First Fleet

by M Howard Morgan

  Jack kept up a diverting conversation, but Henry noted that his son stole a great many glances at Mary. The boy is smitten, he thought, quite smitten. Now the village will have some more gossip of us Vizzards, he sighed silently.

  ‘Giles, and Louise, your health’, he said raising a glass of Champagne, ‘I imagine you are both growing in anxiety now that you are betrothed and the banns have been read.’

  Giles answered the toast. ‘I speak for myself of course, Henry, but yes and heartily. I have some anxiety that my dear Louise will find me a worthy husband.’ He smiled towards his fiancé, who returned his look with genuine affection.

  ‘Then, Giles...take this thought if you will from one who speaks from personal knowledge; that marriage may have many pains, but I assure you that celibacy has few pleasures!’

  While Jack and Giles laughed loudly, Charlotte frowned in disapproval, while Louise showed the faintest blush.

  ‘Oh very good, Henry. Very amusing,’ Giles chuckled.

  ‘Alas my dear boy, I cannot claim original thought for that observation, for it belongs to Samuel Johnson, whose works I am reading.’

  He spoke for some minutes on the account of mental illness in the book, which had caught his interest, when, almost absently, he realised Charlotte, seated next to her brother, was probing and making Mary nervous. The main course of roast lamb now consumed, Mary had dropped her knife and Jack flashed his courtroom stare at his sister.

  ‘Mary, you simply must have some treacle tart. Neave makes a splendid pastry! Neave!’

  His shout brought his housekeeper bustling in from the kitchen. He always addressed both by their surname, having long ago forgotten their Christian names. ‘We’ll take some of that damned tart you were gabbling on about earlier please.’ He smiled kindly at his housekeeper, who merely raised a single eyebrow as a reproof.

  Jack looked with some gratitude at his father, understanding his motive.

  ‘Oh absolutely, Mary. Why, ‘tis almost edible!’ Jack joked, easing the atmosphere further. ‘And I had nothing whatever to do with it.’

  A tap on his foot told him to make no more mention of apples or pies or pastry, not at this table. He pushed his plate aside, wiping his lips on a napkin, to cover his smile.

  ‘I am sure it will be a pleasure, Mister Vizzard,’ was her contribution, directed now toward Henry. ‘I have an appetite today’.

  ‘Now then my dear, if you are to spend more time in my house, you must learn to call me Henry – unless I meet you in court of course!’ He laughed loudly at his own wit, rapidly clearing his throat realising, just in time, the poor taste of his humour. Fortunately, it passed unnoticed and the meal continued in a convivial atmosphere.

  Following lunch, leaving his father to converse with Giles and Louise, Jack showed Mary the grounds of Lampern House; they were not extensive, but of sufficient size for Henry’s taste. He was no amateur gardener, but

  Edward Neave and his wife tended a kitchen garden with a well-stocked vegetable patch.

  Behind a high beech hedge, there was a paddock and stables, with an outhouse for storage, and beyond that, the land rose steeply up to the wooded escarpment and an undulating common above.

  He showed her the library and they spent some time examining the shelves, which lined three of the walls, extending from the floor to a point just below the plastered ceiling. A portable ladder, used to give access the highest shelves, was in the corner by the large French windows that led out to the gardens, and to an ornamental pool and fountain. The fountain had not flowed for many years although Henry fully intended to have that restored.

  Neave served them both coffee, a drink that Mary had never previously tasted, declaring it delicious. She walked along the shelves and found, with Jack’s help, three books, including Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, and some poetry by Alexander Pope. He tied them together, with some red ribbon used to secure written opinions and taken from his father’s study, immediately adjacent to the library.

  ‘It is a beautiful house, Jack. You and your family must be very happy to live here.’

  He placed his cup on a small table and looked at her fondly. ‘Yes, it is a fine property, and father will never leave it. He tells of a family story that the Vizzards owned a larger estate centuries ago somewhere near Oxford, but which we lost after the Civil War. We have an ancestor, father tells me, a supporter of the King during that time. Obviously he backed the wrong horse, else we would truly be Lords of the Manor!’

  ‘Oh, and do you know what happened to it? The estate I mean.’

  ‘Both father and I have every intention of discovering more of the history, however neither of us have conducted any investigation. It could take years of research, and in truth neither of us really know where we should start. I suspect it is mere legend passed to us from grandfather -and he was half mad!’

  ‘Then you must, Jack. I could never ignore such a legend. Think of the story that must lie hidden in the dusty records of... well I am not sure where the records would be, but you must try at least.’ She loved to read of mysteries and romantic tales of chivalry.

  ‘Little is known to us. If grandfather spoke the truth, we do not know our ancestor’s name or what became of him – likely as not he was beheaded poor man.’

  ‘How awful and how romantic – dying for the King.’

  ‘Well I would disagree with that. I see nothing romantic in losing one’s head for the misfortune of supporting the ‘wrong’ side in a conflict. You forget also, Mary, that the particular king in question was a tyrant, who believed not in the laws of man, but in the divine rule of kings.’

  ‘How then does our present king differ from Charles?’

  ‘Now you ask a question which begs an involved answer my dear. He has lost us the American colonies, filled the government with mediocre men of no talent or ability, servile creatures that were his to control. He will never control Pitt in the same way. I also venture to suggest that our King is very possibly mad. I would never make a politician, Mary. Be quite certain of that!’

  ‘Would that be such a bad thing, Jack dear? I believe you would make an excellent politician – you actually care about people; the poor, the hungry, the homeless. Eliza tells of your generosity to some of the beggars of Gloucester. You cannot deny that.’

  ‘It is little enough I fear. The problems that face us now, Mary, must be addressed now; we should provide for education, for health, the atrocious prisons we have, reform of the law. There is so much that must be done and I doubt I have the patience for it.’ He smiled at the intensity of his words. ‘Here ends the sermon for today!’

  ‘It is your impatience I fancy that would be your success, Jack. Young men always want to seek to change, do they not? Perhaps you should consider it. Jack Vizzard, Member of Parliament for Gloucester. I think I like that.’

  He grunted, but did not answer further. He took her instead on a tour of the house, and she looked with wide eyes at the spacious rooms; the drawing and dining rooms she had seen, but the kitchen she wondered at. There was so much space, a large range at one end, with a baker’s oven to one side. Cupboards everywhere and a large and very heavy table in the centre of the room, above which were suspended the largest collection of copper and iron pans and pots she had ever seen gathered in one place.

  They stopped to thank the housekeepers for an enjoyable lunch, and took some tea outside, sitting on a worn bench by the fading rose garden, talking for a while, reluctant to let the afternoon come to an end.

  But end it had to and Jack, with a lack of enthusiasm, escorted Mary back to The Vicarage. The village was quiet that afternoon, most villagers at home tending to their chores. They walked slowly along the deep narrow lane from Lampern House, down the hill towards the church and vicarage. They were silent for some of the way, each with their thoughts, conscious of a novel sensation that passed between them. A dog ran into the lane, making them both start, before disappearing through a hedge. Then they laughed together, releasing
the tensions of the lunch, still a little nervous in each other’s company.

  The hedges were already shedding foliage, exposing the twisted, silvery limbs of the beech that made up so much of the woods in this part of Gloucestershire. Mountainous white clouds billowed towards the sky, interspersed with darker clouds nearer the earth. The air felt warm and moist, promising rain later. Even the sparrows seemed more nervous than usual, twittering amongst the cows grazing lazily in the adjacent field. Jack knew little of cows, never having worked with them, but he had once helped in the milking sheds as a boy. He had also helped at shearing time, and had been reasonably adept with the shears. Mary would not be interested in such things though, surely? He glanced sidelong at her, pondering her mood. She appeared relaxed, a soft, more self-assured expression about her eyes.

  ‘When I was younger, I used to shear those sheep,’ he offered, passing Richard Caldwell’s farm, where a flock of Ryeland sheep ran uncertainly in mobs. ‘When I say, those sheep, I mean ...not those same sheep, of course. You understand my meaning, Mary?’ He was struggling for once and she was instantly amused at his confusion.

  ‘I understand you perfectly my dear. That is so very sweet. I mean - to imagine you straddling sheep, and sweating as you clip the wool from its back. I have seen it done by others and ‘tis hard work for a city man! I find it difficult to see you other than with your nose buried deep in a book on trusts, or tort, or something equally dull!’ She sought to tease him again but he was not to rise, as a fish, to her bait this time.

  ‘Father was anxious that Georgie and I learn something of nature I suspect, and of the benefit of honest toil, that we would better understand the labour that other men are obliged to undertake to make a living. I believe it was beneficial, although I thought otherwise at the time. You are quite correct of course; it was by far the most demanding labour. Georgie hated it.’

  She knew the village gossip of the elder Vizzard boy, although she had not known him. Her mother had spoken of it, had cautioned her not to raise the subject with the younger brother. ‘Do not talk of him my child, he ran away to sea, probably to escape a vengeful husband if you ask me, but the brother will not wish to hear you speak of him.’ Her mother had been unusually evasive and emphatic, she thought. She ignored the warning.

  ‘You are very fond of your brother.’ The question was asked and she almost regretted asking it, for fear that she might open a wound. She was relieved to see that Jack did not appear offended.

  ‘We were inseparable as boys and I miss him much. I often wonder what has become of him.’ He paused, his mind flashing back in an instant to that summer two years ago. ‘The hurt was immense at the time, because he never confided in me, when we used to share everything. I did not understand.’ He sighed. ‘I reasoned much later that he probably wished to avoid disturbing my studies. I was preparing for my final examinations and he left before the long vacation. It took me a long time to forgive him, but I believe I have since. My dear, must we talk of such matters? It can be of little interest to you.’

  So he did still hurt then, she decided. Usually brothers fought as cat and dog, but clearly the Vizzard boys were different. How alike, or truly different, were these two men, she asked herself. Then she asked him the same question.

  ‘Father thinks we are ‘peas from the same pod’, but we differed. He was the leader in all things; in our games, our learning – he never went to Oxford though, much to father’s ire, but in all else where he led, I tended to follow. It usually landed me in one scrape or another!’ He laughed, not in amusement, but ironically. ‘By God, Georgie, where are you now when I need your counsel most!’

  ‘Georgie?’ She asked.

  ‘Yes, he was always Georgie. As in the nursery rhyme – ‘Georgie Porgy kissed the girls and made them cry.’ He kissed a good many girls! Father would never call him that, but Charlotte tells that mother used to sing that rhyme to him at bed-time.’

  Now here was another wound to open. With less fear, she asked of his mother.

  ‘You never knew her did you, Jack?’

  He stopped, looked at her, and decided that she deserved an answer. He walked to a gate leading to a field, sat on the bank at the side of the lane, gently taking her hand, and pulling her down beside him.

  ‘No, Mary. She died birthing me, and I know that something inside father died that day. I often catch him looking at her portrait. You may have noted it yourself this morning. It is a fine portrait.’ He looked up at the sky, collecting his thoughts.

  ‘I stare at her myself for what seems like hours whenever I am home, wondering about her, what kind of person she was. Beautiful of course, that much is true from her picture, but what was she truly like? How did she speak and sound? What thoughts did she have? How did she move? Often I ask these questions of myself. Perhaps that is one of the reasons I miss Georgie. He has some memory of her. Charlotte loved her, everyone did. I never had the opportunity, and perversely I once blamed myself for causing her death. Nonsense, of course. Neave came to us as my wet nurse and stayed with us ever since. We are very close, she and I. Why, she still gives me the largest portions at dinner!’ He laughed again.

  ‘I think’, she said, holding his hand more firmly, ‘that she must have been one of the most beautiful ladies in the county. I did see her portrait, and could not help but notice the likeness. You follow her looks more than Charlotte I feel. Your sister has your father in her bones.’

  ‘And in much else I fancy!’

  A warm breeze ruffled the grass and he plucked a blade from the bank, absently chewing on it, before continuing.

  ‘Charlotte and I are very different. She has father’s temperament – if not his discretion. Please, do not misunderstand me, I love her dearly, but she can be such a basket of trouble! That is one of the questions that I ponder on sometimes. Was my mother like her? Father said that she was an ‘impulsive romantic’ and that both his sons have inherited that trait but not so Charlotte. I sometimes think that Charlotte has no romance in her soul whatever. She is so very independent. Why else has she not found a man to take her off father’s hands before now? She is not ugly and has charm of a kind, but seems unable to find the ‘man of her dreams’ as she puts it.’

  Mary loosened the sash from her dress. Looking at her feet she said, ‘and you, Jack, do you have romance in your soul?’

  His face turned to hers now, and he spoke softly, ‘Need you ask me that, Mary? Before returning home I would have answered your question differently, but now, yes, I believe I do.’

  His eyes looked deep into hers, and he understood that she knew the answer to the question already.

  As did he.

  11

  The Youth

  The youth shivered in the kitchen. His hair, matted and soaking, stuck to his scalp, his face shining with the moisture. The morning rain was running off his muddy clothes, forming dirty puddles on the cold flagstone floor, and the blanket that Ed Neave had placed around his shoulders did little to stop his teeth knocking. He had run as fast as he knew how until he had reached the ‘Big House’ and found the door at the rear that obviously led to the kitchen.

  Because no lights were showing, he had waited until he had seen a lamp flicker illuminating the kitchen and heard the sounds of the kitchen fire being stoked and re-fuelled, and pans clanking. Then he had knocked, quite loudly, waiting it seemed to him, a very long time before the door opened and a surprised Neave let him inside.

  ‘What is all this about, young Tom? You look afeared for your life boy.’

  He sat the boy down on a stool by the fire, pouring him a small tankard of beer from a large stone bottle.

  The boy told his tale quickly, in nervous, broken sentences eager to complete his mission.

  ‘It’s true, sir. Mistress Mary said I was to tell Mister Vizzard to come at once. At once, she says. The charley...he came in the night and they’ve taken ‘er away, sir.’

  The charley was the village night watchman charged by the p
arish with keeping the peace and catching any thieves. Neave, listening to this strange tale, struggled to comprehend, but there was no denying the boy was in earnest. Why should the vicar’s housekeeper be arrested and taken away in the middle of the night? It had only been a fortnight since the young lady had dined at Lampern House, and she and Master Jack had both been so happy.

  ‘They two have fallen for each other, that be plain.' His wife, Maddy had told him later that same day, after the lunch. She had started to speak of wedding plans that she would have to make. There was no doubt in her mind of that, and it had become a topic of some gossip in the village. They had become inseparable it seemed, to those that knew them both, Ed conceded. His wife fretted over the younger son as though he were her own child, which in many ways he was.

  ‘Now then my lad, where be she taken to?’ He looked at the boy kindly. He knew him to be Eliza Clutterbuck’s grandson, Tom, and not a bad boy. ‘Tell me all you know and quickly now. Before I raise Master Jack I shall need to know all.’ He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘Please, sir I don’t knows no more `an that, sir. My Nan says to tell you there was a great hullabaloo during the night and to fetch Master Jack straightaway, sir. I don’t know nothing more, sir.’ Tom had a fair idea of what had gone on but was not about to say so. Best to play ignorant of grown up ways he decided.

  ‘Give the lad some breakfast, love.’ He said to his wife, loading the fire with fresh logs of seasoned wood. ‘I had best go and wake the young master. What he will make of all this the good Lord only will know.’

  Neave lit another candle and placing it carefully in a pewter holder, started for Jack’s room at the rear of the house. He was very ill at ease. Folk ain’t taken off in the middle of the night with no reason, he thought, and certainly not the likes of young Mary George. This is an ill wind and no good will come of it, that’s for certain. He climbed the stairs with a sense of foreboding. Once before he had had to raise the Master in the middle of the night. That was when George had left to go to sea, leaving Lampern with no farewell to Mister Vizzard. He shuddered at the memory.