Off the Rails

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Well now, Mrs Cartwright,’ he said encouragingly. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Actually,’ Jane said, enjoying herself. ‘’Tis more a matter of what I can do for you.’

  ‘Is it so?’

  ‘You will doubtless know the rights and wrongs of what is called share-dealing?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And you are still interested in the business affairs of a certain Mr George Hudson.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Then I can tell you that one place where you might care to look would be the accounts of the Great North of England and the York, Newcastle and Berwick.’

  He sat up in his chair, smiled at her and waited.

  She told him everything she had found out, being careful not to accuse the odious Mr Hudson of anything but simply letting the facts speak for themselves. As they did, extremely loudly.

  ‘It seems to me,’ Mr Leeman said, when the tale was told, ‘that there has been, shall we say, some illegal trading here but it may take a case in Chancery to prove it. With your permission I will pass on your information to a gentleman called Robert Prance who, I should tell you, is a shareholder of the York, Newcastle and Berwick and a member of the Stock Exchange, and will know better than I what sort of malfeasance we have here.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, staying composed, although her cheeks were flushed and her eyes unnaturally bright.

  ‘I will keep you informed as to any progress,’ Mr Leeman promised as they shook hands.

  And then she was out in the crowded street among the unknowing shoppers with their workaday bonnets and their dust-hemmed skirts and their laden baskets, under a sky full of scudding cloud and with the beautiful stone tracery of the Minster rising high and dependable above the rooftops, and she was trembling with excitement because the moment of her revenge had come at last.

  Mary and Toby were walking in the fields beyond the city walls. They’d visited Toby’s rooms and Mary had found the right things to say about them, although secretly she hadn’t been impressed because they were rather cramped, and now they were taking a stroll in the sunshine.

  ‘Now then,’ Mary said, when they were well away from the town, ‘you must tell me what’s the matter with Nat. He’s been like a bear with a sore head ever since he got up. And don’t say you don’t know for I can see you do.’

  ‘It’s not really my business,’ Toby said uncomfortably. ‘I mean, he might not want me to say anything.’

  Mary wouldn’t accept that. ‘If you know you must tell me,’ Mary said. ‘We can’t put things right for him if we don’t know what’s wrong.’

  He was caught between loyalty to his friend and love for his lady. ‘Well …’ he said. ‘If I tell you, you must give me your word it will go no further.’

  ‘You have it. Naturally.’

  ‘He’s worried.’

  ‘Worried?’ he sister said in disbelief. ‘What about, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘He doesn’t know what he wants to do when he comes down,’ Toby explained. ‘I’ve made it worse for him, I’m afraid, on account of I’ve known all along.’

  ‘Well, how silly,’ Mary said trenchantly. ‘He can do anything he wants. He’ll have a degree and Papa to encourage him. If you ask me, he’s making a fuss about nothing. He should try being a girl. We only have three choices open to us.’

  He wasn’t sure whether she meant him to laugh or to take it seriously so he decided to be serious. ‘Which are?’ he asked.

  ‘To be a servant or a governess or a wife,’ she said, succinctly. ‘He should try that.’

  ‘That’s very …’ he said and then stopped to find the right word. He could see how strongly she felt about it and he didn’t want to annoy her. ‘Confining.’

  ‘Exactly so,’ she approved. ‘Confining. That’s exactly what it is. We might as well be tied up in swaddling all our lives.’

  ‘Does it truly seem so bad?’

  ‘To be a servant?’ she asked. ‘Up all hours at everybody’s beck and call. I can’t think of anything worse.’

  ‘But the other two might be …’ And then he stopped in alarm, with his heart racing, because if he went on they would be talking about marriage.

  She ignored the possibility of being a governess. ‘’Twould depend entirely upon what sort of man were asking you to marry him,’ she said. ‘Some would be totally impossible. I’d rather be married to a pig.’

  She looked so pretty and so cross with her cheeks so pink and her eyes so bright, he was emboldened to take the conversation further. ‘I can see you wouldn’t like a pig,’ he said. ‘But what sort of man would you prefer?’

  ‘He would have to be gentle,’ she told him. ‘I couldn’t stand a bully. Gentle and sensible like Papa. And trustworthy and clever. I wouldn’t want to be married to a dunderhead. Think how boring that would be.’ And she grinned at him. ‘I don’t want much, you see.’

  The grin ripped away his restraint. ‘Would I fit the bill?’ he asked.

  ‘You?’ she said and she sounded so surprised he gave up hope on the instant.

  ‘No, no,’ he backtracked, suffused with blushes. ‘I was joking.’

  ‘Never joke about marriage,’ she told him sternly. ‘’Tis too serious a matter.’

  ‘No,’ he said again. ‘You are quite right. It is.’ And he quoted the marriage service: ‘An honourable estate … not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly or wantonly.’

  Their conversation had moved on to quite another level. They had forgotten to walk but stood quite still, facing one another beside the newly green fields under the turbulent clouds. ‘If you were to marry,’ she said, ‘would you take your vows seriously?’

  ‘I would mean every word,’ he said.

  ‘And so would I,’ she told him. ‘For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. Every single word.’

  They were caught up in the magic of the old well-tried vows and standing so close together it was as if they were bound by invisible threads.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  She bit her lip but said nothing.

  Having come so far, he simply had to go on. ‘If I thought you would accept me,’ he said, ‘I would ask you to marry me.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’ And she did know. She’d known for a very long time – without realizing what she knew.

  He caught her hands and kissed her fingers, but very gently so as not to alarm her. ‘And if I were to ask you now, would you say yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think I would.’

  He held her hands between his own and bent his head to kiss her on the lips. It was a clumsy kiss for neither of them was quite sure how to go about it but they were both well pleased with themselves.

  ‘Now you will have to ask Papa,’ she told him.

  ‘Now,’ he said, venturing to tease her a little, ‘we must go home or your mama will be wondering what has happened to us.’

  Her mama was wondering what had happened to all of them, for she’d come home to an empty house and all she got out of the parlour maid was that Mr Toby and Miss Mary had gone out to look at ‘some rooms or other’ and that Mr Nat had gone storming out two minutes later ‘what I’ve no idea where to, ma’am’.

  ‘I turn my back for five minutes,’ Jane said, ‘and the sky falls.’

  But their absence brought her back to her senses. By the time Mary and Toby came ambling back towards Bootham Bar, deep in conversation and arm in arm, as she noticed with great satisfaction from the parlour window, she was ready to receive them and hear their news. Which was just as well, for Mary was calling her as soon as she set foot in the parlour.

  ‘Mama! Mama!’ she cried, running towards her mother. ‘What do ’ee think? Toby’s asked me to marry him.’

  ‘I think ’tis the finest thing for the both of you,’ Jane said, and added, teasing, ‘If you’ve accepted him.’

  Toby did his best to be form
al, asking, ‘When will Mr Cartwright be home? I mean … I should have spoken to him first. I do know that.’

  But Jane dismissed all formality and swept them both into her arms to be kissed and congratulated. Oh, what a day this was turning out to be.

  It took a change of mood when Nat came sloping back to the house wearing his thunderous face. He did his best to take the news as graciously as he could, kissing his sister and thumping his friend between the shoulders and telling them both he was very happy for them, but his mood was dark nevertheless. It reminded Jane of how he’d been when Felix had first visited them with Milly. I must do summat about it, she thought, but not now. Later, when Nathaniel is back home. Mary knows what’s the matter, if that odd expression she gave him is anything to go by. But Mary kept her knowledge about her brother to herself, as she’d given her word to her fiancé.

  In London, George Hudson’s second Season was even more dazzling than the first had been. Prince Albert had become a regular guest at his extravagant parties and, once again, Albert Gate East was the place to see and be seen. Even his fiercest critics had to admit that a party thrown by the Railway King was sure to be a major event, although some of them did wonder privately how he could spend so much money and still remain solvent. But the money was being well spent. By the time the Season was half over, he had persuaded his daughter to accept the hand of the most prestigious suitor in the capital. His name was George Dundas and he was twenty-eight, which was a highly suitable age for marriage, and splendidly wealthy since he was a member of the renowned Zetland dynasty, no less. And as if that weren’t enough, there was his occupation, which was Member of Parliament for Linlithgowshire, and that was not only socially commendable but politically useful.

  ‘He couldn’t be bettered,’ he said to Lizzie on the morning the engagement was announced in The Times. ‘I’ve done well for our little girl. It cost but it was worth it.’ It had been a moment of pure triumph when Mr Dundas came calling to ask for his consent. ‘Let all those carping fools say what they like, we’ve really arrived now.’

  Some of those carping fools were actually very influential men. Two of them were writers who had a wide following and a considerable reputation and what they said was outspoken and cruelly to the point. Macaulay called him ‘a bloated, vulgar, insolent, purse-proud, greedy, drunken blackguard’ and Charles Dickens said he wanted to ‘throw up my head and howl whenever I hear Mr Hudson mentioned’.

  ‘Unnecessary!’ George said to Lizzie, when he read it. ‘But who is he when all’s said and done? I’m the one wi’ t’brass. I own half the railways in England, I’ve a son who’s a barrister, an’ another who’ll be a doctor when t’year’s out, an’ a daughter marrying into the aristocracy. Let him beat that. They may say what they please, Lizzie.’ And he quoted the old proverb. ‘Sticks an’ stones may break my bones but names’ll never hurt me.’

  But even as he spoke, another less well-known writer was producing a pamphlet that would have more impact than he could have imagined as he sat in state in his prestigious house. It was called The Bubble of the Age or The Fallacies of Railway Investments, Accounts and Railway Dividends and it was written by a man called Arthur Smith.

  Mr Leeman brought a copy of it to Shelton House and gave it to Jane on the morning it was published. ‘I think you may find this somewhat to your taste,’ he said.

  She read it at once, while he sat in one of her easy chairs and watched the changing expressions on her face.

  It was quite a short pamphlet but what it contained was as powerful as dynamite for Mr Smith’s argument was that dividends in George Hudson’s companies had indeed been paid out of capital rather than revenue, exactly as Mr Leeman had suspected all those years ago. It ended with a call for Mr Hudson to open his accounts to public scrutiny.

  ‘Heavens!’ she said, when she finally looked up from the page. ‘What will happen now?’

  ‘The shareholders of his various companies will ask to see the accounts,’ Mr Leeman said. ‘Which they have every right to do.’

  ‘I should like to be a fly on the wall when that happens,’ she said. ‘When do they meet?’

  ‘Not until February,’ Mr Leeman told her. ‘But that may be all to the good. It will give them time to prepare their case. And we all have plenty to do in the meantime. You and Mr Cartwright have a wedding to arrange, I believe.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said happily. ‘We have. Our daughter Mary is marrying Mr Henderson, providing he gets a living, that is. We shall have to wait until that’s settled.’

  ‘There are new churches being built at every turning,’ Mr Leeman said, ‘which is only to be expected as our towns and cities expand. You have only to take a stroll outside our city walls to see that. I’m sure a suitable living will present no problems.’

  Nathaniel held much the same opinion and expressed it cheerfully when they were enjoying their last family dinner together before Nat and Toby went back to Oxford to start their final year. ‘By this time next year,’ he predicted, when the first course had been cleared and they were waiting for Mrs Cadwallader’s fruit pies, ‘Toby will have a parish and Mary will be an old married woman.’ And he raised his glass to them. ‘Here’s a health to you both.’

  ‘And what of me, Papa?’ Nat said, his face darkening.

  ‘That is indeed a question,’ Nathaniel told him, speaking seriously but with deliberate gentleness. ‘However I have no doubt you will tell us what your plans are as soon as you know them yourself, which you do not at present, am I not right?’

  There was a pause while Nathaniel waited and Jane held her breath and watched him and Nat glowered. Then Mary the bold spoke into the silence.

  ‘Tell them,’ she said to her brother. ‘Don’t just sit there looking like thunder. Tell them or I will.’

  He glared at her.

  ‘And don’t make that face at me or I’ll do it straight.’

  He sighed and frowned, gathering his thoughts and his courage and finally confessed. ‘I’ve no idea what I’m going to do, Papa. That’s the truth of it. Absolutely no idea. It’s all very well for you, Toby. You’ve got the girl you want and you’ll have the job you want as soon as you’ve graduated. And don’t misunderstand me, I’m truly glad that’s how it is. Glad for both of you. But it’s different for me. I can’t think of a single thing I could do. Not one single thing.’ And he sighed like a bellows.

  ‘Which naturally makes you feel unhappy and inadequate,’ his father said.

  Nat caught at the word. ‘Inadequate,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it. Good for nothing.’ And as they were all looking at him with a variety of expressions, his mother’s face full of sympathy, Toby uncomfortable, his father listening patiently, Mary daring him to go on, he tried to justify what he was saying. ‘I used to think I wanted to go into the church like Toby,’ he said, ‘but I know now that I couldn’t do it because I can’t stand up in front of a crowd of people and say what I think and make sense of it. I learned that in the union debates. So that rules out the Church and teaching. And I don’t really want to be an engineer. I don’t think I’d have the aptitude for it. And for the life of me I can’t think of anything else.’

  They all looked at Nathaniel and saw that he was thinking – and waited for him. It seemed like a long wait but eventually he looked at Nat and asked him a question.

  ‘What have you enjoyed most about your life at Corpus Christi?’

  The answer was immediate and heartfelt. ‘Oh, the essays. That was something I could do.’

  ‘And he did it very well,’ Toby put in. ‘He was renowned for it. You’ve got to admit it, Nat.’

  ‘Yes,’ Nat admitted. ‘I do have a flair for essays. That’s true. But that’s not the sort of thing to fit me for a profession.’

  There was another pause while they all digested what he’d said. Then Nathaniel spoke again in his considered way.

  ‘What I would suggest to you,’ he said, ‘is that you look for a position as a reporter on one
of our local newspapers.’ And when Nat opened his mouth ready to tell him it wasn’t possible, he went on quickly, ‘Hear me out before you condemn the idea out of hand. Reporters need to be able to write well, which on your own admission you can already do, and to write quickly and honestly, both of which I am certain you could manage given the sort of young man you are.’

  ‘Well …’ Nat said, giving it thought. ‘I suppose it might be possible.’

  ‘What I would suggest to you,’ Nathaniel said, ‘is that you should write to The Yorkshireman or one of our other local newspapers and ask if they have a vacancy in their office and if they have, offer them your services. Oh, now here comes our pie and uncommon good it looks, wouldn’t you say?’

  The pie put an end to any further conversation but it didn’t prevent continuing thought and at the end of the meal when they were all walking up to the drawing room to sit round the fire, Nat drew his father aside.

  ‘I will do it, Papa,’ he said. ‘I can’t promise anything will come of it, mind you, but I will do it.’

  ‘Very wise of you,’ Nathaniel said. ‘We will take a glass of brandy to celebrate your wisdom. You will join us, Toby, I trust.’

  ‘Do ’ee think he’ll really do it?’ Jane asked later that night when Nathaniel had told her what had been said.

  ‘We must wait and see,’ Nathaniel said. ‘He’s got plenty of sense despite the occasional black mood.’

  They waited for more than two weeks until Jane had begun to think that nothing would come of it after all. But then she had an excited letter.

  ‘I wrote to The Yorkshireman, as I promised, Papa,’ Nat had written, ‘although I had little hope of a reply. But, lo and behold, they have offered to take me on as a junior reporter for what they call a three months trial. The shareholders of the Midland Railway will be holding their half-yearly general meeting in Derby on February 15th and they want me to cover it. Please tell Papa how sound his advice has turned out to be.