The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Will not the bailiff have knowledge of all of these, Mr Telford?”

  “He should have, certainly, Mr Andrews.”

  Tom made a mental note that there was a problem with the bailiff.

  “There will certainly be some accounts presented by opportunist gentlemen, hoping to make a profit from your ignorance and good will – in the first few days you might be tempted to pay a dubious bill rather than possibly cause offence by querying it. Accounts ‘for services rendered’ – these more likely to be presented by young women; gaming debts; a horse which Mr Rockingham had pledged himself to buy and which had been kept back for him. Some will be legitimate, most will not be – head groom, agent, bailiff and secretary should know between them.”

  Rockingham had kept ducal state, it would seem, all it needed besides was chancellor and chaplain.

  “Was Mr Rockingham a public man? Did he perhaps serve the Lord Lieutenant in some function or was he expecting to become a member?”

  “No, no and highly unlikely, sir.”

  Then why such a plethora of staff? Had the poor man suffered from delusions of grandeur?

  Tom left the interview with Telford slightly more puzzled than he had arrived, but quite determined to get to the roots of whatever silliness was to be found at the Hall, and extract them; he had a memory of visiting the dentist a couple of years before – this operation might well be equally painful - but not to him.

  Book One: A Poor Man

  at the Gate Series

  Chapter Nine

  South on the Bedford road out of Kettering, onto a wooded spur of the ironstone ridge and looking out across a shallow river valley to the low hills typical of Northamptonshire – an undramatic, understated landscape, wholly undistinguished but not unpleasant – not very much at all, really, when compared with Lancashire, and the Pennines to the east and the Welsh mountains looming in the west. The large village of Burton could be seen as rooftops and chimneys a couple of miles to the south-west; Finedon was due south but not visible over the hill; Irthlingborough, a larger iron town on the River Nene, a couple of miles further south again. A few old brownstone farmhouses and barns dating from the Elizabethan enclosures were set below the crests of the hills, sheltered from wind and rain and scattered thinly over the arc of six or seven miles before them; there were patches of woodland in the bottoms, but mostly the land was down to the plough, dun and empty at this time of year, a week or two before the seedlings of barley and wheat started to green the fields. There were a few sheep on the very tops of the hills, an ironstone quarry directly to their east, but it seemed essentially to be an empty, impoverished land, particularly to eyes that had become accustomed to the bustling industrial landscape of Lancashire where every road and lane had its wagons, every stream a mill, most hillsides a pithead – this was old, agricultural England. It reminded Tom of the countryside behind Bridport where he had grown up and intended never to return – it was not nostalgia that he felt.

  “Our land, Brown.”

  “Tho I understand, thir. It will be rich, one day, or could be, thir, properly used.”

  “So I have been told.” Tom was not wholly convinced, began to wonder if he had been sold a pup. “The house, Mr Telford informs me, is on the road between Finedon and Thrapston, to be reached by a newly planted avenue.”

  No avenue of any sort was visible from where they were and the post-boys clicked up the horses and set off down to Burton and then over the hill to Finedon. The road was unmade, a pair of shallow ditches and a grass verge on either side of a strip of mud just wide enough for two farm carts to squeeze past each other, the deepest of ruts and potholes showing evidence that baskets of broken stones were occasionally thrown in as a crude attempt at road-mending. They bumped and rattled at walking speed, the boys not daring to risk the horses’ legs at any faster pace; at the crossroads outside Finedon they turned left onto an even muddier track, no more than a pair of ruts – a young gentleman they assumed to be the village idiot assured them, when they eventually understood what he was saying, that they were on the Thrapston road and that the big house was ‘down there quite close’.

  “There, thir, the avenue, or tho I presume.”

  Brown pointed to a double row of beeches set in pairs at fifty feet apart and at intervals of fifty or sixty paces – they would be impressive, marching across the skyline and pointing the way, one day, but at the moment were no more than three feet high.

  “My word, Brown, in thirty years time, both of us in our dotage, we can be carried out here to sit in the shade of these magnificent monuments to our glory!”

  “Quite probably, thir, though unless I am much mistaken, a number of them theem to be less than wholly healthy, will be at best stunted in their tribute.”

  Tom grinned – Brown had a sardonic, grudging wit which he was prepared to exercise occasionally, not too often, being much concerned with maintaining the bounds of propriety, but sufficiently to be worth listening to.

  They crossed onto the gravel drive between the trees, picked up a little speed, the surface being vastly superior to the road, travelled nearly half a mile along the shallow slope, turned across the shoulder of the hill and saw the house.

  Thingdon Hall was sheltered on three sides by the low hills, was surrounded by formal gardens rather than a park, three or four acres laid out in square and circular beds with gravelled paths in between, a man and three boys busily weeding and planting, not a leaf out of place. They looked across to the open side, saw that in fact it merely gave the prospect of another hillside, slightly further distant. The house was immaculate – freshly painted, washed, scrubbed and polished as appropriate, deeply, frequently cleaned, not just given a mere lick and a polish for the occasion.

  “Did you notice just how many servants there are, Brown?”

  “I did not think to check, thir, but I doubt there is a girl unemployed in all the village, thir.”

  The post boys brought the chaise round in a slow half circle onto the broad sweep of paving stones outside the front doors, enabling Tom to appreciate exactly what he was master of. The house was about two centuries old, in the Elizabethan style, unusually perfect, unchanged since first it was built; the central block and pair of wings were made of the local deep tan ironstone rather than the more normal red brick of the time, but the tiled roof and tall, twisted chimneys were as expected. It had three floors, two with tall windows, the third servants’ attics with tiny dormers. The double front doors were old slabs of oak, almost black against the gleaming white of the two steps below them. A quick count gave six big sets of windows on either side of the doors and four to each wing, their glass shining brightly, a faint smell of vinegar disclosing that they had been polished that morning.

  “How many bedrooms did Mr Martin say?”

  “Twenty-four, thir, thix with dressing roomth – a middling thort of house for an estate of thith thize – one might expect larger, a wing or two added in the last one hundred yearth.”

  “The family has not been rich for generations, I believe. I shall of course, add several wings – when the occasion arises, when I am made duke, say.”

  Brown permitted himself a small chuckle – it was not, as the master clearly perceived, a very likely event.

  The doors were flung wide exactly as the chaise came to a halt and a very visible, officious, loud, formally dressed individual supervised the butler and two footmen as they let the steps down and handed the new master out. Two more men in frockcoats stood at the door with at least eight servants lining the hall behind each of them.

  The butler was correctly dressed in black and white, pantaloons, waistcoat over shirt and neat tie-cravat, exactly as one might expect, but the footmen wore powdered wigs and dressed in knee breeches and silk stockings, formal frills above them, more suited to the Court of St James than a minor country house; the maids were in black dresses with white aprons, normal enough but making clear that they were all upstairs staff, that there must be more in the kit
chens as well as the men in the stables. With the gardeners that made upwards of thirty servants, which was ridiculous for a house of this size - small wonder that Rockingham had found himself in debt.

  “My name is Smythe, sir. I am Agent for the Thingdon estate.”

  Smythe was of middle height, a head shorter than Tom and seemed to resent that he had to look up at him, his lips pursed in temper; he was plump, soft, white-handed, clearly rarely stirred from his office desk – he was too important a man to dirty himself with toil, it seemed.

  Tom nodded, unimpressed by the man’s bearing and attitude – there was a superior sneer very poorly hidden.

  “Bailiff and Secretary,” Smythe waved a hand to the pair, who bowed deeply, obviously well coached; he made no attempt to name them and ignored the butler entirely.

  The secretary was a well-fed gentleman of thirty or so, smiling obsequiously as he caught his eye; the bailiff, somewhat younger, was lean, harsh-looking, ill-at-ease, uncomfortable in the company he was keeping.

  Smythe was taken aback, almost offended, when Tom stopped by the butler’s side.

  “You, of course, must be my butler?”

  “Yes, sir. Morton, sir.”

  “A relic of the past, Mr Andrews – Morton used to be in the service of the Quiller family and Mr Rockingham retained his services although I strongly recommended that we find a man of greater experience of the social demands of a big house.”

  Smythe looked hopeful, as if he wished Tom to immediately rectify his predecessor’s error.

  “Thank you, Smythe. I am sure Morton will have much to tell me of this house and of local customs. Brown, here, is my man, Morton – please to see to his comfort.”

  The allocation of rooms in the quarters was an obvious duty of the butler, especially in the apparent absence of a female manager; Morton was quite sure that he was being asked to talk openly to Brown – he would be happy to do so.

  “No housekeeper, Smythe? I would have thought that with such a plethora of staff one would have been appointed.”

  “She died a few months ago, sir, soon after Mr Rockingham encountered his difficulties; some sort of woman’s illness, a thorough nuisance. It was no time to hire new staff, sir, especially when there were more difficulties at Quarter Day last.”

  Tom noted the absolute lack of concern for the poor woman’s fate.

  “Have all staff been paid their dues, Smythe?”

  “Yes, sir – Mr Telford, the banker, advanced the monies in your name, stating that he believed it to be your wish.”

  “It was.”

  “Cook has been performing such of the housekeeper’s duties as she can, sir. She, of course, could not leave her kitchens to greet you, sir.”

  That was nonsense – it was a poor cook who was tied below stairs because she could not trust her underlings, and if she had had time to act as housekeeper then she could certainly find a few minutes to come upstairs.

  “Did cook serve the Quiller family, Smythe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tom walked inside, smiled at the maids, the youngest nearly fainting as the twisted grin leered at her and making up her mind to go home to mum at Quarter Day – better no place than working for a scar-faced ogre!

  “There will be cold meats in the small dining-room, sir, a refreshment after your journey.” Smythe knew he had only come from Kettering that morning. “The head gamekeeper will wait upon you at two o’clock, sir.”

  Smythe seemed ready to withdraw from the presence, satisfied that he had made his point to the master, made it quite clear that he was here to amuse himself, to play at being a gentleman, and should keep out of the way of the people who did the work; he stopped, eyebrow raised, as Tom lifted a hand.

  “Have you arranged for the bailiff to be made available to me, Smythe? I would expect to see him today, to start the process of familiarising myself with my responsibilities.”

  “Our procedure, sir, is for the bailiff to take his instructions from me; I will present you with the quarterly accounts, sir.”

  “My practise, Smythe, is to become immediately and fully acquainted with the properties that I own and I run. My managers obey my instructions, sir. What is the function of the secretary? What may I expect from him?”

  “Mr Daniel assists me with the multifarious tasks that fall to my lot, sir.”

  “Does he, now! I will see the bailiff in the estate offices at half past two, exactly. You and Daniel will be present. I shall expect a very full explanation of the sights that have come to my eyes this morning, Smythe. The footmen, for a start – get them out of fancy dress and into sensible working clothes and give them to Morton to be made use of. Send cook to me now, in the small dining-room. What is the bailiff’s name, by the way?”

  “Quillerson, sir!” With an air of sniggering triumph Smythe explained that the young man had grown up on the estate, knew it thoroughly, had been kept on by Rockingham as an agreement of the purchase. “He knows everything and everybody, sir, almost as if he were one of the Quiller family, hee, hee, hee!”

  Cook came upstairs, fortyish, scrawny, five feet tall and weighing six stone, with neatly tied back light brown hair, just visible under her white cap. Tom estimated; he wondered if she ate her own cooking.

  “Williams, sir. I bin in the kitchen ‘ere nigh on thirty year, sir. Started as scullery maid, sir – skivvy, that is – learned off the old cook what was. I bin doin’ the ‘ousekeepin’ this six month, best I can like, but it ain’t my trade, sir. Being as ‘ow I was never an upstairs, like, I don’t know what’s what up there, nor I don’t know what should be spent. You did ought to get a proper ‘ousekeeper, sir, one as can tot up the bills and keep an eye to the accounts, what I can’t for never ‘avin’ got me readin’, sir.”

  A housekeeper who could not oversee expenditure – very useful to a peculating steward but hopeless in the job. Smythe had been a little too obvious in this piece of work!

  “That is very good of you, cook – a very honest story. You will not lose any money by it, I promise you.”

  “Can’t nohow, master, seein’ as I didn’t get none extra for doin’ it.”

  “You will, Mrs Williams, next Quarter Day, my word on it. What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Goose, sir, and roastie taters and spring greens and parsmit; pea and ‘am soup. I didn’t know what you fancies in the way of sweet stuff, so I’m just puttin’ up meringues wi’ cream and they old macaroons – old Mr Rockingham did love they almond things.”

  “It sounds very good, Mrs Williams.”

  “I does what I can, but it ain’t easy eatin’ proper ‘ereabouts. Fish be the problem – if you gets sea-fish, well, they’s goin’ to be two day old, at least, afore they gets ‘ere, and I ain’t ‘avin’ that in my kitchen, sir – like as not you eats they and you ends up shittin’ through the eye of a needle!”

  Tom had not heard that expression before, exploded with laughter.

  “Quite, Mrs Williams – not what we want!”

  “Noways it ain’t, sir. So it be perch and carp and pike and trout in season, and a feed of crays when us can get ‘em, and eels from the pond, but it ain’t the way it oughter be, not like what I was told when I were learnin’.”

  “You must just do the best you can, Mrs Williams – there is simply no way to eat proper fish here.”

  “Right, sir, that’s what I always did say. Anything you particularly likes, sir, you just pass the word to that man of yours and I’ll see to it. Cakes and tarts and puddin’ and that sort of thing, sir.”

  She left, Tom feeling that he might well have gained an ally – there was nothing he could do about her fish, though he would have liked to because she seemed genuinely upset that she could not do her job properly, in her own opinion, but it was the better part of seventy miles to the nearest fishing port, and that was two days at least, as she had said.

  The head gamekeeper made his appearance, a man of forty or so, small and quiet in his ways, light on his
feet, informed him that his name was Jackson and that he had no game to keep this year - he seemed depressed, downtrodden, without hope.

  “Mr Rockingham, sir, ‘e wanted cocks at walk and a driving shoot, like the gentry do, but ‘e never got round to getting they old birds in, or paying for breeding coops and pens. There’s me and three lads and bugger-all for us to do like, except for keeping the varmints down.”

  “Get rid of the lads, Jackson – I shall not be shooting pheasants.”

  “Don’t make bugger-all sense to do it ‘ere, sir, not on this land. You shoots pheasants on rough ground, moors and waste and that, not on good wheat land.”

  “Right! What can you do that will be useful, Jackson?”

  Jackson looked more hopeful, the air of gloom leaving him as he was consulted rather than given silly orders.

  “Keep the rabbits down, sir. Mind the ‘edges and keep the trees up what Mr Rockingham planted and left to get on wi’ it. No idea, that man, none at all, sir! There’s a few deer what wanders wild, sir, and they might as well be looked after. Be you much for fishing, sir?”

  “Not at all, Jackson – I had enough of that as a boy!”

  “Good – there be a family of otters what I ought to ‘ave shot but didn’t like to. They can stay – they’ll eat a few fish, sir, but not many. I can keep the river clean of weed and flowing free.”

  “Right, keep yourself busy and useful, come direct to me if you need to spend money.” Tom hesitated, added, “I’ve never seen an otter that I can remember.”