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

by Andrew Wareham

  “You will be seen as superior to most, because of the size of the estate and having an income twice theirs, except for Major Hunt, and his money is in the Funds to a great extent, not in land, and the bulk of them will make calls upon you. You will, of course, leave cards with the Marquis.”

  “The Marquis?”

  “Grafham, sir – he owns most of the land between here and Thrapston, though much of it is unenclosed and the bulk of the rest encumbered by debt. Not a rich gentleman, sir, mainly, one understands, due to his father’s predilection for the Turf – which has been inherited, I hear, by his son, the Viscount. The Marquis took over only a few years ago, being unfortunate in that his father was long-lived; I am told that he sold a stables at Newmarket and upwards of two score of blood-horses kept there, as well as disposing of almost all of the stud at the manor here. The Marquis has three sons and two daughters, all unwed; the heir, young Viscount Rothwell, resides in London, while the second son is a lieutenant at sea and the third is a schoolboy still. Both daughters are out.”

  Tom nodded – courtesy demanded he should make a call, but they were socially much superior to him and he would expect to make no further contact with the family except on matters of business such as the upkeep of roads and parish affairs.

  “Major Hunt will make a morning call, sir, probably tomorrow – he is punctilious in the extreme in the fulfilment of his duties – and he will see this call as nothing other than duty, unless you can bring him onto friendly terms. He has but one arm, having been wounded in America in the last war – I suspect he experiences pain, more or less occasionally. He has a small estate, only two farms, less than one thousand acres between them, but he is very well-off, I believe, due to his mother marrying very late in life and failing to survive her only childbed, her portion, which was very large, falling entirely to the heir as a result.”

  Normal practice was for younger sons and daughters to inherit their mother’s portion, patrimony going exclusively to the eldest son.

  “The major is married, sir, has two sons, both away at school; his wife is sister to Mr Parker, your third neighbour to the east. He is unwed, and rumour insists that he will remain that way – but any gentleman who has no wife will be said to have inclinations, sir – that is the way of the countryside. He is Master of the hunt and will, no doubt, be interested to discover whether you intend to mount your own pack, as was Mr Rockingham’s avowed purpose.”

  “A thousand a year, they tell me, even a local pack will cost.”

  “I would imagine so, sir. Mr Rockingham was a man of large ambitions and intended to cut a figure in the county.”

  “Mr Rockingham was a fool, Morton. I am not. I believe – I know in fact – that I am richer by a very large degree than Mr Rockingham ever was, but I would think twice before I committed another thousand a year from my income. In this case, however, I will not need to think more than once – there will be no foxhounds here, Morton!”

  “Very wise, sir. Might I venture to suggest that a subscription to the hunt would be very well received?”

  “The estate is expected to do so, I presume?”

  “It always did, sir – even the last generation of the Quillers, who were very devout and more interested in paying for masses for each others’ souls, kept up that tradition.”

  “What is the correct amount to offer, Morton?”

  “One hundred per annum, sir.”

  “It will be done. What about to our west, are there many of the gently-born there?”

  “None who visit in this area, sir. The manor is owned by the Devonshires, who live elsewhere, as no doubt you know, sir.

  Tom did not know, listened in silence while Morton explained that the Devonshires owned land all over England, were the most powerful single family in the country, most governments, Whig and Tory alike, tending to have one half or more of their ministers belonging in some way to the clan – they were not to be seen in rural areas, certainly did not visit mere neighbours.

  “The villagers, sir, in Finedon, are mostly small tradesmen into cordwaining and iron. There is a doctor there and an attorney resident, a few spinster ladies inhabiting cottages in genteel poverty, a half-pay naval captain retired as far from the sea as he can get as well – none who would presume to visit, sir.”

  “Iron?”

  “Very small, sir – not your sort of thing at all. Charcoal, one understands, forges rather than foundries. There is no canal, sir, and hence no way to bring coke to the iron mines or to transport iron ore to the coal mines.”

  “You seem well-informed on the topic, Morton.”

  “In Mr Rockingham’s circumstances it seemed only appropriate to inform myself of such matters, sir. He, of course, would not discuss them with a mere menial.”

  “I believe I mentioned earlier that Rockingham was a fool.”

  “You did, sir – courtesy forbids me to agree with you, publicly.”

  “To our south?”

  “An unenclosed manor, sir, waste and common down the hill to the river, sir – the Nene. Note, sir, if I may point it out, that the name is pronounced as ‘Nenn’, not ‘Neen’ – a local prejudice, no doubt, but not unimportant in gaining acceptance. The few houses near the river look to the south, not to us, would not be regarded as being in our social orbit, as it were. The bulk of those who will visit or leave cards are to be found in the neighbourhood of Burton, where there are some five small estates, all related, cousins and such, and all forever squabbling over boundaries and fields and who exactly was, or should have been, heir to a two-acre field left by great-grandmother Latimer in 1750. They tend to be tedious and tenacious, sir, and, if I may make so bold, you should take great care not to show any sympathy or understanding at all to any one of them.”

  “I think I understand you, Morton – all it would take would be one smile, one comment that might be taken as agreement, and I would be roped in on one side or another.”

  “Just so, sir. Cognac, sir?”

  “No, not my habit except in company – I have seen men who chose to drink spirits on their own, would not wish to become one of them.”

  Morton nodded – Rockingham had rarely risen unaided from his dining table and the cellar contained half a dozen bottles of a fine Diabolino for guests, and two casks of much rawer brandy for his own consumption.

  “When should I leave cards with Grafham?”

  “Between five and eight days after your arrival, sir, would be best. Not on the Sabbath, of course. A Monday or Tuesday will have the advantage that some at least of the family will have seen your face on Sunday. You are Church of England, sir?”

  “Well, I’m not anything else, Morton.”

  “That is a relief, sir, especially after Mr Rockingham. In the absence of any particular faith or set of beliefs then you are a member of the Established Church, sir – and will, of course, fit in admirably with the bulk of the congregation and clergy. Some of the maiden ladies may be fervent in their adherence to their religion – possibly hoping to gain compensation in heaven for the aridity of their earthly life – but the majority of those present are merely stating their willingness to conform to the demands of society, sir. It is expected of any major figure that he shall be seen in his pew on Sunday, sir – every Sunday. Parson Nobbs will be very glad to see you – the glebe of some one hundred and fifty acres which he rents out to one of the Finedon men constitutes the great bulk of his income – perhaps one hundred and eighty pounds, sir, and his congregation is neither large nor prosperous, this being a strong chapel area, especially amongst the shopkeepers and small tradesmen who might be expected to put their shillings in the offertory each week. Your guinea will be very well received.”

  “That is all very well, Morton, and, it goes without saying, I shall do my duty – but I have never been inside a church in my life, except for one wedding, not of any sort or species! I would not know what to do.”

  “We shall see, sir – I am sure we can come up with a solution.”
/>   The major made his visit next day, as predicted, arriving soon before midday. He was much as Tom had expected – ram-rod stiff back making him seem taller than his five foot six or seven, lean, grey-streaked, brown face and blue eyes – a man who had been out of doors for much of his existence; otherwise he was wholly unfamiliar, which was a minor source of relief – America was a big place and the army had been spread over a thousand miles, but coincidence was always possible and could be damnably inconvenient.

  Brown had dressed him correctly in expectation of the occasion – semi-formal country attire, charcoal grey frockcoat, pantaloons, white shirt and black tie-cravat; on second meetings it would be possible to dress in breeches and boots, loose cravat in his shirt, waistcoat and light jacket, possibly in browns or even a light tan, but a first visit demanded the courtesy of a full suit. Morton had ensured that there would be refreshments to hand – cakes, biscuits, Madeira. Both men were hovering within earshot, just in case they might have to come to the rescue, but Tom had learnt his lessons well.

  “Good morning, Major Hunt! Welcome to Thingdon Hall, sir. My name is Thomas Andrews, major.”

  The major had been to the Hall before and he knew Tom’s name, but courtesies had to be observed.

  “Good morning, Mr Andrews! How do ye do?”

  They shook hands, Tom noting that the major had lost his left, which made greetings easier.

  “Please to take a seat, major,” Tom waved him to sit in the small withdrawing room.

  “On your own, Mr Andrews? I have never been here before but that fat fool of an agent was clambering all over me!”

  Hunt had obviously heard rumours of the passing of Smythe, was fishing.

  “Smythe? He lasted two hours in my employ, sir – we had a slight falling-out almost as soon as we met, and a somewhat larger one soon after, and he and Daniel left the estate as an immediate consequence. He seemed to think that I was a weakling who could be bullied and duped; perhaps Rockingham was, but how he made his fortune if that was the case, I don’t know.”

  Hunt nodded in satisfaction, this was a different sort of man to his predecessor and the whole neighbourhood might well be better off for it.

  “I believe Rockingham talked more of his fortune than made it, sir – he inherited from a very active father, whose name seems to have been Potts. Be that as it may, I told him half a dozen times that Smythe was no good, but he would not listen, he knew better than any person who gave him advice of any sort. Be making a lot of changes here, will you, Mr Andrews?”

  “Some, inevitably, sir – I doubt that any two men would see exactly eye-to-eye over the running of so large an estate as this. I have been very favourably impressed by young Quillerson, have made him bailiff and agent all in one and intend to keep him on a very loose rein – he has the knowledge and a love of this land. Early days for me, of course, but this is a fine old house and the people here have made an effort to welcome me – to be honest with you, major, and you know I am what they call a ‘self-made’ man, I have never had a home before, and I rather like the feeling of this one!”

  The candour had its expected effect – the major had been waiting for hints of aristocratic connections, ‘kept quiet because the family did not want to acknowledge trade’.

  “Good! I am glad to be among the first to welcome you, Mr Andrews, and to say that I look forward to being a neighbour of yours for many years! We are, by the way, to have an election fairly soon, certainly this year – have you a man of your own for the seat?”

  “I have not met the sitting member yet, major, can have no opinion of him.”

  “Cousin of Rockingham’s – poor and not very bright, depended on his generosity – he has made it clear to me that he wishes to retire into the obscurity for which he is best fitted.”

  Tom grinned and shook his head.

  “No, I have no man in mind, sir. Do you know of any able gentleman who might wish to be nominated?”

  Tom expected the major to put his own name forward at that point, was surprised when he did not, wondered why he had chosen to raise the topic.

  “Do you support the government, Mr Andrews?”

  “Broadly, yes, sir – we are at war and this is no time for politics! Some of their policies I do not like, and would quite vigorously oppose were the time right – but it is the duty of all honourable men to stand behind the King and his ministers when there is a foreign enemy set against us.”

  “I agree, sir!”

  Tom had rather expected that the major, gravely wounded fighting for his country, would feel that way, hence the rather vigorous statement of a view he only partially held.

  “If it would be convenient to you, Mr Andrews, I could make contact with my cousin, who is a Member for the County, and he might well wish to mention in Downing Street that the borough will need a sound man nominated.”

  “Please do so, sir – I would be at a loss to know how to go on otherwise.”

  Members for the County were actually elected and were often vastly more respectable than the second sons, wastrels and idiots who gravitated to the rotten boroughs; undoubtedly the major had been primed to raise the topic and Tom was very happy to let his name be noted as one of the right sort. If he was to marry and produce an heir, then a title would be worth having.

  They parted after their thirty minutes, the correct length for a morning visit, the major saying that he would look forward to seeing Tom in his house in the very near future – far more enthusiastic than a mere courtesy response.

  “Very good, thir! The major will path the word that you are a great improvement on Rockingham and may be treated like any other gentleman.”

  “I am glad to hear that, Brown.”

  “Mr Quillerson will drive with you to church on Sunday, sir,” Morton announced.

  “But, I thought he was…”

  “He was, sir, especially while Smythe was here – but he has been easily persuaded of the wisdom of joining the Established Church now that he has received temporal promotion. He is now sufficiently beforehand with the world that he may consider a wife, and that, in this area, and with this young lady, demands respectability – or orthodoxy at minimum, sir. He will be able to lead you through the appropriate procedures, having attended church weekly as a schoolboy.”

  “Thank you, Morton.”

  The church was old, its spire tall, room in the pews for at least three hundreds; there were fewer than fifty there, mostly female, without exception genteelly dressed. The great bulk of the villagers were crammed into a small red-brick chapel a quarter of a mile away, singing lustily, the remainder, all of the middle order, very quiet in a Quaker meeting hall nearby.

  “The Church claims them all, sir,” Quillerson quietly commented. “The chapel has no licence, so they must come here to be married but are not otherwise seen inside these doors. However, sir, married in the Church of England means that they are part of the parson’s flock when it comes to counting heads.”

  Tom nodded – he was not surprised to hear of the duplicity of the powers that be – it was a corrupt country and the Church was part of the government. He stood, knelt, sat, bowed his head to Quillerson’s command, thankful that the ornately carved pew belonging to the estate partially concealed him from the many curious eyes.

  “Mr Rockingham was chapel, sir, when he could be bothered at all. It was one of the causes of the unwillingness of the local gentry to mix with him. This pew remained empty. The other one, on the other side, sir, belongs to the Grafhams and will always have the women of the family there, except in the Season or when they are off visiting; the Marquis is less commonly present because he spends the bulk of his days in London where he is much involved in government business, one understands, playing a role on the Navy Board, I believe.”

  Tom smiled his understanding – the Marquis was poor and a place on a Board should parlay into several thousands a year in bribes and sweeteners from contractors. He glanced across the church, saw three bonnets in the pew
, nothing else.

  “This is the sermon, sir – Parson Nobbs will never stretch it beyond twenty minutes; the chapel runs to two hours of ranting – Hellfire and Damnation at the top of the minister’s voice – but Parson is too polite for that.”

  Tom listened to the first sermon he had ever heard; he did not understand it, could not follow the Biblical references, obviously, and was deeply unimpressed by what passed for logical argument. He was not much concerned with the niceties of pious behaviour, however, because to his understanding they had got him for theft and fornication, and probably murder, already, so he knew which direction he was heading in after death – he would deal with that problem when it came due, he had better things to worry about the while.

  The collection plate came to them first.

  “Two guineas, sir – more would be flash, less would be tight on a first attendance.”

  “Thank’ee, Mr Quillerson.” Tom laid the small coins precisely in the centre of the plate, next to Quillerson’s sixpence; they both started to chuckle and guiltily suppressed the noise.

  “Parson Nobbs will be at the doors, sir, to speak with everybody as they leave. We will be last out, the Grafham ladies in front of us.”

  They filed out in silence, maintaining the air of reverence until they reached fresh air again; almost all of the congregation had remained outside the porch, busily greeting each other and waiting to get a first surreptitious look at the new great man of the parish. Few of them would presume to intrude so far as to address Tom or attract his attention on this first meeting, but they would expect him to notice them when he inevitably bumped into them about the village over the next few weeks and months. The Grafham ladies were to be introduced by the reverend, however, they being socially Tom’s superior yet of lesser position in the ranks of local landholders.

  “Reverend Nobbs? My name is Andrews, sir, as I am sure you will have guessed!”

  The reverend, short, fat, benign, long widowed and very close to seventy, simpered mightily – his living was in the gift of the Thingdon Estate and he had a list of repairs to his parsonage as well as the desire to request permission to fee a curate to do the work of the parish while he retired to spend a last few years in a genteel boarding-house at Leamington Priors, taking the waters and living quietly and cheaply. He was, besides, very pleased to have been informed of the discomfiture of Smythe, whom he had heartily disapproved of while being able to do nothing about him.