Victorian Dawn (A Poor Man at the Gate Series, Book 12)

by Andrew Wareham

  Rothwell appeared at the estate in his post-chaise, driving behind job horses rather than his own matched team, to the disgusted amaze of every groom and stable lad, of whom there seemed to be a vast number. He had warned his agent of his coming and the house was open for him.

  “Mr Thwaites? I am Rothwell. I shall be staying for some few weeks, I believe. Show me the house first, if you would be so good.”

  “My lord, welcome to Old Melton! Not a great house, as you will observe, my lord, but of eight and twenty bedrooms, six with adjacent dressing rooms. Respectable, one might say – sufficient to allow for guests in the Hunting Season! The house has been without an occupant these four years, my lord, since Miss Massingham, my lord’s unwed sister, passed away. I would venture to suggest, my lord, that any house is the better for a mistress. The housekeeper has remained and has kept a barebones staff and the house is in quite good order. The master bedroom has been prepared for your use, my lord.”

  “Cook?”

  “She remained, my lord, able to find occupation by providing meals to the stable lads – no cooking in the stables, my lord, for fear of fire, and so the lads and unwed grooms have always been fed from the kitchens.”

  “Sensible, one must accept, Mr Thwaites.”

  The inspection of the house, followed by a slow walk around the four yards and a glance at some of the horses, occupied the rest of the day.

  The following morning was spent with the accounts ledgers, Mr Thwaites being dismayed to discover that Lord Rothwell was wholly at home with a double entry set of books. Lord Massingham had only ever glanced at the totals, and had not done that every year.

  After six nearly unbroken hours Lord Rothwell looked up from the sheets of paper on which he had summarised his findings.

  “Let us consider all that we have here, Mr Thwaites – an interesting set of figures, one must say. The estate comprises nearly four thousands of acres, which is not small, you would agree?”

  Mr Thwaites was forced to admit that it was one of the larger landholdings in the lower lands of the county.

  “Nine farms of differing size, but paying rents that total no more than three thousand pounds, an average of some fifteen shillings an acre. I would have expected almost twice that sum, the bulk of the land being good arable and the price of wheat not low. I discover as well that two of the tenants have the surname Thwaites – a coincidence, no doubt, the name being common in Leicestershire?”

  Mr Thwaites shook his head, muttered that the two largest tenancies were in the possession of his two boys; he admitted as well, before the question could be raised, that his daughter had married into the third greatest.

  “All three, however, my lord, do pasture the hunters and sell a hay cut and beans each year at a very fair price.”

  “Fair to whom, one wonders, Mr Thwaites. Let us now consider this matter of horses.”

  “Hunters, my lord!” Thwaites was scandalised that he had to make the correction.

  “They are bred here, and, although it was the original purpose, none have been sold in recent years, but I discover that some few have disappeared from the books!”

  “Loaned out, my lord, the gentlemen in question providing their stabling and upkeep. All to the best of families, my lord, and to good horsemen. A normal courtesy between gentlefolk.”

  “Farmed out - free of charge. Animals worth upwards of three hundred pounds, I doubt not.”

  Thwaites tittered, waved a deprecating hand.

  “Oh, my lord! Not one of our hunters would go for less than three hundred and fifty guineas were they to come to auction! They are of the best blood, my lord!”

  “I am glad indeed to hear that Mr Thwaites. No doubt Tattersall’s will be delighted to take their commission on them.”

  “But, my lord! They are not to be sold! What will the hunt do in their absence? It is impossible!”

  “Mr Thwaites, it is not merely possible, it will be done.”

  “My lord, I must most solemnly protest such an action! It cannot be done. It must not be done! Our hunters are the pride of the County, my lord – are they to be dispersed, to be vulgarly sold, my lord?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will have no part in such a wanton act, my lord.”

  Thwaites sat back, arms folded in disdain.

  “You will not be expected to, Mr Thwaites. It is, indeed, impossible that you should, for you are dismissed from your place with immediate effect, sir, as a result of your abuse of your authority and position to benefit yourself and your family. I shall require of you a list of horses and of their current location. Do that now, if you please. I shall expect an immediate return of the funds you have abstracted from the estate; failing the instant production of such moneys you will be taken up by the constable, sir. Your sons, of course, are to be dismissed from their unlawfully awarded tenancies, again with early effect.”

  “My lord! This is unheard of! I have done no more than is customary for a man in my place!”

  “I am sorry to hear that, Mr Thwaites. I had thought better of the generality of agents. You are a thief, sir, and will go to the Assizes if you do not instantly return your ill-gotten gains.”

  Rothwell stood, stretched and walked across to the door, calling for Worth, his valet.

  “Two of the grooms, please.”

  The selected pair came running and stood in horror as they were instructed to take Mr Thwaites into their charge and then convey him to the nearest lock-up.

  “That be in Melton, me lord. What do I tell they, me lord?”

  “He is to be stood before the Bench when next they sit. He will be charged with theft and fraud.”

  “Friday, as is, me lord, the magistrates allus sits then.”

  “Tell the constable I shall be present in person and will lay the charges. Send one of the lads to me, ready to ride to London carrying a letter.”

  “London, me lord? A powerful long way, me lord. I dunno that any of the lads do know ‘ow to get so far, me lord.”

  “Where is the Receiving Office for the mail?”

  “Melton, me lord.”

  “Do you know how to send an Express to London?”

  “Ain’t never seen one of they, me lord.”

  Rothwell realised he was wasting his time.

  “I shall go to Melton myself. Carriage and horses and a driver as quickly as you can!”

  The letter to Mr Michael was sent that evening; Rothwell was assured it would reach him in the morning and fully expected a new agent to appear within the week; the lawyer was remarkably efficient and could perform even the most outlandish task within a very few days. Mr Michael had also been instructed to discover how horses might be entered at Tattersall’s Auctions and to set a date for the clearance of all of the hunters from the Massingham Estate at Melton Mowbray, arranging for such public notices as might be appropriate.

  Lord Rothwell spent an uncomfortable week, word spreading through the stables that their jobs were soon to go, that the yards were to be shut up and the hunt banished. Most of the men knew no other life, could imagine no different existence; neither indoor not outdoor servants were pleased with him.

  Friday saw Rothwell standing before a scowling Bench of hunting squires, all of whom had heard the unbelievable news; he had taken the precaution of feeing a local attorney who was to conduct the prosecution and who would not permit the Bench to avoid its duty. The case was sent to the Assizes, the sums involved being too great for mere magistrates to deal with and the spectre of the noose looming.

  The attorney, a Mr Hamworthy, sought private audience of Rothwell in his chambers immediately after the hearing.

  “I have been approached by the sons of Mr Thwaites, my lord. They have been able to speak to their father and have persuaded him of his jeopardy – he had not believed that the Justices of the Peace, all sporting gentleman of his old acquaintance, could do other than dismiss any case against him. They suggest that the sum of two thousands of pounds lies in their esteemed f
ather’s bank account and might be made over to you without further ado; they also submit that the bulk of the remaining funds had been used to improve their farms and therefore accrue to the estate in kind when they vacate their places, which they must do without delay.”

  “That makes a degree of good sense, Mr Hamworthy. Are the young gentlemen competent farmers? Are they acceptable tenants?”

  Hamworthy could not commit himself to a definite opinion – he was a lawyer; but he believed them to have good names in the locality.

  “Then I would instruct you, Mr Hamworthy, to explore the possibility that they might wish to pay a fairer rent, and consider arrears, in exchange for being granted another seven years in the lands, with renewal in the normal way. I am not one to believe that the sins of the father must be expiated by the sons, sir; I have no desire to punish them for felonies that were not of their commission. That must quite equally apply to the daughter as well, of course. There is also a list of horses out at loan, not all of which have reappeared as yet; I would be obliged if you would pursue them, tactfully in the first instance.”

  “With pleasure, my lord. What of Mr Thwaites?”

  “I would not wish to compound a felony by accepting payment for withdrawing my prosecution, Mr Hamworthy.”

  “Restitution of goods is perfectly acceptable to the courts, my lord. It is not the same as seeking a reward in exchange for ending a case.”

  “In that case, provided only that I do not see his face again, I care not what his fate may be, sir.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I shall make the arrangements.”

  Lord Rothwell returned to the estate to discover a Mr Suckling waiting for him, recently come off the Night Mail and brought out from Melton by a job carriage.

  “Mr Michael sent me, my lord. He suggests that I may serve you here for a year while you discover a young man to be a permanence.”

  Suckling was in his fifties at a glance, presumably recently retired from a similar post.

  “I was thirty years in an estate in Rutland, sir, until my master decided that I was too old for the demands of the position.”

  “Do you believe yourself too old for this estate, which has a number of long-existing problems to be solved?”

  “I do not consider myself old at all, sir. Mature, certainly, but not to say ancient!”

  Rothwell knew that Mr Michael would have satisfied himself as to Suckling’s credentials and ability; he had no hesitation in setting him on for his year.

  “I will wish these ridiculous stables to be reduced to a more sensible size, Mr Suckling, and for the hunt to be removed. I am not to pay for the feeding and upkeep of three score of hounds, still less for the hunt servants. They must go, and the sooner, the better!”

  “One can hardly tear down the boxes and dig up the yards, my lord. Would one be better advised to find another function for them?”

  “What do you suggest, Mr Suckling?”

  “Cattle, my lord; dairy cows to be precise. A cheesery would be my first thought, for we are within reach of the canals and could very easily despatch our cheeses to London where the demand for foodstuffs is always high.”

  Lord Rothwell was instantly persuaded of the wisdom of that course; the Corn Laws still existed to keep the price of wheat artificially high, to the benefit of the landlords and the detriment of the whole of the remainder of the population, but their days were undoubtedly numbered. At some point in the near future the Corn Laws must go and the price of wheat must plummet as imports flooded into the country from America and Canada, and quite possibly Australia as well. The landowner who was established in cheese might be better off than many.

  “Let it be so, Mr Suckling. Tell me, sir, do you wish to retire after just one year? Might you not continue in employment thereafter if all is successful here?”

  “I have no desire to retire at all, my lord. Three months living in London at my son’s house was quite sufficient for me. My eldest boy was apprenticed to a corn chandler and has since set up for himself in a respectable way and has space in his house for me and is glad to see me there. But I detest the smelly city!”

  Rothwell confessed that he had little love for the urban existence as well.

  “My lord, I have to say that I am a little disturbed by the attitude I have discovered among the groom and stable lads. They are, shall we say, disgruntled!”

  “Well they might be, Mr Suckling. The horses are to be walked south within the week and will be auctioned at the end of the month and the employment of the great bulk of the men will terminate as the animals go. One groom and one lad to remain to look to the needs of the stock kept for the house and for you, and a score of lads and hunt servants to be turned away; one can hardly expect them to be happy! What of those damned howling dogs, by the way? When are we to be rid of them?”

  “The Master of the Hunt has signified his willingness to house them on his own premises, my lord, though less than delighted at the prospect. Sir Willoughby Saville is not the richest of gentlemen and will find himself stretched more than a little by the costs of the hunt servants and the dogs themselves. The Hunt is, one gathers, to request subscriptions of its supporters. He is not a happy gentleman, sir, having in effect to confess his financial straits to the neighbourhood. I believe that he may have been somewhat outspoken in the presence of the lesser folk, my lord, and some may have concluded that a riot might not be punished severely, or at all. There is talk of tar and feathering, my lord.”

  “Is there indeed? Well, that is not to be tolerated, for either of us! I must write another Express, I fear. Small point in begging the assistance of the Leicestershire authorities, I must imagine!”

  Four days later the hunt servants whipped the dogs out of the yards and the hunters were taken away, the stables suddenly quiet. The spare men lined up and were given their pay and a sovereign besides as a thank you and walked off the estate and into the pubs in Melton, there to drown their sorrows. Three large, four-horse wagons pulled through the open drive gates past a silent lodge soon after dark and drew up outside the empty cottages and rooms above the stables and there was subdued activity for half an hour or so; the kitchen was busy for the evening.

  The mob arrived two mornings later; the first evening had been devoted to getting drunk and the next day had been spent in the painful process of getting sober again. Revenge was to come when their heads felt better.

  “My lord, there is shouting in the road. I can see a crowd coming down the hill!”

  “Dear me, Mr Suckling! Are they carrying a tar-barrel and sacks of feathers?”

  “I cannot see, my lord, but I strongly suspect they mean mischief!”

  “How very foolish of them. Is Mr Smith awake? And his men?”

  Mr Suckling nodded unhappily.

  “Good. All is as it should be. Let us go out to the front porch and welcome our visitors – one can hardly call them guests, I must imagine.”

  “Would it not be wiser for you to remain out of sight, my lord?”

  Rothwell shook his head firmly.

  “No. I want this stupidity dealt with, once and for all. I shall show myself and they will choose what to do next.”

  “They will attack you, my lord!”

  “But not twice, Mr Suckling!”

  All went as predicted.

  The mob was perhaps two hundred strong, the unemployed stable lads to the front and a large number of other men of an equine persuasion behind them; Rothwell suspected that many of his hunting neighbours had permitted their stable hands to take the day off. They charged up the long driveway, shouting, waving sticks, many bending to grab up stones as they ran.

  Lord Rothwell stood forward in front of his open doorway, raised his arms for silence.

  The mob stopped for a few seconds, ready to hear him surrender to their demands.

  “Go away! You have no right here and you must leave. What do you want?”

  The thinkers might have noticed that the wording was rather strange –
they had been ordered off and then asked to remain to explain themselves in effect. Had they been learned in the law they would have realised that they had been given notice that their actions were illegal. As it was, the reply was made by the men of action in the front ranks, most of whom were hardly capable of thought in the best of circumstances.

  “We’re goin’ to bloody scrag you, you bastard!”

  “Yeah! Get ‘im!”

  There was a surge forward and a few stones flew; Rothwell scuttled inside and slammed the door to just as the mob realised that there was a score of bruisers on either side of them, pick-axe handles raised high.

  Suckling and the attorney, Mr Hamworthy, were stood together at the side window, notebooks to hand, square pencils busy.

  “The word ‘scrag’, Mr Hamworthy, is unfamiliar to me.”

  “Naval cant, my lord, passed no doubt into the domain of the lower orders generally. ‘To do to death or cause unpleasant injury’, commonly by throttling, one understands. A specific statement of the intention to attempt at least to kill, my lord.”

  “How very unpleasant, sir. Did you take notice of the one who made that actual threat?”

  “Yes, my lord. He will be easily taken under arrest as he is currently lying unconscious on the flagstones.”

  “Difficult to feel sympathy, I fear. Have many arrests been made?”

  Mr Hamworthy rather regretted that a number of the villains had been able to escape from justice and could be seen making a very fair turn of speed back up the hill.

  “There are, however, my lord, some forty or so with their hands tied behind them, and perhaps half as many who seem unwilling or unable to rise from where they fell. I might suspect that one or two may never rise, my lord, judging by the blood flowing from their skulls.”

  “How sad. We did take care to ensure that every one of our people was sworn as a special constable, did we not?”