satisfied and left, awkwardly offering their best wishes for ‘my lady’ as they went.

  “Why ‘Plonker’ Parsons, Mr Quillerson?”

  “He has been known by no other name for fifty years, Sir Thomas! I suspect that even the maiden ladies of the village use it unthinkingly. It would seem that he was famous in his youth for the possession of a certain attribute and the name, once given, stuck!”

  “The joys of the village existence, Quillerson – I do not see it happening in Mayfair. How probable is it that he will sell?”

  “Certain, Sir Thomas, when I tell him that you will willingly buy at a better than fair price. He has already purchased the cottage next door to the Mulso Arms and intends to move in there for, he says, no more than six months, reckoning that that’s how long it will take him to drink himself into his grave – for he has nothing to live for and does not want to go slowly of illness and old age all on his own with no kin to look after him.”

  “Good! Wise man! Pass the word that we are willing to exchange with other smallholders who have a grievance and who do not wish to sell; tell those who might sell that the land became theirs on the understanding that it was good arable and we shall buy on that basis. I think, Quillerson, that we want no more riots in our lands, and if that means we must be open-handed in order to be trusted, then so be it! The land itself is very poor – is the ironstone of a quality to be quarried or should we plant softwoods on it?”

  Quillerson did not know – he would drop a guinea in the quarry master’s hands and beg him to give an opinion.

  The day dragged slowly by, Tom banished to the downstairs, to workroom or out with the dogs; ‘all was going well’, he was told, certainly nothing for him to do other than keep out of the way and wait. Month nurse, wet-nurse, Nurse, the Marchioness and half of the women in the house were attending Verity, all knowing much more than he did, which was easy enough, for he knew nothing about childbirth; all he could do was fret, but he did that very well.

  “The canal from the iron foundries to the River Nene, Sir Thomas – first proposals have been discussed, I am told, and a prospectus sketched out. The survey suggests that the ideal route is simply to follow the Ise to Wellingborough, a matter of about eight miles and with very little change of height to contend with. Rather than a true canal it is feasible to straighten the river in three places and to build just two locks and the towpath. The turning and header ponds and wharves will cost more than the waterway proper, I believe. The promoters will call for just five thousand pounds in shares, proposing to issue ten thousand shares, nominal value one pound, half paid-up, so that they can call for another five thousand should the unexpected occur. We should, I suggest, put the estate’s name down for one thousand shares initially, guaranteeing to purchase any that are not taken up as well. It has been suggested that a trackway could be laid from the quarry in Finedon to join the canal at its half-way point – there is one already from Irthlingborough to the River Nene but the hill between Finedon and Irthlingborough is too steep to join them.”

  “Then it will cost less than we had planned for, by a long way, even with the trackway added. I know their costs and they are not high – the biggest problem will be to find horses to draw the tubs. Eight hours now, Quillerson!”

  “From the little I know we may have to wait another twenty-four, Sir Thomas – up to two days is nothing unusual for a first, I am told, and Mrs Quillerson informs me I may discover for myself in six or so months, sir.”

  Tom found the obligatory congratulations hard to make – he was not particularly convinced that child-bearing was such a good idea at that moment.

  “When is Lord Rothwell expected, Quillerson?”

  “The last I heard, sir, was that his ship had docked in Portsmouth and that he was engaged in paying her of
f, which would take some weeks, a dockyard survey being involved as there is some need for repairs to her hull, she being old and having served ten years in tropical waters. He will then go to half-pay, I understand, sir, from all that I have heard from Grafham House. They are certainly readying a wing of the house for him, sir, with the expectation that he will take up residence there for the near future at least.”

  “Do you know anything of him, Quillerson, other than rumour?”

  “I only saw him at a distance as a boy, sir, and that not very often because he went to sea as a ten year old midshipman. He has no name at all locally, good or bad, and the servants at the House have said very little – he has made no great impression upon them either. Of course, sir, not being heir, he would have taken little interest in the estate or its people, would have had no particular reason to be known. That will have changed, but how it will affect him, what he will do, I do not know.”

  “A nuisance – if he is like his younger brother then there could be some difficulties. There may well be in any case, he being Royal Navy and they having no love for privateersmen in the normal way of things.”

  Quillerson smiled suddenly – he had forgotten his master’s past, it had meant very little to him in fact and he had never considered the significance that it might have to others.

  “I can see, Sir Thomas, that there could be some constraint arising from that source; it could be very funny for those of us observing!”

  Quillerson left to visit Barney and discuss horses, Tom sitting at his desk and reflecting that the young man was rapidly coming onto friendly terms with him, and wondering just how far that should be permitted. Verity would not approve, but she was very protective of her dignity, more so of his, hoping perhaps to avert some of the snubs that would inevitably come his way and would hurt her much more than him.

  Dinner was a solitary meal, reminded him of his first days in the house when he had been totally isolate; he had not noticed then that he was lonely, he did now. Morton produced a bottle of the good brandy and poured a generous measure, all unasked.

  “If I might make so bold, Sir Thomas, I would suggest that a relaxing glass would be a good idea.”

  “You are probably right, Morton, because I doubt I shall sleep tonight.”

  He sat in his library, working his way through Adam Smith, trying to master the whole of his theory rather than the extracts that had made such easy sense. Specialisation, the famous pin-makers, was a simple logic, once presented, but the concept of the individual’s self-betterment acting to make the whole community wealthier was less obvious, needed to be puzzled out, step-by-step, and he had no habit of scholarship to help him, he did not know how to learn from books, never having attempted it before. The concentration was good for him though, calming him – he knew that otherwise he would be pacing the floor, worrying, persuading himself that disaster had struck, that all was gone amiss. The door opening in the early morning took him by surprise.

  The Marchioness entered, Nurse behind her bearing a tiny bundle protectively cradled in her arms, smiles on both faces.

  “You have a son, Thomas, and Verry is well, has come through very creditably. You may go up to her in a few minutes, not quite yet though, she will wish to be made presentable first. You will wish to hold your son, I believe.”

  There was nothing Tom wanted less – he was so tiny, there was nothing to grip onto, he was terrified, would far rather have looked from a safe distance. It was a baby: red-faced, bald, wrinkled, an amorphous blob of humanity; he tried to make the appropriate comments, give the expected applause. He was very pleased, proud, happy, and, suddenly, very sad for Fred Mason as he realised for the first time just what a loss the man had experienced. The Marchioness sensed his mood, was unable to account for it, her face showing her puzzlement. He explained briefly.

  “Ah! I had not appreciated… of course, you were many years alone, Thomas. You have become so much a part of my family that I had not realised how new it was to you… What about names, Thomas? Verity tells me you have hardly considered them.”

  “I have not, I am afraid, ma’am – I was more than half persuaded that he would be a girl, and Verry was outraged at the possibility of such for her first-born. I would like Joseph as a second name, but for the first, perhaps we should talk of that.”

  Verity was tired to the point of exhaustion, but rather pleased with herself nonetheless. She had definite ideas on names.

  “Not George, every eldest son is a George. Robert Thomas Joseph, I would like – my grandfather was Robert, and he was a charming old man, although very silly about his horses.”

  “Excellent! It will go well with the firm. The only proviso, my dear, is that Robert will never be shortened to Bob – one of those in my life is enough!”

  Bob Chawleigh appeared at the Hall just a fortnight later, riding his own horse, bought in Bristol four days previously; he had come cross-country, unobtrusively – post-chaises, apart from being expensive, were numbered and their hirers could be identified, whilst a lone horseman coming to an inn could give any name he chose.

  “Sir Thomas, a pleasure! The plantations in the Louisianas are not very many, I discovered, but at their wits’ end to sell their cotton – almost none is passing through the blockade of the French ports so they had been paying for the privilege of shipping it all the way to the Channel where it was inevitably prized by the English. I was able to set my own price in effect and have emptied their go-downs and taken a first preference on next season’s crop. American flag coastal vessels are taking it to Charleston and Savannah and then British bottoms to Liverpool, the first docking next week if the winds are favourable. I have hired a man to purchase for me, a respectable Charleston merchant house with a good name, and I am deducting my commission at source, none of it passing through your accounts, sir. Initially the consignments are to Star Spinners but I have no doubt that any excess can go to auction in the normal way.”

  Chawleigh produced documents, bills of lading, all that was needed to take delivery of the first shiploads, and left, refusing to stay overnight, preferring to be an anonymous passing messenger rather than a man of any substance. He would overnight in Wellingborough and take a couple of days to reach London, drawing no attention at all, he trusted.

  Tom sat to think, instructing Brown to organise a post-chaise for St Helens for the morning.

  Why had Chawleigh not wished his commissions, easily disguised as a simple business transaction, to appear in Tom’s accounts? Possibly he did not want Tom to know just how much money was being transferred to England under the cover of the cotton trade, or, equally, the ships he hired could be carrying other goods as well, though smuggling from America was hardly likely, could surely be discounted. Most likely was that he was making some of his payments for the raw cotton to families in France – it was easy enough to run gold coin across the Channel, the guinea-boats rowed almost to timetables, two or three in the dark of every moon, so it was said. It was suspicious, but he was a dealer at the margin of respectability, had probably never written a contract without a backhander in his life. And this was a very marginal set of transactions when all was considered, though it would be possible to stand up in a court of law and argue that the French producers had sold to neutral American merchants and that they in turn happened to have sold to English firms, all quite lawful, unless the Americans could be demonstrated to be no more than go-betweens, agents of the English purchasers.

  The probability was that there would be no conviction in such a case, but it would leave a bad taste. Sir Thomas, the millionaire with powerful connections, would get away with it, quite unscathed; Bob Chawleigh, an unsavoury little man, would find himself framed very soon afterwards, in dock on a wholly unrelated set of charges and certainly convicted, unless he was merely knocked over the head, the spy-catchers deciding he was best removed from the scene. Chawleigh was well-advised to keep his name clear and have any payments made in America, not in England. It might be no more tha
n ordinary criminal caution, but it would be as well to have him watched, Tom decided.

  An hour in the library resulted in a letter to Michael stating that Chawleigh had completed his ‘special service’ in America but might well be running with the hare and chasing with the hounds, be a double agent, in fact. Some discreet surveillance would be appreciated, Tom thought. He wondered just who Michael knew in the Home Office, and how, but quite probably they had been to school together, or shared cousins – secrecy did not exist inside the related groups, it seemed, and the lawyers knew the permanent officials and the more ephemeral gentlemen of the less prominent branches of government and information was disseminated on a very casual, uncontrolled basis. Whilst all were loyal there was no problem, but traitors from the ruling classes had an easy time of it, their very existence unquestioned – being the ‘right’ sort of people they could not possibly be suspected, which was, of course, even more reason for Bob Chawleigh to tread very carefully indeed, he was an ideal scapegoat.

  It occurred to Tom that Joseph, a man of no family who would disclose on deep enquiry to be foreign born and not even entirely white, was also vulnerable; perhaps his name should be mentioned to Mr Dundas as a right-thinking man, one who might well wish to contribute to the stability of the nation by placing some cash into the hands of Mr Pitt’s supporters. A thousand a year into the party chest and Joseph would be wholly secure. He must raise the matter with him later in the week, it was time he received a knighthood at least, the title announcing him to be safe.

  Joseph agreed when all was explained to him; he could afford a couple of thousands immediately, he said, and a thousand a year was by no means impossible thereafter, especially if he was to have sole access to a new source of raw cotton in the bale. Perhaps, when this war was over, they might consider buying their own plantations in the Americas, thus ensuring the continuity of their own supplies; they noted the idea for future reference, it occurring to neither man that the war might have nearly twenty more years in it.