On the fourth day he decided that they had earned a rest and after a leisurely breakfast he said he thought he would go to the library and answer his letters of condolence. So Milly went with him and settled herself on one side of the library table to write a long letter to her mother, while he sat opposite her, busy with his own correspondence. After a while he looked up and gave her a languid, loving smile.
‘Are you happy, Dumma-dumma?’ he asked.
They’d been so busy she hadn’t stopped to consider whether she was happy or not but now that he’d asked she knew that she was more contented than she’d ever been in her life. ‘Uncommon happy,’ she said, ‘although I still find it hard to believe.’ And she got up and walked round the table so that she could kiss him.
He held her about the waist and smiled again. ‘I find it hard to believe too,’ he said. ‘You make an excellent lady of the house, my darling.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘In that case, could I suggest summat to ’ee – as lady of the house?’
‘Fire away.’
‘While you’re making changes and alterations,’ she said, ‘I think you should think about changing the lighting.’
He understood her at once. ‘To gas light.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘’Twould be a much brighter place with gas light – think how good the light is in Charlotte Square – and it would make all the difference in the world to the kitchens, especially on a dark day.’
It was a sensible and obvious idea. ‘I will do it,’ he told her. ‘A letter to the chairman of the gas company, I think.’
He didn’t know it, but a letter would not be necessary because one of the directors of the York Union Gas Light Company was already planning to see him.
Mr George Hudson had been very pleased to hear that Sir Mortimer Fitzwilliam was dead and had been succeeded by his young son. ‘Happen he’ll be more open to a sensible negotiation than his curmudgeon of a father,’ he said to Lizzie. ‘I shall write to him directly.’
Which he did and got an answer back, remarkably quickly, suggesting that they should meet. It was a satisfactory start.
He dressed for the meeting with more than usual care, knowing how important appearances were when you were dealing with the gentry and his first sight of the new master of the estate showed him how sensible his choice of clothing had been, for the young man into whose presence he was ushered was most elegantly attired, in a green frock coat, very expensive doeskin trousers and the whitest cravat he’d ever seen. He was even better pleased to see what a slender young man he was – tall, yes, but apart from that, there was nothing of him and he was extremely pale, with hair like a girl’s and such a silky moustache it was nothing more than a shadow. You could blow him over with a puff of wind. By the end of one swift glance, he was full of his own size and importance and perfectly confident of getting what he wanted.
‘I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Sir Felix,’ he said, beaming as they shook hands. ‘Your father and I were at the point of agreeing a deal when he was so sadly taken from us. A little matter of some land I wished to purchase for the new railway to Scarborough that is currently being planned. I brought the proposal with me, sir, should you care to see it.’
‘I am fully cognisant of the details of your proposal, Mr Hudson,’ Felix said, smoothly polite. ‘I have of course acquainted myself with all such correspondence as was ongoing at the time of my father’s death.’
That was a blow. He’s not as frail as he looks, George thought, and changed tack at once. ‘If that is the case, sir,’ he said, ‘happen we may proceed to business.’
They proceeded and although he wasn’t entirely aware of it at the time, the great Mr Hudson was tied up in legal knots. Such land as was needful for the building of a railway line would be leased to Mr Hudson’s company for a term of twenty-five years, with the provision that a ‘halt’ be built just south of the village and the farm so that his employees could make use of it. The price was declared reasonable by Sir Felix before Mr Hudson could object to it or even begin to barter. It was all over in half an hour and Felix shook hands with the quietly satisfied air of a barrister who has just won his case.
‘There is one other, rather lesser matter we might also discuss while you are here,’ he said. ‘You are a director of the York Union Gas Light Company, I believe.’
George agreed that he was.
‘I should like to bring gas light to this house and the surrounding farms and cottages,’ Felix told him. ‘Could you put the matter in hand for me, perhaps?’
As he was trotted back to York in his smart carriage and four, George Hudson was annoyed to realize that the deal he’d just signed was not as advantageous as he’d expected it to be and certainly not as he’d thought it was when he was putting his signature to it. In fact, if the truth be told, he’d been outwitted by a slip of a boy. The thought was altogether too shaming to be entertained for long so he set about reshaping it. By the time he arrived back at Monkgate, he had decided that he had struck a most advantageous deal and was, as usual, a man to be admired and congratulated.
And so those two great boons to nineteenth-century life, gas light and the railway, were coming to Foster Manor, as Felix was delighted to tell Milly’s mother and father and grandmother when they next came visiting.
They were most impressed but Nathaniel laughed when Milly wanted to know if the new railway would be built by the spring.
‘Railways take an unconscionable amount of time, what with planning and raising capital and waiting for a bill of approval,’ he told her. ‘It’s possible the first section of track might be up and running by 1842 but earlier than that I couldn’t say.’
‘What’s so special about next spring?’ Jane wanted to know, for something about her daughter’s face was alerting her to a delicious possibility.
‘By next spring,’ Milly told her demurely, ‘according to Mrs Hardcastle, who knows about these things, you will be a grandmother, Ma, and I thought a railway would be convenient should you want to come and visit the baby at any time.’
‘I shall come and visit that baby, railway or no railway, even if I have to walk every inch of the way,’ her mother told her, springing at her to hug her and kiss her. And then the room disintegrated into a peal of delight and such hearty congratulations that Felix went quite pink. What a good life this was turning out to be.
The great Mr Hudson was dressing for his farewell dinner as Lord Mayor. It was a raw November evening so he was glad he would be wearing his robes and his chain of office. He stood before the long mirror admiring his image, brandy glass in one hand and cigar in the other. There was no doubt he looked the part, solid and wealthy and dependable in his expensive jacket and his white waistcoat, with a white cravat the equal of any cravat he’d ever seen, even the one that young Sir Felix had been wearing and all of it set off by the rich red and thick fur trimming of his mayoral robe. ‘Aye,’ he said to himself, ‘tha’s done well, lad.’ And now he would be wined and dined and thanked for all the good work he’d done. He was licking his lips at the prospect.
It was a very fine dinner. Excellent fish, roast goose, plenty of wine. And better still, there was a vote of thanks to finish it off. As the master of ceremonies struck the floor with his stave to call for attention, George stroked his waistcoat pocket where his gracious acceptance lay folded, written and ready, and turned his face towards the speaker ready for praise and adulation.
It was a bit of a disappointment to see that it was Mr Leeman who was rising to his feet. The man was a Whig, which was the wrong party for a start, and one of their local solicitors with a reputation for a sharp tongue. But he smiled at the assembled aldermen and counsellors and began well.
‘My Lord Mayor, ladies and gentlemen, it has fallen to me to propose the vote of thanks to our outgoing Lord Mayor, Mr George Hudson.’ There was a shuffle of interest and a ripple of applause from the Tories. ‘Mr Hudson has proved himself to be one of the most notable holde
rs of that office, as all of us here could bear testimony. I feel sure there are many in our company today who have benefited from his endeavours, as I am equally sure he has himself.’ That was a bit pointed, George thought. And unnecessary. ‘His exploits have brought him fame and renown.’ Quite right. Now tell us about them.
It was a list rather than an approbation. He read it from the notes in his hand. And when he’d finished, he laid the paper on the tablecloth and looked round at his listeners. ‘Had Mr Hudson stepped down last year, when it was the correct and constitutional time for him to do so,’ he said, ‘I would have proposed a vote of thanks to him and I would have meant every word. However, Mr Hudson did not step down when it was the constitutional time for him to do so. Mr Hudson contrived to remain in office, unconstitutionally. Now I have to tell you, Mr Hudson, sir, I am delighted to see you go.’
The Whigs were cheering and banging the table but the Tories were on their feet, booing and hissing and shouting ‘Shame!’, ‘Retract, sir!’
Mr Leeman had been prepared to raise hackles but the strength of their opposition was greater than he expected and that, combined with rather too much wine, made him suddenly angry. Within seconds he was too angry for moderation. He turned to face his hecklers, red in the face and shouting back. ‘Shame on you, sirs,’ he yelled. ‘Do you think we’ve not taken your measure? Oh no, sirs, we know you, we know what you are. You are bought men, every one of you. You bow down before the golden calf of Hudson’s wealth. You bow down and worship it. Shame on you!’
His audience was making such a noise, either booing and shouting or cheering and shouting, that his voice was only intermittently heard. It took nearly five minutes and a great deal of banging before the master of ceremonies could restore order. As soon as there was a hush he proposed the vote of thanks, asked for a show of hands, counted them in an extremely summary fashion and declared it carried. Then, as was customary, he offered the floor to the outgoing Lord Mayor.
George was so angry he was shaking. How dare they do this to him! And at a dinner held in his honour, what’s more. Had they no sense of what was proper? It was disgraceful, insupportable, despicable! They should be downright ashamed of themselves to treat a man of his calibre in such a disgusting way. He’d never heard anything to equal it. He wrapped his red cloak around him and stood to face them out, his face puce and his eyes bulging with rage, a bull ready to charge.
‘Oh yes, you may mock and bay,’ he roared at them. ‘Let me tell ’ee, mockery is the mark of unimportant men. The mark of unimportant men. I know just the sort of men you are.’ And when they roared back at him, ‘You are actuated by a littleness of feeling. A littleness of feeling which, when it is exhibited in its deformed state, as it has been this day, is utterly and totally disgraceful. Utterly and totally disgraceful. For what are you, when all’s said and done? Toadies, that’s what you are. Toadies who tout for meals and invitations, which is another disgrace, toadies who resort to backbiting when they don’t get their own way, toadies who invent conversations which never occurred. Shame on you! You’re a disgrace to the name of aldermen and councillors.’
He was still shaking with anger when he and Lizzie got back to Monkgate.
‘How could they do such a thing?’ he said, slumping into his armchair. He was too distraught to get ready for bed. It was enough just to sit down. ‘How could they? After all the good things I’ve done for this town.’
‘Jealous,’ Lizzie said, her face full of sympathy for him. Poor George to be shouted out like that. He was right. It was disgraceful. ‘That’s what. They’re nasty jealous. Don’t you tek no notice of ’em.’
‘They would never have done that to Sir Felix,’ George said, remembering how calm and self-assured that young man had been. ‘No matter what nasty thoughts they might have had, they’d have stayed polite wi’ him. But they think they may torment me. Well, they’ll have another think coming, that’s all. I’ll show ’em.’
‘Course you will,’ Lizzie soothed. ‘You’re twice the man of any one of them.’
‘Happen I should buy a country seat,’ he said. ‘Make myself a landowner, a man of property. That’d show ’em.’
‘Yes,’ Lizzie agreed, yawning because she was tired after all that to-do. ‘So it would.’
‘I shall give it thought,’ he said.
23
THE YEAR 1840 was a bumper year for railway companies, which were springing up everywhere as railway fever spread through the country. George Hudson had a poor opinion of most of the newcomers, and expressed it forcefully, saying they hadn’t got the remotest idea about what was involved in running a railway or how much it would cost and predicting that they would come to grief. On the other hand, by skilful accounting, he made sure his own York and North Midland Railway was doing very well. In the spring, the shareholders were paid their first dividend, which was one guinea and was spoken of approvingly as an excellent return. So it was no surprise that, at their annual general meeting later in the year, they voted to grant £500 for a survey of the proposed line to Scarborough, which provided more work for Nathaniel Cartwright.
‘Whatever anyone may think about Mr Hudson,’ he said to Jane when he got home from the meeting, ‘his railway company is going from strength to strength. The line to London should be up and running by June.’
Jane was sitting in her easy chair sewing a jacket made of the best white lawn for the baby. It was only a matter of weeks before the little thing would be born and she wanted to have everything ready. She put in the last stitch and bit off the thread before she answered. ‘So the meeting went well,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It did.’
‘No fisticuffs then.’
He smiled at that. ‘No. It was all very civilized.’ And when she gave him a teasing look, ‘Mr Rowntree was anxious about the accounts, but that was all.’
He’s been fiddling the accounts, Jane thought, and someone’s found out. Hadn’t she always known he’d be caught out? Not that she could say anything about it to Nathaniel, given his admiration for the man. It was a continuing sorrow to her that it was impossible to talk to him about the obnoxious Mr Hudson, especially as it was the one and only subject they couldn’t discuss, but the habit was established now and not likely to change unless he found out for himself that his god had clay feet up to his haunches. However, if she couldn’t ask Nathaniel there were others who would tell her, and the best of them was Mr Leeman, who seemed to know everything that was going on in the city. It wasn’t something she could ask him at a dinner party but she often saw him walking in or out of his office when she was out a-marketing. With a bit of luck she could ask him then.
It was several weeks before she got the chance and then it came when she wasn’t expecting it. She was walking briskly along Low Petergate enjoying the pale sunshine and so busy thinking about Milly’s baby and wondering if it really would arrive in a week’s time the way Mrs Hardcastle seemed to think, that she very nearly bumped into the gentleman himself, who was walking equally briskly in the opposite direction. They jumped back from one another, both laughing, and then he raised his hat to her and gave her good day.
‘I was in a dream, Mr Leeman,’ she apologized. ‘However that’s no excuse. I should have been watching where I was going.’
‘Mr Cartwright is in Scarborough, I hear,’ he said.
‘He is,’ she said. ‘There’s a deal to be done on the new Scarborough line, so it seems, if it’s to be finished on time.’
‘It is like to be up and running next year, I believe.’
‘Aye,’ she said, thinking how knowledgeable he was. And that reminded her of what she wanted to know. ‘There were questions asked of Mr Hudson at the AGM, I believe.’ And when he looked rather puzzled, she prompted, ‘Mr Rowntree was asking about the accounts.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he remembered. ‘He was indeed.’
She assumed the most innocent expression she could contrive. ‘Were they not in order?’ she asked.
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‘Well now, Mrs Cartwright,’ Mr Leeman said, giving her his wry smile, as if he knew what she was really thinking, ‘the truth of the matter is that we have no way of knowing whether they were or they were not since nobody is allowed to see them. There was a great deal of bluster from Mr Hudson but no offer of disclosure.’
She was too close to the gossip to be cautious. ‘Do you have suspicions, Mr Leeman?’ she asked.
He answered her seriously. ‘We do, ma’am, but suspicions are worthless without proof.’
‘And what are your suspicions, Mr Leeman? If I may be so bold as to enquire.’
He considered for a few seconds and then told her. ‘We think he paid the first dividend out of company capital, when, as you probably know, they should have been paid from the profits.’
‘If my knowledge of the man is anything to go by,’ she told him, ‘that sounds entirely likely.’
He was remembering the conversation around her dinner table. ‘You knew him when he was a child, I believe.’
‘Aye, I did.’
‘That is extremely interesting,’ he said, adding gravely, ‘However, for the moment at least, it is incumbent upon us to be discreet in our dealings. For lack of evidence, you understand.’
‘I will be discretion itself,’ she promised, keeping her face quietly calm, which was difficult because inside her head she was roaring with triumph. Hadn’t she always known he would come to grief, always known it and always wanted it, great coarse bully that he was. Serve him right. She was walking so quickly that she was home before her heart had recovered its usual rhythm.
There was an unfamiliar carriage and pair waiting outside her door. For a second she stared at it, wondering who could be visiting at that hour in the morning, then her mind shifted into focus and she recognized the Fitzwilliam crest and knew it must be there because of the baby and ran towards it, half hopeful, half anxious, forgetting all about George Hudson and Mr Leeman and the proprieties and even the proper way to behave, calling as she ran. ‘Is it the baby?’
Off the Rails Page 27
