Nothing New on the Land (The Agricultural Lord Palfrey Book 3), page 20
“Had he any woman friend in the village, Moorman?”
“No. Not these five years since he was barely twenty. He split the lip of the girl he was said to be close to, losing his temper for some cause unknown. He was given the cold shoulder after that, none of the lasses having any use for him and the fathers banning him from their doors.”
“Why did they not bring the matter to the magistrates?”
“The old lord would have had nothing to do with it, my lord. A trivial matter of a squabble between a man and a maid – none of his business.”
“What a vile old sod he was! He had no care for any of his people.”
“None at all, my lord. I do not doubt that had he been younger, he would have been a boon companion of the Prince Regent, my lord. He was much of that sort.”
“Worse than that can be said of no supposed gentleman.”
Snow fell in November, followed by a month of bitter, wet cold, the ground frozen solid one day, a foot thick in mud the next. The animals were kept warm in their barns and well fed and the people huddled in front of coal fires and offered blessings on Nat’s head for having brought a tonnage in for the winter.
Hackworth was found dead in the road, apparently on his way down to the village. He showed half-starved, every rib visible against the skin. There was little sympathy.
“No standing betwixt a fool and his folly, my lord. He would not listen when he was given the offer of sailing away, as all knows was done for him. Now he lies in a pauper’s grave and none to grieve him except his poor old ma, and she had given up on him this five years for seeing no chance of turning him round, as you might say. Good riddance to him!”
Nat nodded gravely as Dash reported that Hackworth had been put underground with a minimum of ceremony.
“Vicar did what was needful, my lord, for having no regard for him knowing him to be a bully boy. I did pay him the half-sovereign what you did pass across for the purpose, my lord, and he tucked him away in the corner of the churchyard, in consecrated ground but only just. Don’t have no use for ‘is sort, my lord!”
Chapter Sixteen
“Do I really have to go?”
“My lord, yes. If you do not go this year, you never will. You will end as a backwoods peer, every opportunity discarded. The estate will decline as you do, my lord. Truly, you must drag yourself out of seclusion and return to the life of activity you entered on your first marriage.”
Samways had spoken. The law had been laid down.
Nat did not have to obey his valet. The sun did not have to rise in the east. The probability was strong that both events would occur.
“One week before the Cavendish Ball or two? I believe my wardrobe will benefit from the attentions of my tailor.”
“A fortnight would be better, my lord. Not essential, but, if the job is to be done, then better it were done to the best.”
“I am not at all certain I like that sentence, Samways.”
“The subjunctive, my lord. I am certain, within reason, it is correct. That is, within the limits of current usage, such as they are.”
Both started to laugh, though Samways contented himself with a little snigger.
“Better you were distant for a couple of months, my lord. There are those talking up Jabez Hackworth, claiming him having been driven penniless out into the snow, there to perish in misery. If you are not here to be shouted at, the cause loses immediacy, my lord. There are many who will support you and it becomes a squabble between two factions if you are not present – far less likely to end up in the courts if there is no tinder to light the fires of riot, my lord.”
“An elegant figure, Moorman?”
“So it is, my lord. My lady wife has a fine turn of phrase, my lord.”
“So she does. I trust she and your boy are well.”
“Very much so, my lord. My Nathaniel is close to the year old now, my lord, a strong baby.”
“I am glad, for both of you. I shall be at least two months away, Moorman, possibly longer. If I end up with a lady to become my second wife, which, after all, is a major reason for going to Town, then I may accompany her and her family to a seaside town or to their home for an extended visit. I do not know. More than half of my mind does not wish to meet a lady I could be comfortable with. I am aware of the reasons why I should marry again. I agree with them. But reason wars with emotion and I do not know who will win. Not to worry! Do not hesitate to contact me if need arises.”
“If a desirable piece of land comes onto the market, my lord, then I shall send an Express to you. If need arises, I shall take a po’shay myself. While in London, my lord, did you have it in mind to speak to an architect?”
“Why might I wish to do that, Moorman?”
“Was you to wish to add a wing to the old house, my lord, perhaps a fashionable man could do better than one of our local jobbing builders could draw up.”
“A wing?”
“Perhaps another dozen – or two – of bedrooms, my lord. Was you ever to indulge in a great entertainment, then more bedrooms would be a clear necessity. Master Thomas is a clever lad, my lord, and may well grow up into a member of the political world. A greater house would make good sense, my lord, and, of course, should you ever rise to the dignity of an earldom…”
“I shall not. He might, perhaps. What have you in mind? The old house is elegant in its way, retaining the Elizabethan E shape, so popular at the time.”
Moorman agreed it was a handsome pile. He suggested doubling each existing wing, mirroring them in effect.
“Turning it into an H on its side, in outline, with the addition to the centre bar on just the one side. The old Hall would not be lost then, my lord.”
“No more it would… If, and I repeat, ‘if’ I decide to increase my dignities, then I shall bear that suggestion in mind. What materials would we use?”
“Red brick, my lord. Portland stone would be far too expensive for so large a building, and somewhat flashy as well. Under Welsh slate, unless you would prefer the Northamptonshire Collyweston stone for the roof. It is a handsome stone, the weathered tan of the Midlands slates, my lord.”
Nat had never seen the material, was content to go with the Welsh.
“We shall purchase from Montgomerie – as is only right, keeping all in the family.”
“So be it, my lord. Has my lord written recently? Or Mr or Mrs Llewellyn?”
“Mr Llewellyn contacted me a few days ago. His lady has raised his expectations and he felt I should know.”
“Very good, my lord. A fine young couple and will produce the best of children.”
“So I hope. As you say, handsome and of rational minds – one could not find a more likable couple.”
Nat made a farewell call on Sir Angus.
“I shall be away not less than two months, Sir Angus. Do keep a weather eye open on the locality, sir. I have created a little fuss with this damned Hackworth and it may be blown up into riot if the Radicals have their way.”
Sir Angus shook his head and thought that to be unlikely. If anything came up, he would put it down, firmly.
“While you are here, my lord, my man in Town has sent me this prospectus, thinking I might wish to consider it. I have my doubts, I will admit. A little too good. The pudding just a fraction over-egged for my taste. I might be missing a good thing, but I do not know I like it.”
Four quarto sheets, the heaviest, most expensive paper, beautifully printed with lavish use of scarlet and gold inks as well as more mundane black in an elegant Italian hand rather than print.
“‘To Re-Open the Polperro Tin Mines, using a MODERN and INFALLIBLE steam engine for DEEP DRAINING the old workings.’ Oh dear! That smacks of too much of a good thing, Sir Angus. What does the projector expect by way of profits?”
“Forty per centum. That is what made me cautious. Just a little too much of a good thing, is it not?”
“Damned right it is, Sir Angus! How much?”
“An initial ten thousand – he assures his reader that only the fortunate few will have the opportunity to invest. He needs no more than fifty thousand and will turn away anything more than that.”
“I shall be in London tomorrow. I can place this in the hands of Bow Street on Thursday?”
“Please do, my lord. The fee to be mine, of course.”
Where there were stolen goods to recover the Runners charged a percentage of their value. Otherwise there was a fee for an investigation, the value of any incidental rewards to be deducted.
“Of course, Sir Angus. I do not doubt they will be thoroughly entertained by this little fraud.”
They laughed, serenely confident that they would not be caught out by such a proposition.
“Sheldrake! Is all well?”
“The house is in perfect condition, my lord. You will remain for the whole of the Season?”
“That is my intention. We may entertain a family party towards the end of the Season if I find myself in the way of taking another lady. I am under orders to do just that, I would add. Samways believes I have remained out of sight for too long. I am in danger of becoming a recluse. He may be right.”
“He may, too, my lord. At risk of causing offence, my lord, my lady was the finest of females. We all admired and respected her intellect and humour and joie de vivre, as they say – yet life goes on, my lord. It must do so. Not to forget – never that – but to advance. You may have another half century my lord, and so many years must not be survived in misery but lived in enjoyment.”
“Well said, Sheldrake. I cannot disagree. It would be easy to remain in my little hidey-hole in Dorset. It might, however, be wrong to do so. I shall look about me, seeking a lady of intellect and charm, elegance and wit combined. Failing that paragon – a female I can like and whose company I can enjoy, and whose family does not offend me. If she has an idiot mother, I shall instantly withdraw.”
The Town butler retained his gravity of expression.
“I shall place the knocker on the door, my lord, and whisper to my acquaintance that you are here intending to rejoin the world. The cards of invitation will arrive in their mounds, my lord!”
The tailor welcomed Nat, set his measure to work and announced him to be unchanged.
“Still spare and muscular, my lord! You make my work easy, if I might say so. May I make so bold as to enquire whether you remain here for the full Season, my lord?”
“That is my intention, sir.”
Nat could not remember the name of his cutter. He was one of Scott’s most senior men, as was only right, and he should have had his name on the tip of his tongue. No doubt Samways would rescue him.
“No doubt Mr Fletcher will tell us of the fashion of this year, my lord.”
Fletcher was happy to do so, assured them there was no great change to be followed.
“Black and white, all as ever, my lord. Mr Brummel still rules in London, though no longer present with us.”
“A pity that is so. I never kept company with the great man, of course, but have heard his precepts and admired them. The gentleman should not play the peacock.”
“Exactly, my lord. To be precise, to be understated, to be exact in all one does. It demands but little of the gentleman - and a great deal of the tailor!”
Nat could understand that was so, observing a number of other gentlemen present of his age and past it, all displaying incipient, or realised, bellies. It was difficult to be elegant when carrying a degree of adiposity.
“I am surprised His Majesty has not pushed for a relaxation of the Beau’s rules, Mr Fletcher.”
“One would not know, my lord. His Majesty is not to be seen at Scott’s.”
The implication was strong that Scott would refuse him.
“I can say very little to that, Mr Fletcher.”
“No more you should, my lord!”
They smiled and made their farewells, fittings later in the week, making their way out to the hatter and then in pursuit of new footwear. Sheldrake had dealt with the question of smallclothes.
“Shirts, my lord, may be sewn up to your measurements by our sempstress. She is mother to the new footman and showed her skills in outfitting him. I have used her services myself, my lord.”
It was the old way, but none the worse for that.
The Playhouse opened that week and Nat showed himself, announcing his return to Society. His card for the Cavendish Ball, the effective opening of the Season, arrived next day.
“Lord Palfrey! One must say how pleased we are at your step up in rank, my lord. We are delighted as well that you can rejoin Society. Your loss was great, my lord.”
“It was, your Grace, yet one must move on. It is not easy to be alone again. I must not become a recluse, and that would be only too easy.”
“It would indeed. I must respect the strength you now display, my lord. I must also say that it is exactly what one might expect of a military man of your uncommon distinction, my lord!”
They exchanged bows and Nat entered the mansion, aware that he had been rarely distinguished. The bulk of guests would have done no more than exchange bows with the Duke and his mother. It would have been noticed and those who did not know who he was would very soon find out.
He glanced across to a waiter, took a glass of a red wine of indeterminate vintage, one of the close to a thousand bottles that would disappear that evening. He estimated six hundred present and all except the single debutantes needing frequent lubrication. The girls were not permitted to have thirsts.
“Palfrey! Glad to see you here, my lord!”
A dozen and more acquaintances said much the same. He suspected many were telling the truth.
Georgie Hanger appeared, smiling as ever.
“I gather I am to congratulate you, Lord Coleraine, is it not?”
“No! Damned Irish barony and not worth a penny piece! I will not acknowledge that title, my lord!”
It seemed in character, somehow. The title could not be lawfully rejected, but there was no law said one must be addressed by it.
“I presume your master is still much relieved by the loss of the burden of his Queen, Colonel?”
“Very much. Offended that his government will not support him in his search for a lady to provide an heir to the throne.”
“Hardly the most practical of endeavours, one might have thought, Colonel?”
Hanger showed upset before giving a reluctant smile.
“Ye may well be right there, Palfrey! I much doubt there will be a son there. The Duke of York is showing frail as well, which is undesirable.”
“Leaves William Henry to succeed… Less than ideal?”
“By God it is, Palfrey!”
Hanger took himself off, in pursuit of a dowager of some wealth and no husband. Nat made his way towards the dance floor, putting his glass on a passing tray and refusing the offer of a second. He took a look at the serried ranks of maidens and mamas, all ready for the off. There was a ripple of recognition through the hundred or so of young females as they spotted one of the catches of the Season, the widowed and rich Lord Palfrey who could only have showed himself because he was in search of a viscountess.
He wondered if he could hear cries of ‘tallyho’ rising from the more enthusiastic.
He danced for three hours, effectively unbroken until supper at midnight, six debutantes, one after the other. Four had talked about horses. One had had nothing to say about anything. The last had spoken about the interests of the day, specifically about the incipient failure of the Council of Europe.
It had been a pleasure to talk to a bright girl, but she had bad teeth and awful breath. He could not imagine getting close to her. She was well informed, however, and he had little doubt she was correct in predicting an almost immediate breakdown of the system and its effects upon England.
“Essentially, none, my lord. We shall sit down behind the bastion of the Channel and watch with a degree of distaste as Europe collapses into a warring, back-stabbing shambles. No doubt our manufactories will do very well selling them guns.”
He joined Lady Jersey’s table for supper, welcomed by those present on his return to the fold.
“Viscount Palfrey! A pleasure indeed, my lord.”
“It is, ma’am. I am glad to be back.”
“Seeking a lady, my lord?”
“Shall we say that I am not necessarily averse to taking a second wife, ma’am. At the very least, I can provide another partner at the ball.”
“Always welcome, my lord. You will join us when Almack’s opens, I trust?”
“That will again be my pleasure, ma’am.”
The dancing club – specifically known as the Marriage Mart – was selective, not accepting all who had the entrée to the Season. Those who passed through its doors, particularly of the young females, were the most eligible, for rank, elegance, dowry or, occasionally, wit.
“Did I see you dancing with the young Miss Grey, my lord? A clever, well informed girl.”
“So she is, ma’am. Regrettably, she has the most appalling breath. Her conversation was overlain by her partially digested dinner, I fear.”
That was not to be tolerated. Miss Grey would not join with the elite at Almacks, unless she indulged herself at a dentists.
“Poor girl! I shall have a word with her good mama, my lord. A distinct dereliction of her duty. Foolish female!”
Nat much suspected that the Greys would withdraw from London and not be seen again until the following year, after a number of painful visits to the dentist’s chair.
They returned to the ballroom, glasses in hand and talking quietly.
“Will you dance with Miss Harris, my lord? She is daughter to an old friend of mine. Second season and will enjoy waltzing with you.”
“Of course, my lady. It will be a pleasure to waltz with a partner you recommend.”
Nat could expect not to have his feet trodden on at least.
Miss Harris was no more than nineteen, indistinguishable from any other debutante at first glance, wearing the correct fashion in acceptable colour and with her hair in that Season’s style, as was mandatory. She spoke little, more concerned initially to make no mistake in the waltz.
