“This new war, if it eventuates, Mr Michael, will it make the new Corn Laws unnecessary?”
“Probably, my lord, but it may not be a long war. The price of wheat stands at just under eighty shillings a Winchester Quarter at the moment and is unlikely to fall below that in any case in wartime, but the Corn Laws will ensure that it cannot drop too far when peace returns.”
“Potatoes and oats!”
Michael raised an eyebrow, followed the logic through, eventually nodded.
“Contracts with growers in Scotland and Ireland, shiploads of both to your firms’ stores at the pits and foundries in Lancashire and South Wales, my lord.”
“I do not wish to raise wages to a level where the men can buy wheaten bread for their families – too expensive by far! But they must eat, must have full bellies if they are to work well, and their children too, or they will worry and slack at work. There will be bread riots too, and I do not wish to see my enterprises burning… It is impossible, you know, Mr Michael – I want high wheat prices for my farmers, low bread prices for my workers, and there cannot be both. The government has the bulk of its interest in the Land, so the price of bread will remain high and they will use coercion here as they have in Ireland – bayonet and sabre loose in the streets, I fear, and I can see no alternative.”
Book Three: A Poor Man
at the Gate Series
Chapter Two
“Of courth, thir, we could alwayth resort to a corset,” announced Tom’s valet, Brown, whilst straining to control his lisp.
“You know, Brown, the older you get, the bigger a bloody fool you become!”
“No corset, thir.”
“I am fifty-three years old, Brown – I am allowed to put on weight, a little bit, anyway. It’s not that much.”
“Quite, thir, no more than a middle-age tummy, thir. We could go to Scott when next we are in Town, thir, and let him take the new measurementth.”
Tom glanced sideways into the mirror – it wasn’t too bad, bearing in mind his age, just a bit of a bump, and he still stood tall and straight. He thought he cut quite an imposing figure, especially in dinner dress; the new severity of style for men suited him well. He was grateful to Brummel, whom he had never met, for his imposition of austerity upon fashion. Clean, tidy, black and white, all severely restrained, was exactly the style Brown had always forced upon him due to his size – big men had to dress simply, he had said.
He trotted downstairs, found James and Charlotte waiting already in the hall. He gravely inspected them, pronounced them to have clean necks and collars and to be fit for public display, much to their entertainment.
“Carriage in three minutes, I believe.”
“Which means that Mama will be present in two, sir”, Charlotte responded. A door opened upstairs on her word; they nodded in unison.
They were off to dine at Grafham House, James permitted into adult company for a first dinner party because guest of honour was to be newly-made lieutenant-colonel Lord Jack Masters, making his farewells before going off to Flanders to join his recently purchased command in Wellington’s hastily created hodgepodge army. Verity joined them in her emeralds and old gold gowning, richly magnificent. She was close to forty now, was fighting valiantly against the encroaching stoutness that had always threatened a lady of her build; she had the example of her younger sister to encourage her struggle, the Dowager Countess tipping the scales at an easy fourteen stone.
“All of the family to be present, Thomas. A pleasant rarity, a challenge that Mama’s cook will have been pleased to face, no doubt!”
They stepped gravely from the coach at the House, greeted by a beaming butler, always delighted to welcome young Lady Verity back to the house of her birth.
“The whole family here, my lady, my lord! Quite like old times, I believe!”
“Only my poor elder brother missing, in fact, Crane.”
Crane shook his head sadly, said nothing – an old retainer’s privileges stopped short of commenting on such delicate matters.
It was a formal party so her parents were stood to welcome them at the door, greeting and shaking hands as they entered the hall where the dinner guests assembled.
Lord Jack was in full uniform, sublimely unconcerned with the fact that Tom had paid for it, a blaze of cavalry gaudiness and arrogance. The prevailing colour was the blue of the Light Dragoons, but so encrusted with gold lace and cords and epaulettes and braid as to show only in cloud patches through the glare. His legs were displayed in skin-tight buckskins, put on wet and dried into crease-free elegance by his own body-heat – was he to drop a handkerchief, say, then he would be incapable of bending over to pick it up except at the price of instant and very painful self-mutilation, an involuntary emulation of Abelard. He was unaccompanied, had still not married, in defiance of military doctrine that demanded that colonels should have a spouse. No doubt, his parents thought, he would remedy the omission after the coming campaign. Tom was fairly sure that he would not, going by the information Michael had put his way over the years.
Lord and Lady Rothwell stood to Jack’s side, my lady on his far side, her husband delicately interposed to safeguard the military gentleman from Hebraic contamination. Neither seemed to be enjoying the evening so far, both were genuinely pleased to see Tom and Verity.
Glasses were filled and they engaged in greetings and civil conversation, the proprieties carefully maintained.
The Dowager Countess came downstairs, last of the guests to appear, apologising for being late. She had been delayed by her dresser, never content that her charge was finally properly turned out for the evening – they knew just what tyrants dressers were, but one could not exist without them!
“The poor young woman needs be well-paid for her labours, Thomas,” Verity breathed in his ear. “She has work for two, after all!”
Tom kept his straight face, just, as he observed the rounded expanse of his sister-in-law bearing down upon him in greeting. He shook her hand gravely and gently – he dreaded to imagine the sympathetic reverberations that would affect her frame following a vigorous contact.
Crane brought them to table, seating by rank and social prominence, Tom noted, all very formal.
The meal was long, well-cooked and accompanied by some very ordinary wines, a matter of unconcern to almost all, the Countess, who nonetheless displayed a very substantial thirst, the only one to look askance at her glass. The servants withdrew and the ladies stirred in expectation of following them.
“Would you delay just a moment, my lady?” The Marquis to his wife, at his most formal.
“I wish to use this occasion to tell you all that I have retired from public life, shall no longer grace Whitehall with my presence! Lord Rothwell will, I believe, be invited to take a place in the government of the country in my stead, using his knowledge of naval matters, I understand?”
Frederick, a member for more than ten years, bowed briefly, said that he had been invited to take a junior place on the Treasury Bench, would be concerning himself much with the questions of naval construction and armaments and dockyards, especially in the new colonial possessions which the long wars had brought to the country.
“Malta, my lord?”
Frederick nodded to Tom, agreed that Malta would not, whatever the opinions of other nations might be in Vienna, be leaving British hands. The Spanish would be retaining Port Mahon but would not be recovering Gibraltar under any circumstances. A dockyard at Malta would cater for British interests well enough in such a case, the two bases serving to control the Mediterranean between them.
“What of the Ottoman, Frederick?”
“They, father, will be put in their place at an appropriate time – there will be no great need for a land war, but their fleet will be destroyed when the occasion arises and piracy will be rigorously suppressed. The Slave Trade will, of course, be extirpated – and that will provide all the excuse needed to wipe out the slave galleys in the Mediterranean.”
Tom
voiced his agreement for such measures, making a mental note to inform Quarrington that life was liable to become rather hot in his chosen avocation – perhaps he should turn his attention elsewhere.
The ladies retired and port came to the table, conversation naturally turning to the new war and to Lord Jack’s expectations of it.
“Bonaparte cannot survive an invasion by Russia, Prussia, Austria and Britain – that goes without saying. In six months time there can be an army of more than half a million men breaking the French borders. So, either he seeks a peaceful settlement or he must make an all-out attack on one front before the Allies are ready. The British army is substantial, on paper, but has far too many new recruits in the old battalions, and a large number of freshly raised units as well – many of the best are still in America. Blucher’s army is better than ours, and a fraction larger. The two together, Wellington and Blucher, cannot fail to beat the French, but separated it might be possible for Napoleon to thrash one and force the other to retreat, and then negotiate terms from a position of strength.”
“Very clear, Jack,” the Marquis said. “If he seeks an accommodation now, he will be forced to abdicate, will be lucky to keep his life, in fact, so he has nothing to lose. A victory and he would retain the throne of France. Honourable defeat and he may sue for terms, which he might get. He can only gain from forcing a battle. When?”
“Before harvest, I believe, sir, before the Prussian reservists can be called away from the fields and before Wellington can pull together another twenty thousand redcoats from the garrisons in Ireland and back from America. Every extra day of training our recruits get is a day lost to Napoleon’s hopes – and we must assume he is aware of that. Whatever else he may be he is a knowledgeable soldier, sir.”
“So, when do you join your regiment, Jack?”
“I leave in the morning, Thomas. I shall be in Ostend in three days, provided the wind is not foul, and in camp near Ghent at most two days after that. The word I have is that of four hundred and fifty troopers only one hundred and thirty served in Spain. For my officers – the cornets, in the nature of things, are all green; the lieutenants have one man who has smelt powder and of the captains, just two, but one has distinguished himself on several occasions. The major, Dimmock, I have met before and know to be a brave man but full of new-fangled ideas. I want officers who will charge at the head of their men – they have no need to think beyond that, I believe!”
Tom had no knowledge of fighting on land but instinctively felt that the application of intelligence to warfare could not be a bad thing. But there was no gain to arguing the point with Lord Jack, a man who was not wholly stupid but who was incapable of assimilating anything new, one who knew wholeheartedly that the world as it was currently organised was as nearly perfect as it could be, that any change could only be for the worse.
“So, training and drill, I presume, Jack?”
“Obedience, Thomas! All they need is to obey my command, exactly and precisely. They must do as they are told, when they are told, and they must learn that if they disobey, in any way, then they will be flogged for their pains. The triangle, Thomas – that first and foremost will allow us to win our battles. A sharp sabre, a good horse and a strong right arm – no trooper needs more than that. Damn this thinking business that the Rifles keep prating about! Soldiers have no need to think, sir!”
James sat with his single glass of port, listening intently, became aware that his father was unimpressed, was restraining himself with some difficulty. He knew that Papa believed firmly that any man could better himself, and that he could do so only by using his brain. Perhaps cavalrymen were different, but, if that were the case, then was it right that he become a hussar himself? It was very difficult for a not exceptionally bright young man who had never had occasion to think before.
They joined the ladies, conversation changing as they entered the room – whatever had been the topic of discussion previously was evidently none of men’s business.
The Prince of Wales’ marital difficulties were soon entered upon, a source of entertainment they could all comment upon with varying degrees of distaste and amusement. The Regency was a political blessing, all agreed, enabling the government of the day to strip Royalty of much of its power without the need for making actual constitutional change. If the Prince wanted his debts paid and his divorce to be facilitated, then he must make concessions. Additionally, the Prince was so inadequate a gentleman in so many ways that he could be manipulated by those not necessarily more intelligent than him but certainly better balanced – the powers he possessed he could not use effectively, however much he wished to be a force in the rule of his country.
“We are far luckier than the French, I believe,” Grafham concluded. “We have our Revolution without any great degree of disorder or overt change. Our world will never be the same again, yet it seems in most ways to be no different, but theirs seems to have been turned upside down but for most of their people is exactly the same as it always was. Their peasants are slaves and always will be, while ours have gone to the towns and can make themselves free and rich there. We are lucky to be English, I believe.”
They could all agree with the last remark – there was no greater blessing than to be English in their world, they were quite certain.
“Father?”
“Yes, James?”
“I want to be a soldier, sir, as you know, and that has not changed – but, do you think I should really be a hussar? Should I think, perhaps, of a regiment of foot?”
Tom sat back in the coach, relaxing, trying to think clearly. He had had a couple of glasses more than he was accustomed to and really did not need mental strain as well.
“Not the Guards, that is for sure, James! Foot are more likely to serve overseas than are the cavalry, and that means India, of course – and, as you know, I firmly believe that it does any young man good to go abroad. Ensign in one of the respectable regiments of foot would make good sense – especially after all that we have heard this evening! The world is changing, James, and we must change with it. What do you say, Verity?”
“I cannot love the triangle, James – and I suspect you may see less of it in a marching regiment. What are these Rifles, James? My brother seemed to disapprove of them.”
James was happy to display his knowledge, was too young to appreciate that his mother would certainly not be ignorant of their existence and was gently pushing him to a decision.
Verity had decided that her second son was slow – incapable of living his own life and making his own decisions, the army was the obvious place for him. A fashionable cavalry regiment would inevitably give him too many chances to go the way of his uncles, becoming either a stiff-backed martinet or a self-indulgent fool. To be a junior officer in a battalion of foot, especially in an overseas posting where he would see action, might well force him to grow up – he would never be brilliant, but he might become a man of character and ability. The Rifles had long seemed to her to be the ideal regiment for her purpose, the 60th the better, she thought, inasmuch that it tended to be posted in detachments to provide Light Infantry for different brigades as they were formed for particular campaigns. Ten years or so as ensign and subaltern in the 60th and he could buy his majority in another regiment in garrison in England or Ireland, settling down to a mature existence with wife and children.
James, in happy ignorance of her calculations, told her all about the Rifles, getting most of the details right, she noticed, in the process persuading himself that he wanted to wear the green rather than the light blue.
One son properly disposed of, she could now give thought to Joseph and his rather different career. That was a matter that would have to be raised at an appropriate time when Thomas was feeling receptive to new ideas.
Frederick and Rachel visited next morning, mainly to finalise the details of their annual stay. Rachel and her three children would spend the whole of the summer at the Hall, Frederick in London for some of the time.
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Rachel, in her mid-thirties, was showing a suspicious waistline, nodded happily when Verity raised an eyebrow, commented that another daughter would balance the family very well – two sons were enough.
“George is, what, thirteen now, my dear? Is he at school yet? Robert did not mention his name to me.”
“He is working with tutors, Verity, will not go to school. The masters at both Harrow and Eton showed some unwillingness to allow him entry, thought there might be ‘difficulties’. He is a clever boy, and that would in itself be a problem, I gather, and will enter Oxford early, though we are tempted to send him to Edinburgh instead – the quality of education is far better and the society there is more civilised.”
“Annoying, my dear, and not simple of solution. I wonder what Thomas might have to say.”
Thomas had a lot to say about the small-mindedness of schoolteachers and their wisdom in hiding away from the company of adults, surrounding themselves with the adulation of the adolescent. He took a look at George out on the children’s lawn, swinging his cricket bat with more enthusiasm than skill and shouting happily.
“He’s a big lad. Make sure he is taught the smallsword and fisticuffs, ma’am, so that he can stand up to the bullies. I will take him down to the pistols with me a few times so that if the occasion arises he can confidently push an affair to a challenge – it will enable him to be accepted in society.”
She nodded agreement – her son must become part of this England, it was his country even if it would never wholly be hers.
“Your governess, my lord, seems to be a very capable young female, or so Charlotte informs me. Would it be right for her to come to me when she leaves your employ? Elizabeth is seven now and will need a teacher next year; I have taught her her letters and numbers, and she seems to have taught herself the pianoforte – she plays far better than me already.”
Born To Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 3) Page 4
