by Edward Cline
The Prince left more turmoil in his wake than he had caused in his lifetime. Leicester House, the Prince’s domicile in London, ceased to be the fulcrum of parliamentary opposition to the king, and the enmity once focused on Frederick by his parents—his mother, Caroline, had so hated him that she even refused to see him on her deathbed—gradually shifted in the widowed king to William Augustus. Cumberland, in the event of his father’s death or incapacitation, could become either king or Regent. There were many in all strata of English society who feared that Cumberland would seize the reins of power from the heir-presumptive, George, son of the Prince and Princess of Wales, before the latter reached his majority, and establish a military kingship not unlike that of Frederick of Prussia’s.
Cumberland was at this time Captain General of the Army, and busy reforming it. At the same time he was still living under the shadow of recrimination for his and his staff’s depredations in Scotland following the quelling of the Jacobite Rebellion, and even his most obsequious sycophants and admirers had ceased proclaiming his name. The merciless and often indiscriminate execution of Highland Scots and the brutal uprooting of their clans had shocked even Englishmen, most of whom had no love for the Scots. It was said that, when the Livery Companies of London were contesting each other for the privilege of granting the Duke the status of freedman in the City (for English kings and their immediate family could not enter London except by permission of the Lord Mayor), someone caustically suggested that he be made a member of the Company of Butchers. The newspapers subsequently nicknamed him “the Butcher.”
Nevertheless, the Earl and his brother the Baron knew that the Duke would be courted now by many of the men who had once flocked to Leicester House and the Prince of Wales and plotted with Frederick Louis to bedevil the king in and out of Parliament.
“Billy,” remarked the Baron, “will need friends.”
“He is sure to be pressed to take the lead,” said the Earl.
“He might be persuaded to, but he heeds his father’s every wish and whim.”
“True,” conceded the Earl with a sigh. “If his father ordered him to give up women and horses, he would. He has proven that he will do nothing that will antagonize Mr. Lewis.”
“So it would need a strong man—one more persuasive than his father—to get him to move, to take the right actions, to make the right friends.”
“Do you know of such a man?”
“No,” said the Baron. “And I know that it is neither of us.”
“He strikes me,” broached the Baroness, “as a man who is content with the back bench. He would make a poor and indifferent pawn, and a worse sovereign. His toy soldiers, horses, and dice are all he wants from his rank.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “He has no ambition.”
The Earl hummed pensively. “There are men who would act in the Duke’s interests,” he said. “Fox, for example.”
“And men who would oppose them with equal vigor,” said the Baron. “Pitt, for example.”
The Baroness smiled. “Do not discount the determination of the Princess to secure the succession for her son, George.”
The Earl scoffed. “I cannot seriously entertain the notion of Augusta in the role of Regent,” he said. “If she is anything like her late husband, she must share his gift for tactlessness and spite, and will scotch any chance she might have.”
“I must agree with you, Basil,” replied the Baroness. “But you both neglect an important factor here, one which will nullify all other considerations. The Princess is a mother, and she will fight for her son. In this fight, she will wield two unsavory, frankly tactless and spiteful, but powerful weapons.”
The Baron and the Earl looked at her expectantly.
The Baroness smiled again in triumph. “His Majesty’s shame for his treatment of his late son—and his younger son’s present unpopularity.”
The Baron thought about it for a moment, then chuckled in appreciation of his wife’s perspicuity. His brother, who did not as a rule ascribe intelligence to women, merely grunted in acknowledgment. “On these points,” said the Baron, “it would seem that ambition is now feasible. The Duke may not be ambitious, but there will gather around him men who are. These, though, will be less skilled than the allies the Princess will very likely recruit in the Commons and Lords. The albatross of unpopularity will flit from her and alight most unceremoniously on the shoulders of the Duke and his supporters. Newcastle, I have it from reliable sources, is also leaning in Pitt’s direction. It is quite clear to me now how His Majesty will weigh the matter.”
“Nevertheless,” replied the Earl, “it would seem the prudent thing to cultivate the Duke, gaining entrée into the Princess’s beneficence, to be sure, but at the same time assuring him of our sentiments.” He paused to stare into his tea for a moment, then put the cup and saucer down. “You will compose our condolences to the King, the Princess, and the Duke, will you not, Garnet? And if there is to be a largish funeral, we should of course wish to be in attendance.”
“Of course, dear brother.” The Baron shook his head. “But all three parties seem insensible to our sentiments, one way or another.”
“True,” agreed the Earl. “But insensibility is at least better than ignorance. It is of no consequence to me whether we are on any of their minds, just so long as we are on the opportune side.”
There was no “largish” funeral for the Earl and his family to attend. George II, the Prince’s brother the Duke, the Prince’s sisters, all the bishops, and all but one Peer from Lords were conspicuously absent from the dismal, rain-soaked procession that wended its way through London’s streets to Westminster Abbey. There the Prince was put in Henry VII’s chapel near his mother and his illegitimate son. Everyone had been warned away from the occasion. In the Abbey, the organ played no dirges, and the choir sang no hymns. Enemies of the king rankled and bit their tongues; his friends chuckled up their sleeves.
But the Princess of Wales triumphed in the end. Pitt’s influence worked; the Princess was named in the Regency Bill of 1751 to act for her son in the event of the king’s death or incapacitation, while the Duke was stung with being appointed to a contingent regency council of advisors. If the Princess of Wales had become Regent, no doubt whatever advice he had to offer her would have been spurned, for she despised her “great, great fat friend” and brother-in-law. The matter being settled, the Duke, now that he had been cut out of the picture, was freed of the necessity of channeling his energies into political machinations, and refocused his attention on women, horses, gambling, and the army.
* * *
Children of the aristocracy were kept in the background of their parents’ lives, and brought out only on extraordinary occasions. In this background, boys were taught practical, worldly subjects and what passed for wisdom; girls were trained to be useful ornaments.
Following the incident at Eton College, Hugh Kenrick’s parents found what they thought was a perfect solution to their worries about their son’s seeming antisociability. Not far from Danvers was the estate of Squire Drew Tallmadge, who had hired a clutch of tutors to educate not only his own sons but those of the local gentry and lesser nobility. Parents paid the tutors, and also Tallmadge for the “rental” of his house for instruction.
This option had not previously been considered, for many of the patrons of the “grammar school” were minor irritants to the Earl. Squire Tallmadge had refused to sell the copyholds of lands adjacent to the Kenricks’ estate, had introduced alien agricultural practices to favorite leaseholders, and had begun to enclose his lands, allowing troublesome copyholds and leaseholds to expire, and resorting to rack-rents to discourage obstructive and unproductive tenants from staying. But Tallmadge had acquired the estate from his lord, whose family was practically extinct, who sold it to pay off debts and later disappeared in London among the growing ranks of titled bankrupts. The Tallmadge family had served this baron’s family for centuries; it was at least a known, established name.
Squire Tallmadge had also wished to be elected to the Commons, but lost the election because it had been established almost as a tradition, by the 40-shilling electorate of neighboring Onyxcombe, to send Crispin Hillier, the Earl’s favorite, to the Commons. There was one contest, which occurred almost a generation ago, but the Earl had never forgiven the Squire for challenging his hegemony.
The Brunes, however, were strangers altogether, new to Dorset by a single generation. Old Squire Robert Brune, still living, had won the estate in a still talked-about game of hazard from its owner, another minor baron, at the Kit-Kat Club in London. The Brunes had introduced new wool-processing mechanisms and installed them in special buildings on their estate, and built a new mill house over the narrow Onyx River, which meandered through the three estates, to grind their corn and wheat. Like the Tallmadges, the Brunes were able to buy the prestige and status of their predecessors without the encumbrance of fealty to the Earl of Danvers, which was not transferable. The Earl regretted that the law courts had not in the past ruled on this oversight.
The Brunes and the Tallmadges wished to be associated with the Earl; the Earl did not wish them to be neighbors at all. He had never visited them, and looked upon them and their novel management of their affairs with alternating disgust, petulance, and outrage. Baron Garnet Kenrick, however, out of necessity of business and sheer curiosity, had visited the families and once had even dined with them. The Earl would never himself have invited either family to his banquets or balls, except on the practical advice of the Baron, and to avoid pointless conflict. The relationship among these three families was the epitome of eighteenth-century social mores: coldly cordial, cunningly civil, and exaggeratedly gracious.
And so Hugh was driven by a footman in a dogcart to the Tallmadge house six days a week. A relay of resident tutors drilled the young baron and his classmates in Latin, Greek, French, drawing, mathematics, and rhetoric; in Greek, Roman, and modern history; in geography and navigation. “Science” was taught by Squire Tallmadge himself, for he was a committed Newtonian and an ardent agriculturist who experimented with the means of making his 500 acres of tillage more productive. At first Hugh was reluctant to attend this school, then he warmed to the idea, for the tutors were good teachers. The tutors were at first leery of their new charge, the nephew of a powerful and notoriously temperamental earl, but Hugh was a bright and eager pupil, and they in turn warmed to him.
And here at the school, Hugh did not so much make a friend of Roger Tallmadge, as he was befriended by the youngest of the Squire’s sons. It was the rumor of his rebellion at Eton which drew the boy to Hugh. “Is it true that you burned a marquis’s hands?” he asked breathlessly in private. He was the frequent butt of his older brothers’ pranks, and the notion of fighting back appealed to him.
* * *
Two tragedies befell the Danvers household that same year.
The Earl’s wife, the Countess, had been suffering from an ailment which one local and two London physicians had been unable to diagnose, though for which the trio unanimously prescribed a daily remedy of one part snail’s broth, one part ground mistletoe, and one part camphor. After a month of imbibing the bitter potion, the Countess was found dead in her chair while sunning herself on the south lawn. The funeral, the special services at St. Quarrell’s, the solemn interring of the Countess in the family vault, and the stream of visits by local nobility and townsfolk to express their sympathies all struck Hugh as empty formality. He had not liked his aunt, and was certain that no one else had either, including his parents and his uncle. Everyone, especially the servants who had had to endure her sharp, mocking tongue, seemed relieved that she was gone; and yet everyone behaved as though she had been a beloved mistress and personage whose passing deserved marking. Hugh could not generate within himself such sham piety, and went through the motions with a blank face. His parents noticed his demeanor, but said nothing; how could a ten-year-old boy understand these things? The Earl noted it, too, but was more perceptive than the boy’s parents about the cause of Hugh’s naive and barely disguised disdain.
Two months later, a brother to Hugh was stillborn, and Effney Kenrick nearly died in labor. The boy insisted that he be allowed to be at her bedside until she recovered. He waited on her as a servant would, amused her by playing games with his three-year-old sister, Alice, on the bedroom rug, did tricks with his brass top, and read to her poems from her favorite authors. To cheer her up, he once read humorous passages from a volume of The Spectator, by Addison and Steele, but stopped when he saw that her laughter cost her strength. Garnet Kenrick was present at many of these sessions, first and foremost out of concern for his wife, and then because he had never seen his son express such care for anyone. This made him happy. He was so touched by the phenomenon that he at times permitted himself to pat his son’s shoulder in gratitude and camaraderie, out of sight of the Baroness.
And when she was in pain, Hugh would hold her hand. On one of these occasions, when the Baron was not present, she said to him, “I would not discourage the devotion you have shown me, Hugh. But it is more love than I have seen you demonstrate for your father and uncle. Is there a reason for it?”
Hugh smiled at her. “You are a beautiful, kind, and wise lady, Mater, and no misfortune or agony should ever darken your life. It is a personal offense to me that you should suffer.” He paused. “My devotion to you is not from duty, but from affection.”
The Baroness studied her son for a moment and stroked his hand. “Do you frown on duty, Hugh?”
The boy put down the book he had been reading from—a collection of poems by Thomas Gray—and thought for a moment. “It is of less value to me than is sincerity, Mater. I cannot understand its importance in the scheme of things.” He paused. “I am truly sorry that you lost a son.”
The Baroness smiled sadly. “Are you not sorry that you have lost a brother?”
Hugh looked perplexed, then his brow cleared. “I did not know him at all, Mater,” he replied, “and so he cannot be so much of a loss. You were better acquainted with him than I could ever be.”
The Baroness smiled again and squeezed his hand. “My dear, precious Hugh,” she said with warmth. “Stay with me while I rest for a while, and then send for Bridget.”
* * *
When the Baroness had fully recovered, Garnet Kenrick took his son on a postponed inspection tour of the Danvers estate, a weeklong sojourn, accompanied by Owen, the valet. They spent their nights at local taverns or as guests in tenants’ cottages. On the tour they encountered trains of packhorses laden with agricultural produce, coal, and wares bound for London, Bristol, Southampton, and other major towns. These trains also carried wool, cloth, and any other manufactured goods that could be lashed to the ponies. While on the road, they stopped to talk with chapmen, men who sold penny books, utensils and patent medicines. The Baron bought a chapbook from one of these men for Hugh, who read while he was riding his own pony, and saw that it contained some news, anecdotes, biblical sayings, and folk wisdom. They also met with “riders,” men employed by city merchants to visit tradesmen in the towns with samples of cloth patterns and other household goods, and who took orders and filled them. The idea so fascinated Garnet Kenrick that he on several occasions bought the riders lunch in nearby taverns in trade for information on the workings of this new profession.
Danvers was five thousand acres. The Earl took no active role in managing them, other than approving his brother’s decisions. Much of Danvers was tilled or occupied by leaseholders, or tenant farmers, who paid rent to the Earl in money or in kind, or a portion of their harvest or produce. In exchange for farming for the likes of the Earl and the Baron, the tenants were allowed small private plots on which they grew or pastured what they pleased. But largely they acted on the Baron’s instructions.
Garnet Kenrick owned a much-thumbed copy of Jethro Tull’s Horse-Hoeing Husbandry, a classic in the science of agriculture, and kept a journal thick with his own observations and
endeavors. And he had long ago entered into a correspondence with a Norfolk gentleman farmer, trading ideas about how to mix soils, about paring and burning fields, the best way to abolish rack-rents, the efficacy of various kinds of manure and dung, the novelty of burying clay trunks to drain marshy soil, and improving the stock of Dorset red cattle. At one point on their venture, the Baron stopped atop a hill and waved to the panorama below them, which was a third of the Kenricks’ holdings, and lectured Hugh on the breeds of sheep and cattle they could see dotting the rolling meadows. “Ryelands and Herefords yield superb wool for fine broadcloth, Hugh. Sussex and Southdowns have a fine soft curly wool, you see, highly prized by the factors in London. Other sheep I have introduced from the north are long-wooled Cheviots, Northumberland Muggs, and the Lancashire Silverdales, which, incidentally, account for over one-third of the country’s annual clipping.” His father stopped speaking, and took out his journal to make some notes.
Hugh looked from the panorama to his father. “It is a grand enterprise! You are a great man, Pater.”
His father leaned on the pommel of his saddle to study his son. There was a set, subdued smile on his face, a smile that wished it could be more. “Thank you, Hugh. However, you mustn’t forget that all this is your uncle’s.”
