Raging Rajahs (Man of Conflict Series, Book 2)

by Andrew Wareham

  Mama talked with Miss Osborne between dances, enquired idly of her enjoyment of the evening, asked after Jack Foxhall, a son of close friends who she had also danced with.

  “Oh, Jack is as ever, ma’am,” came the reply. “I liked the company of Major Pearce far more – an older gentleman with much of interest to talk about. Indeed, he has asked me to take supper with him, if you will not mind, ma’am?”

  Her mother smiled happily – they would all be in the same large room together, all part of the throng, she would be perfectly at ease.

  “Yes, of course, my love! You are quite grown-up now and must start to make friends of your own.”

  Marianne was content with the answer, read nothing into it, and ate her lobster and pheasant and trifles and creams in the Major’s company and danced with him once more afterwards.

  They met, in the nature of things, at the next Assembly and were happy to see each other; Septimus in fact discovered that he had hoped she would be there, would have been disappointed had she not.

  Came the New Year quarter day and Septimus moved back to the home of his childhood. It was smaller than he remembered, but it was his and dear to him.

  He visited a couple of old boon companions, the merchants’ sons with whom he had roistered barely seven years before, was greeted with no little awe, made welcome, brought back into their ranks and made an immediate part of their jollifications. They had not changed at all, and they were tedious, tiny-minded, boring, provincial hicks; Septimus decided that he had grown while they, it seemed, had diminished. He avoided their invitations, looked up no more of his old acquaintance.

  On the first clear morning he had a cob from the Home Farm that fed the family saddled up for him and ambled off to Spring Vale to ride his two blocks of land. In courtesy, he first called at his tenant’s farmhouse and was obliged to stop and drink tea with him. The man had three hundred freehold acres of his own, was a yeoman, one of the few of the old breed remaining, could afford to buy tea and was intending to rise in the world, buy more acres over the years, had to be given the extra consideration. He did not notice the ten year old son slide out of the back door to trot the two miles to the Osborne Manor House, long since tipped to do so. He set out with his tenant as guide, discovering that he was to be given a very full inspection indeed.

  “Good land, it do be, Major Pearce, sir, and you need ‘ave no fear of waste from me, sir.” Perrin was vehement in his declaration, for the land was clearing the better part of fifteen shillings an acre in his pocket each year, after rent and the Poor Law was paid, and the price of wheat was rising inexorably. “The dung cart don’t never stop working, sir. Aye, and a couple of loads of marl an acre every year to the clay lands and I got a little contract with old Pooley, the butcher, ‘im what’s got the slaughter ‘ouse what cures the bacon, for ‘is guts and orts and offal what ‘e can’t use.”

  Even in a cold January the fields smelt sweetly foul, a familiar tinct of decaying flesh and battle; Septimus was rather relieved that his nose was being honest with him,

  “And, sir,” Perrin was triumphant, “Mr Rosefield, ‘im what bought me lord’s lands, that what you didn’t, whose sister married your brother last year, the London gent,” he explained comprehensively, “‘e do be keeping race ‘orses, so ‘e do be. A bloody girt stableyard ‘e ‘as ‘ad built, and I do ‘ave the disposal of all of ‘is shit, because,” and here Perrin leaned forward, eyes almost popping out of his wind-browned face, slapping his thigh in glee, “ because ‘e do be paying me to clean it out once a month! Straw and all!”

  Septimus had to laugh with him – it was a coup that would make Perrin’s name in the whole locality, he would be famous as the farmer who had been paid to take away the manure he had wanted to buy.

  They rode the fields and Septimus listened patiently as he was told which would be sown with wheat this year and where the barley, peas and beans and turnips would go.

  “Fodder, mostly, sir, though some of the barley goes to brewing and the peas and beans more and more goes to market. They puts ‘eart back into the land and the peas especially gets bought by contractors what dries ‘em and sells ‘em to the navy for rations. Prices goes up a penny or two most years, as well, sir.”

  Septimus nodded and agreed and echoed Perrin’s words and said that he was a soldier, knew little of such things, but he could see he was lucky in Perrin as a tenant. Perrin responded appropriately, the cobbler to his last, and what a good thing it was that they had men to fight they bloody French, as was necessary and proper.

  They trotted anti-clockwise, parted not so far from Osborne manor, Septimus happening to bump into the Squire not a furlong down the lane, exchanging greetings and accepting the offer of a warm by the fire for a few minutes, such a cold morning as it was.

  The house was not vast, would run to no more than a dozen bedrooms, but it was imposing enough with its array of barns and yards and stables, announced gentility and some degree of wealth. Septimus was led into a morning room with a massive fire of oak and ash logs throwing out an expensive heat. An indoor manservant, quite possibly an actual butler, brought wine and, a few minutes later, a dish of fresh-made macaroons to nibble on. Septimus noted the signs of a comfortable income and social prominence, the readiness to entertain and the expectation of morning visitors, refreshments prepared every day.

  They talked agriculture for a while, Septimus open in admitting that he was new to land-owning, was not himself in any way in tune with the rural existence and, while he had heard that there was a new way of doing things, he knew absolutely nothing of it. The butler returned, murmured to his master.

  “Morton tells me there is a nuncheon set out, Major Pearce, cold meats and a slice of bread – I find it long between breakfast and dinner otherwise. Old age creeping in, I suspect!”

  Septimus accepted the invitation, discovering nothing unusual in it, found Mrs and Miss Osborne awaiting them, sat the more eagerly to table for their presence.

  There was mention of a dinner party in the following week, Septimus and his brother more than welcome, of course. At his rather awkward request, a few days after, his brother extended an invitation to the Osbornes, ribbed him mightily about ‘sparkling blue eyes’.

  The parties were successful, the two families anxious to discover common interests and acquaintance, to keep conversation flowing. George’s Lucasta could perform creditably on the small Welsh harp and Miss Osborne had a reasonably true voice – given a tolerant audience – and they were able to entertain for a decent while. They pledged to meet at the Assembly the next week and Septimus agreed to ride across a couple of mornings hence to help the Squire rid his lands of wood pigeons, a few hours of rough shooting.

  A light sprinkling of snow fell and the weather turned bitter cold; Cooper insisted it was ideal for shooting and chased Septimus out into the darkness of eight o’clock of the morning. They rode out to Spring Vale in frigid silence – Septimus could not bear the cold after his time in the tropics and his wound was aching. A cup of warming coffee in the Manor, Squire Osborne bustling happily around, looking forward to his morning’s sport, Septimus hard pressed to maintain ordinary courtesy.

  They set out, Squire with his keeper, Septimus followed by Cooper as loader and carrying a spare twelve bore, lent from the dozen in the gun room.

  “Always take loaders, me boy! Gives us four barrels apiece.”

  There were clumps of beech trees, bareboned in the bitter wind, on the clay tops of the downs over the whole of Osborne’s land. The wind, unusually, was set in the east so he intended to shoot each cluster starting from his western boundary in hope that the noise and disturbance would be lessened.

  “Number Six shot, the barrel well choked, ample for a pigeon, despite all the nonsense that is talked, Major.”

  “I must accept your word for it, sir, having shot very little in England,” Septimus responded.

  As always in deep cold the pigeons had banded together in great mobs, flocks of th
em gleaning for greenstuffs in the fields or sat black against the sun in the branches. Septimus was a passable shot with a scatter gun, was able to down a few birds for Squire’s dog to bring in, but the short, round, sportsman at his side was mechanical in his precision, almost never missing.

  A couple of hours and the repeated kick of the gun and the muscle-strain of the aim began to tell and Septimus’ shoulder grew visibly weaker. Cooper whispered to the keeper, who spoke to his master, who in turn called sport to a sudden end.

  “Enough, sir! It grows too cold for me! I am definitely getting old, Major, and I need to be sat next to my fire, I think! The house is just over the rise, there,” he nodded to his left. “We may be able to go out again later if the light holds, but I mislike the look of this sky.”

  Septimus required no persuasion, tucked his gun under the crook of his left arm and turned away at the Squire’s side.

  That the Major had been wounded in battle could only increase his consequence in the Osbornes’ eyes. He was sat down in a comfortable chair – the Squire’s own – at the fireside and provided with a measure of the best Diabolino cognac, uncustomed and therefore excellent. When the clouds rose to a threatening blackness they would have had him stay overnight, but he insisted on riding the few miles home.

  Next day it was only courtesy for the family to call on their way into town, to see how he did. Squire, wife and son drank tea while Septimus took their daughter on his arm and walked the lawns and showed her his house.

  “Lesser than yours, I fear, Miss Osborne, but quite pretty when the creeper is in bloom in the summer, and well-placed, looking out over the valley of the Itchen. I do not live here as much as I would like, but it will be pleasant to return to when the wars are over for me.”

  For the first time it occurred to the young miss that the Major might be looking at her as a wife. She grew somewhat shy in her manner, confused at the prospect, stealing surreptitious glances at the big man, a foot the taller, at her side. He was a strong man, she decided, well-made and positively handsome when in scarlet; she compared him with Jack Foxhall, childhood friend and neighbour, who she had for years vaguely thought of as a probable husband, not as any great love but simply as a natural thing. There was no comparison, she found, for poor Jack was the lesser in all ways, not merely a smaller man but, really, rather commonplace. She considered herself as a soldier’s bride, following the Colours to India, Canada, Africa, China, even this new Botany Bay, all of the places Mama had pointed out on the globe as she had learned her letters of her. There had been neither school nor governess for Marianne, but her mother had insisted that she read and wrote easily, could keep household accounts and knew something of the world. She was no Bluestocking, but she was not ignorant either and could imagine herself in other countries, living another life as the wife of a major, then a colonel, probably a General Officer Commanding, for the Major would certainly win promotion and lead his armies! She smiled warmly at him as they shook hands at the door, blushing a little under his scrutiny; he was a very likeable man, she decided, and he had a position in life, too. Marianne had been brought up to be sensible, knew that she must marry in her own order of society, or possibly a little higher, would not have dreamed of smiling at a farm labourer, for example, however handsome and clever he might be, and knew as well that great love-matches were to be found in novels much more than in real life: such being the case…

  Squire sat on the Bench next day, his son observing proceedings because the task must inevitably fall to him one day. Mother and daughter stayed at home, embroidery and fine darning to hand, chatting comfortably at the fireside.

  “The Assembly tomorrow, my love,” Mrs Osborne observed. “The pink muslin and a Norwich shawl, do you think?”

  Daughter agreed.

  “What of your hair, my dear?”

  “Not curled and frizzed, Mama. Major Pearce said he liked it as it was yesterday.”

  “Did he now? Then we must keep it so.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Marianne was conscious of the tone in her mother’s voice, of the kind amusement. “I find the Major a very pleasant gentleman, Mama!”

  “I am glad to hear you say so. If he should speak to your father, what would you have him say, Marianne?”

  “Oh! Do you think…?”

  “I will be surprised if he does not, my love. Now is the time, my dear, for you to hint him away if you do not want him. A full dance card, another friend at supper – it is easy, if you so wish.”

  “And what will you say if I do, ma’am?”

  “Exactly what I will say if you do not, my dear. You must decide! You are old enough to bear a husband’s children, so you must make sure that you pick the husband who is right for you. There will be many suitors for your hand, my dear, never fear that you will be left on the shelf, a miss alone.”

  Marianne gave her mother no further answer, but her hair was neither curly nor frizzed next evening, and she danced the first pair and the last with the Major, and accompanied him into the supper-room. When he bade her good night and said that he expected to see her in Winchester before the next Assembly she was quick to hope that they would meet very soon; the Major kissed her hand at that, rather clumsily, but in elated fashion for so restrained a man.

  He rode out to Spring Vale next day, arriving a little after noon, a correct time for a morning call, but begging audience specifically of the Squire. Mrs Osborne tapped on her daughter’s bedroom door, she being curled up with a novel from the Lending Library in Winchester.

  “The Major has just called upon Papa, my love. Do you wish to dress up for him?”

  Bright scarlet from brow to shoulders, Marianne nodded and smiled. “Yes, please, Mama, if you think, that is…”

  They were interrupted by the parlour maid, a raw-boned farm girl in her thirties, inelegant but warm-hearted, sent galloping upstairs by the Squire.

  “Ma’am and Miss Marianne! Squire says Major’s ‘ere, ma’am,” she bobbed a curtsey, presumably in honour of the Major. “And ‘er says as ‘ow ‘er do ‘ave an offer for thee, Miss, and thou did ought to see ‘er theeself and tell ‘er, one way or t’other!”

  “Is that what he said, Madge?”

  “Well, ma’am, ‘twere what ‘er meant, sure as eggs is!”

  “Beg him to wait five minutes, Madge.”

  Mrs Osborne turned to her daughter, found her in her petticoats, debating changing her woollen stockings for silk, or cotton at least, as well as trying to select a suitable dress, fetching but not too ornate for daytime.

  “Gooseflesh is rather unlovely, my dear! There will be no fire in your father’s workroom. Best to keep the wool on. The dress to be high-necked and decorous – the blue that matches your eyes.”

  Dressed, brushed, quickly anointed with lavender water, she followed her mother to the morning room where Septimus waited with Squire.

  “Marianne, my dear girl, the Major has spoken to me, and I have told him I will be bound absolutely by what you say. Your Mama and I will be in her workroom, my dear.”

  Unexpectedly, for she had never envisaged, somehow, being private with her suitor, she was alone with the Major, staring up at him, her head barely at his shoulder.

  “I wish to marry you, Miss Osborne. Will you accept my hand? I like you, deeply, and would be very happy to have you at my side all my life, and I would do my most to make you happy too.”

  It was a clumsy speech, she thought, none the better for being well-rehearsed. He was not a man of words – but why should he be? He was a soldier, and a very fine one, too. She liked him very well, he was comfortably circumstanced; she could be very content with him, indeed, she might even love him, but that was not so important. He was all she could hope for in a husband, and perhaps more than she had expected. It took barely a second to think, to run over her decision again, to decide that she was right, that she would not wish to change her mind.

  “Thank you, Major Pearce. I would like to be your wife, sir. I am sure that you wi
ll make me happy, and I will do all that I may to make your life enjoyable, sir. I will accept your hand, very gladly, sir.”

  She put out her hand and he shook it formally then bent forward to kiss her, a brief meeting of their lips, a salute more than an intimacy. She took his hand again and led him to the door, presented him to her parents as her affianced husband, much in the way that Squire’s gun dogs would lay a pheasant at his feet, wagging their tails most proudly.

  It was agreed between them all that they should wed later in the year, when the New Foresters were settled into the barracks of whatever their new posting might be. The likelihood was of several years in England, quite possibly in one of the industrial towns of the north where there was perennial unrest among the workers – the Corresponding Societies were spreading revolutionary literature, it was said, and the men were forever forming their combinations and unions, in defiance of the laws of God and man that said they should live content in their poverty – ‘the Rich Man in his Castle, the Poor Man at his Gate’. The battalion was in urgent need of bodies, of new recruits, might, perhaps, be located instead in one of the county towns of the South or West Country where dispossessed farm hands were plentiful as land enclosure progressed. It was not impossible that they might go back to Ireland, where there were unemployed, starving men in their hundreds.

  What was certain was that they would not be sent back to the Sugar Islands, now that government was counting the casualties. The fear of invasion had led to a formal tally of the numbers of soldiers actually to hand to repel the French. Government had never exactly known how many soldiers there were before, had been content to know how many battalions were in existence, assuming them all to be of a given, if not specified, size - and the powers-that-be had discovered that forty thousand of their best trained and experienced troops lay dead in the Islands and as many again had been discharged, enfeebled by fever and wounds.