“But, do we not want their profits for the long term, Captain Hood?”
“We would, my lord, if there were such things. I do not believe any line in this country is capable of returning a profit for more than its first few years. Railways are wonderful things, my lord, but they do not make profits, as a general rule. No sooner do you have a line that is doing well than a competitor is built and discovers that there was traffic and to spare for one line, but insufficient for two. The country needs railways and we would all be much worse off without them, but they should be owned by government, my lord, and paid for from taxes. We have a great boom at the moment, my lord, and we should do our possible to profit from it. But we must get out before the bust comes, as come it must.”
“How will we tell when the bust is about to unfold, Captain Hood?”
“Oh, the normal way, my lord. Identify the active fraudsters, those who are deliberately criminal and out to make their fortunes. Their names will be available, to those in the know; I shall tell you of them as they surface, my lord. Then watch them. The moment the first of them disappears from public view will be time to divest all of our remaining holdings. Some of them will be greedy and will grace Dartmoor Prison as a result, but the clever ones will retire to the South of France or to America with their gold before the collapse becomes evident.”
“But, if they can be identified, cannot they be stopped before their evil creates the Depression you say will result?”
“No, my lord. Too many public men will make a fortune on their coattails. They will bribe some and give investment tips to others and those political gentlemen will look after the source of their profits until the last minute, refusing to hear evidence of criminality. The villains will be protected and the country will suffer as a result.”
“My father made a fortune from the Country Bank collapse of the last decade of the century, I remember. Are we to do the same?”
“Probably not, my lord. The country has grown far richer since then and the sums of money involved are proportionately far greater. I doubt it would be possible these days, my lord.”
“A pity. I must involve myself far more with the banks, I think. Ten years ago even and I would have been explaining all of these things to you. I have lost contact, Captain Hood!”
Lord Rothwell rather wished that he could return to the quiet, contemplative, academic life of his bachelor days. He would have been deprived of the great pleasure of his son, that he accepted, but he would also have been without the company of his over-active wife. He was coming to suspect that she was by no means wholly monogamous, that she was in fact best described as loose: quite enthusiastically so, indeed.
It was, when he considered the matter rationally, not a great surprise; he should have expected such behaviour having observed her mother, and the gentleman commonly given the title of her father. It was not as if the habit of immorality was anything out of the ordinary - Lady Jersey was said to have had an affair with every passably good-looking young gentleman in London in her day, but he suspected that his own lady might be in the way of outdoing her, for not being too concerned about age.
The question arose of what, if anything, he should do. It would not be impossible to obtain a divorce; costly, there would be no change out of five thousand pounds, and slow, at least two years of ongoing publicity and amusement as a Private Bill passed through its stages in Commons and Lords. He would be forced to rusticate, which would be no hardship, and he would certainly be granted custody of young David – no divorced woman ever retained the children, except where they could be demonstrated to have been conceived in adultery, in which case the ex-husband would not want them. Unfortunately, there then arose the question of the Massingham estates, of which he was currently trustee and which were to fall to his full possession on the death of Lord Massingham and their inheritance by his wife. The estates were not protected by a Will; no trust fund had been created to protect the female interest and so they became in effect the property of the husband, provided that she had a husband. A divorce would certainly get rid of his erring wife, but it would also lose him control of her wealth.
The Massingham estates were worth thirty thousand pounds a year as a result of his stewardship in the past five years, and would soon return forty thousands when he had dealt with the last and most complex set of problems.
It had been easy to identify the outright thieves among Massingham’s own agents; that had taken a bare six months and had resulted in three hangings and a score of transportations to Botany Bay, all well-deserved. The more subtle fraudsters had been a little more difficult to expose, but the assistance of a lawyer experienced in the field had cost a thousand guineas and saved ten times as much in the first year. The bulk of these enterprising gentlemen had fled the country at the first sniff of an investigation, but a few had been greedy or so convinced of their own cleverness that they had remained and they had been taken up, one by one, and had stood before judges at assizes and had been convicted without exception. The evidence had been shaky in some cases, but they were shown to be rich without an explanation for their wealth and that was sufficient for the juries; they hanged, one after another.
The effect had been to increase the Massingham incomes five-fold, and to place almost all of that money in Rothwell’s pocket.
Rothwell was not the most worldly of men, but he was able to appreciate the benefits of another twenty-five thousand a year. The Grafham estate was now much improved, decades of neglect and poverty reversed, and there was a substantial sum in Consols to be inherited by his son. Twenty years at this rate would accumulate a fortune of not less than half a million, and he would live richly as well. But a divorce must, in the nature of things, end his access to that money and give his wife the opportunity to fritter it away. His son’s inheritance lay in his hands, and if he took unwise action, his boy would suffer, so he shamefacedly told himself, knowing a half-truth when he saw one.
He needed advice, and the best, most obvious person to go to was his sister’s husband, Captain Hood, the retired intelligence agent so fortunately brought into the family.
“Indiscriminate, wanton conduct, you would say, Rothwell? I must admit that even removed from Society as we are I have heard word of her behaviour. It could bring the whole family into shame, could it not.”
“It could indeed, Eustace, and I much fear that it has already embarrassed my father, the marquis.”
“It smacks of the irrational, I believe, Rothwell. The services of a mad doctor might not come amiss, one suspects. If such a gentleman was to decide that the balance of the lady’s mind was disturbed, thus to produce the mental ailment of nymphomania, then, after consultation with a colleague, in order that such a distressful a course was not undertaken on the word of just one man, it might be deemed necessary to place the lady under restraint, to commit her to a private madhouse. It is a sad recourse, but, as we well know, both her father and her brother are inmates of such an institution; it might well be held that madness runs in the family and we must only hope that no signs will be discovered in her poor son.”
This was a drastic measure indeed; Rothwell was not at all certain that it could be justified.
“To lock her away for the remainder of her life! A hard course, Eustace!”
“It is indeed, Rothwell. We can comfort ourselves, however, that she would receive the most modern treatment in the madhouse and might well find herself cured. Of course, it has to be admitted that those unfortunates who find themselves locked away rarely survive many years of incarceration. It is often the case that they are so disturbed that they must be given massive doses of laudanum to quieten them, and that can have unfortunate sequelae, as we must know.”
“So sad!”
Rothwell found himself easily convinced that the woman was crazy, and must certainly not be given the opportunity to impoverish her son. There was only one real answer.
“Do you actually know of an able and discreet mad doctor, Eustace?”
“What would we do without you, Eustace! Would you be so good as to arrange matters for me?”
Lady Rothwell was taken up early in the morning just three days later. She screamed her outrage and threw her chamber pot at the mad doctor, which did her case little good at all. She was carried away in a strait jacket, roaring and howling at the top of her voice and attracting the immediate notice of the Mayfair genteel, all of whom could later testify to conduct that smacked of the insane.
Rothwell took the sad news to his father two weeks later, after the doctor had examined her and had completed his report on her condition.
“The family weakness, I fear, sir! Her behaviour became increasingly wild and then utterly indecorous, to the extent that she became a public disgrace. Doctor Hartwell, a well-known practitioner, was consulted and discovered her to be deranged almost to a degree outside of his great experience. He has locked her away for the nonce and has some hopes that she may, after a course of treatment, become calmer in mind and body to the extent that she may once more live as a free person. I believe, sir, that as much as anything he was endeavouring to offer me hope of her. He bade me not to despair; he said he had heard of cures in such cases.”
“Heard of, but not seen, you would say, Rothwell?”
“I much fear so, sir. The whole family of course is subject to such diseases of the intellect. Fortunately, Doctor Hartwell assures me such derangements commonly are passed through the male line, so we need not fear for young David.”
“I see. You seem quite sure of that fact, Rothwell.”
“I am, sir.”
“Well, it was a damned unfortunate marriage in the first instance, my boy. I suspect that you may well be well out of it. I presume the lady’s treatment may involve quite heroic measures in its treatment?”
“I believe the question of large doses of opium and its derivatives may arise, sir.”
“How unfortunate.”
They stayed silent for a few seconds, contemplating the lady’s misfortunes.
“What are you to do next, Rothwell? Where do you go from here? You have spent most of the last five years chasing from one of your estates to the next. Is that to come to a halt?”
“Anything but, sir. I am off to the place in Leicestershire next. It is costing me not less than five hundred pounds a month, sir, and I am determined to bring it round with no further delay; I expect it to come into profit in short order! It will be a complicated business to deal with and I have delayed while dealing with easier matters, but the time has now come for the hunting brigade to be dealt with.”
“Close to Melton, is it not, that particular estate?”
“It is, sir. Deep in the heart of hunting country; you will hear the squeals from the squires from here, I suspect, sir!”
“Well and good. Tread carefully, my boy! There will be any number of politicians involved – many of them love hunting the fox for thinking they might be mistaken for gentlemen when dressed in a pink coat.”
Book Twelve: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter Two
Joseph Andrews stood, slightly stooped, hands clasped behind his back, listening austerely, blank-faced, to the report of his senior manager from the steam shops. He offered no indication of approval, or even of understanding, of his words; he had found that a lack of expression countered the impression of youth that he still gave.
The manager, knowing from experience that Joseph missed nothing, was growing increasingly desperate.
“It’s the Boilermakers, sir; the Friendly Society, that is, for they won’t call themselves a Trades Union, but that’s only to avoid the law. They’re upset, sir, turned political because of this demand for the vote, sir, and for a Charter, whatever that may be. Prices are high again, sir, and even on the wages we pay the men can’t buy white bread. Beef is something they ain’t seen on their plates this last two years, sir. They’re feeding the bairns on porridge oats and bacon and cabbage and nothing else, sir, and they can only feed ‘em cabbage because most of them live in our houses which have all got gardens. As for schooling, sir, most of ‘em can’t pay for it. I don’t reckon there’s a single girl in school, and not many of the boys either. That’s why they’re turning to combinations, sir. They’ll go out on strike before the year’s gone, sir.”
The word ‘strike’ brought a reaction.
“There must be no strike, Masterson. If they once go out, then the men will be poisoned for all eternity. If they win a pay rise, then they will go out again next year, and every year thereafter. If they lose, then they will hate our guts, and the quality of work will go out of the window. A strike will be a disaster. We must avert it. Cut food prices in the Company Store. Make sure that white bread is on sale, and potatoes, and mutton at least. The way things are, you will not be able to lay your hands on beef from the wholesalers most days. Work out the prices so that a man on the lowest wage, with four children, spending all of his week’s money after rent, can feed the family two good meals a day, and a slice of bread apiece at midday.”
“That will help, sir, but it won’t be enough. We need to be seen to be on their side, sir.”
Joseph could not understand that; it seemed an obvious nonsense.
“But we are not, Masterson. I am rich and I am on the side of my sort of people, not theirs.”
“Yes, sir. I know that, but you’ve got to look right. It’s all about appearances, sir. What about standing up and saying the Corn Laws have got to go, sir?”
“They must; they will within a few years. They cannot survive. It is just a question of working a majority in the House of Lords.”
Joseph was still puzzled – the facts were incontrovertible.
“Yes, sir. But if you stand up and say so then the men will know your heart’s in the right place.”
Joseph could not see that sentiment of such a sort was in any way relevant to the manufacture of parts for steam engines, but, if it was essential, then he would do it.
“How?”
“Talk to the local paper, sir. They will publish anything you say, because we advertise with them every month. We don’t need to, advertise that is, but it’s worth ten pounds a month to keep them obedient, sir.”
“Arrange it, Masterson. Get the Boilermakers’ people to come and speak to me as well. In my office with all the men knowing that I am treating them with respect. I won’t give them anything much, but it will let them know that I do not object to combinations, which happens to be true.”
This was very puzzling to Masterson, who knew trades unions to be the Devil’s work.
“Why don’t you, sir?”
“If the men are organised, then they are controlled, by their own people. No Union and every man is on his own, and some of them will be wild, crazy, violent loonies. No Union and the workshops may burn.”
Masterson was not convinced, but Joseph was the boss.
“The unskilled men, the labourers, haven’t got a Union, sir. They’re the ones most likely to turn to bombs and fires, sir, for not having the education and skills to be able to talk to us.”
Joseph shrugged.
“Labourers cannot form a trades union, for they have no trade and so they have no power – they can be replaced by any Paddy just come from the bogs. They will suffer, I fear, because they are no more than what they are.”
“They are the ones who always are treated the worst, sir. Theirs are the children who never go to school and can never be better than their parents. It is a great pity,
sir.”
Joseph agreed; the men who had died in the collapse of the cutting on his own venture into railway building had all been labourers. He still felt guilty that he had not watched them more closely, had permitted their dangerous practices out of ignorance; he should have known that they would do something foolish given half a chance.
“Most of them drink as well, sir. Another two shillings a week would go over the counter of the pub rather than feed their children. I do not know of anything to be done for them.”
They left the topic, unwilling to say the words they both believed. ‘The poor are always with ye’, a favourite maxim of the Utilitarians, was sometimes accurate as a statement; that they felt unable to deny.
“What of this proposal from Mr George Star, Masterson?”
“He is to import copper and tin, sir, from South America and Singapore, and supply zinc from his own mine up on the moors. We will then be able to smelt our own bronze and brass and possibly develop the precise alloys we find best. All very well, sir, and there is much to be said for improving the quality of the metals we must use. The Welsh copper mine is no longer able to meet the whole of the country’s demand and we need another supplier. More importantly, a proper source, and reliable, of tin especially, is what we have been looking for this last ten years. The thing is, sir, as you may not know, there are those who will not hesitate to suggest that Mr George Star has been known to cut corners, as one might say, and his man Tonks is worse.”
Victorian Dawn (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 12) Page 3
