Brothers at Arms
ROTHERS
A
T
A
RMS
J
EMIMA
B
RIGGES
Copyright © 2015 Jemima Brigges
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons or places is entirely coincidental.
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To my late father, George Ernest Bradley, the youngest great-grandson of the real Jemima Brigges (1753 – 1814)
Whilst the historical figures are set in the context of fiction, the reputation of Thomas William Coke, as one of the significant personalities of the Agricultural Revolution is fact. Everyone knows of the Napoleonic Wars, but few remember the farmers who kept the people of England fed in those difficult times.
I have no idea whether such an innovative thinker as ‘Mr Coke of Norfolk’ had students of agriculture on his Norfolk estate, but the notion fitted the section of my story to which it relates so well, that I hope historians will forgive my literary fantasy.
ROTHERS AT
A
RMS
C
HAPTER
1
London – June 1794
Whereas most people who approached the porticoed entrance of No 20 Cavendish Square had to wait for admittance, it was evident from the speed in which the glossy black door opened that the tall gentleman who stepped out of the hackney carriage was expected.
“Is Mrs Pontesbury in, Brockley?” he said to the butler, his tone curt.
“Yes, sir,” the man replied, as he handed the gentleman’s hat, coat and gloves to the first footman. “She is in the drawing room, and asked that you join her.”
Tom Norbery nodded and made his way up the long sweep of the elegant marble staircase of his sister’s town house. Not so quickly as to imply a hurry, but brisk enough to be business-like. That was his intention. The servants would all know of the letter that arrived a few hours ago, which his sister immediately dispatched to his office in the hallowed portals of the House of Commons. Tom had read the contents and returned home as soon as his commitments allowed.
Now Winifred would want to know the contents, and no doubt, Brockley would bring refreshments, hopeful of gleaning news. Well, he would know soon enough.
At the top of the stairs, a footman opened the door for Tom to enter. His sister stood by the sash window, looking down into the street, but turned at his approach and waited until the servant had closed the door before speaking.
In that moment the family likeness was particularly marked. Mrs Pontesbury was a tall woman with the same aquiline profile and fair hair as her brother, expensively dressed in the latest fashion, as befitting one of the leaders of polite society.
“Tom, the letter from Linmore…” she said. “Is it about Kate?”
That was everyone’s assumption. Kate; the wife he had never brought to London, whose very existence was shrouded in secrecy – but better that than have people know the truth. The society in which he lived loved a scandal, but his marriage was so bizarre as to beggar belief.
“No, not this time,” he said, “but it means that I have to go home tonight. I’ll take the night mail to Hereford.”
She looked at him in disbelief, but was prevented from answering by a discreet knock on the door, which heralded the butler’s appearance, followed by his minions carrying a tea tray. Tom would have preferred something stronger, but the tradition of afternoon tea could not be overborne.
As soon as it was poured, Winifred imperiously waved the servants aside, and the butler left the room in his unhurried way. No doubt to stand outside the door, to be ready for his mistress’s next command and ensure that his minions did not listen at keyholes.
“If it is not about Kate, what did Jane say to provoke such a response? It is ridiculous. You simply cannot go.”
Tom could understand his sister’s incredulity, but it made no difference.
“She told me about a letter that she had received from a family connection of her cousin in Ireland. I only know as much of it as she related to me.”
He took a folded sheet of paper from an inner pocket and showed her the contents. Although the letter was sent in haste, Jane’s tone was calm.
I don’t know what is happening in Dublin, but Charlotte’s children have need of me. They have no one else. Don’t worry, Tom; I will be quite safe.
Tom Norbery’s first reaction was to forbid it. He could not allow Jane to travel alone, for she held his home together. If anyone went to Ireland, it should be him.
Never had he felt the distance from home more than now. With Parliament in session, he was in London, while Jane was at Linmore Hall, in Shropshire – one hundred and thirty miles away, according to the old country saying
as the crow flies
.
Birds might fly in a straight line, but not even the Romans built roads so direct.
The knowledge that Jane needed him made the acrimony and petty squabbles between politicians debating the Poor Laws and the war in Europe seem insignificant. Politics could wait, for his voice and others on the Whig benches made little impression while his Majesty favoured the Tories.
For a man slow to anger, and who never acted on impulse, Tom did just that, and had broached the subject of leave with Mr Fox, the Whig Party leader.
“A problem at home, Norbery?” his colleague said, in a voice of concern. “Something relating to your wife’s health, I presume? Of course, you must go.”
Before Tom could utter a word of thanks, Fox continued in a cynical tone, “I daresay the aftermath of today’s debate will rumble on without agreement until the summer recess. It is, after all, only a couple of weeks away, and neither our honourable friend, Pitt nor his colleagues are likely to agree to the amendments we suggested. If anyone should remark your absence, I will simply pose another question for them to answer. That should keep them busy.”
They laughed together, for everyone knew Charles Fox was the most brilliant orator on the Whig benches, and a permanent thorn in the Prime Minister’s side.
Tom did not elaborate. Few people knew the truth about Kate’s health problems, and the melancholia that followed her last delivery covered many things. It served him now. He was free to leave London.
Winifred refolded the paper, a troubled frown on her face.
“But how can you take leave when the House is in session?” she said.
“Charles Fox was with me when I received the letter,” he said. “I wouldn’t have told anyone else, but when I mentioned a problem at home, he assumed it related to Kate. I did not disabuse him of the notion.”