The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) (17 page)

“Put simply, Mrs Morris, and to be wholly open, I am
new to the business world and to this locality and must establish my name from
nothing – I certainly must not gain a reputation for loose conduct, the chapels
being what they are. As you may have noticed, my face is not unmemorable, once
seen never forgotten!”

She sought for tactful words, realised there were
none.

“You mean that bloody great scar across your face,
Mr Andrews – it ain’t that ugly but it ain’t invisible either. People who see
it are going to comment and want to know who you are and how you got it; you
would soon be known as the ironmaster who can be found at the gaming tables. It
would ruin you, for sure, you are quite right, sir. By the way, now that we are
talking about it,
how
did you come by it?”

She showed a sympathetic intelligence, and it was a
fair question once he had raised the topic himself.

“At sea, Sugar Islands; we boarded a prize, not
expecting a fight, and a fool slashed at me with a knife he had hidden. Stupid
thing to do – it seemed there had been a mutiny and he had killed the captain
on the previous day, expected to be hanged for it and thought he had nothing to
lose.”

“Stupid of him – I suppose he lost all he had on the
spot?”

“He did, ma’am – and he would have been untouched
otherwise – why should we care if he had mutinied on a French ship?”

“’The guilty flee when no man pursueth’, or so I was
told when I was young, Mr Andrews. If I am asked, and I expect I might be
because I am thought to know everybody in town, I should say that you were
injured in a naval action and left the sea with your prize-monies? A very
respectable thing to have done – everybody loves a sailor.”

“Why, yes, thank you, ma’am – I had not thought of
that, but it will answer questions without their needing to be asked.”

“Now then, to business, ma’am. I have little
interest in gambling – to be honest, it seems slow to me, lay down your money
and see if a card turns up, not much in that. I am, however, unmarried and will
stay that way for some time, until the firm is established at least, probably
another ten years, and then an advantageous marriage may well make sense, if no
other sort occurs. And staying single has obvious disadvantages…”

“So a discreet companion would be a pleasant
indulgence, but you must not be seen to frequent this house, for there would
certainly be comment, and it would be more than a little unwise to mount a
mistress out at your place – the gentry can do that, ironmasters may not. I
presume your need is for grown-up female company, sir, but if your tastes run
in other directions I am sure that that can be catered for.”

Tom blushed, hastened to assure her that his
interest lay exclusively with the female sex; it did not occur to him that he
needed to comment on the adult specification, never having heard of those
interested in small children.

“A little house, a cottage in one of the secluded
lanes on the outskirts, would be best, where you can call and stay two or three
nights of the week without arousing comment, though it would be best if you did
not live there; it will be known, of course, but will be discreet, not
flaunting your indiscretions in the public eye – a lot of very respectable men
do it. A hundred will buy and furnish a small place; as much again each year
would staff it with a cook-maid and a skivvy and a young lady of discretion,
though you would wish as well to spend more on presents and clothing for her, I
doubt not. Two weeks or so should suffice, I expect, Mr Andrews, I shall send
you a note.”

The note came in three weeks rather than two, Tom
possessing himself in patience, sure that he had not been forgotten.

“I am so sorry for the delay, Mr A,” Mrs Morris
gushed, thrusting her massive person upon him – the silk was heliotrope today,
embellished with rubies, garnets and jet brooches and pins placed in pleasing
disorder.

“Not two days after we spoke, Mr A, I was apprised
of the existence of a young lady, newly come upon the town in Birmingham and
wishful to move away from her home area where she might be known.”

Tom’s eyebrows raised, he was not at all sure what
she was implying.

“A young miss of respectable parents who made a
slight mistake a few weeks ago, Mr A. The piano tutor, it would seem, persuaded
the poor girl to play upon his organ!”

She roared at her own wit, inviting him to join in.

“Needless to say”, she continued, having got her
breath back, “Mama discovered her with her skirts around her waist and raised
the household, Papa, it would seem, pursuing the enterprising gentleman down
the street with a fowling piece, though with what success I do not know! Miss
Mary, being no longer an honest maiden, was put out of the house, onto the
coach into town with her ticket in her hand and five guineas in her pocket and
bidden to make her own way in life thenceforth – she had brought shame and Papa
was a stern chapel-goer, one who truly loves his fellow man. She reached the
coaching inn and was stood at a loose end, knowing not what to do, and the
landlord, familiar with the sight, sent word to my friend Mrs Jerrold who
offered the poor lass the sanctuary of her ‘boarding-house for young ladies’
for the while. A week or so and she persuaded her to come up here to me, away
from the nasty local old tabbies of her home area, not that any were ever
likely to meet her in Birmingham, ten miles away from her home. She is ‘helping
me with the housework’ at the moment, dusting in the Blue Room. She is not with
child, luckily, and is a well-made girl, quite pretty and knows how to conduct
herself in genteel fashion, apart from one minor slip, that is.”

They peered through the door at a young girl of
seventeen or so who was busily cleaning and setting the room to rights, glad to
be useful to the lady who had been so kind to her. As Mrs Morris had said, she
had a good figure and an attractive face under auburn hair, for which Tom had a
particular weakness.

“She is certainly a pretty girl, Mrs Morris, but
from what you say she will hardly wish to go into keeping and I will have no
part in forcing her, ma’am!”

“Neither you should, sir, and you would have me to
reckon with if you tried, sir. That said, she has no other course open to her –
I will talk with her and bring her to a proper frame of mind. She has already
discovered that a maid in service must have a character, must be vouched for by
parents or by a previous employer, and she has no other skills at all, how
should she have? When faced with the alternatives I have no doubt what her
choice must be, and then it is up to you to keep her content in her lot, sir.
Do you come back here tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and I shall have your
house keys and my own attorney – not Mr Clapperley, a good man but inquisitive
- to sign up contracts and give you the deeds.”

Mrs Morris spoke long to Mary that night, explaining
in the friendliest fashion that she could hardly expect to remain in her house,
a guest forever, and asking what she thought to do with her life.

“I don’t know, ma’am. What can I do?” She fought the
tears back, tried to behave like a sensible adult, making her own way in a world
that seemed suddenly to be very cold and unwelcoming.

“Well… you can’t get work as a maid in service, but
you might be able to find a place serving in a hotel or a pub, pretty girls are
welcome taking drinks to the men at the tables.”

As Mrs Morris had guessed, Mary’s sole knowledge of
alcohol was the Demon Rum, coming as she did from the chapel; entering a den of
iniquity would imperil her immortal soul, working in one would damn her for
sure.

“No, no, not that, ma’am! Is there
nothing
else?”

“Not as work, my dear, the only other thing to do is
to accept the protection of a gentleman. You could have your own little house
with cook and maid to look after you, your man visiting you occasionally, a
night or two each week.”

“You mean, a husband, Mrs Morris,” she offered
hopefully.

“No, my dear, I am afraid that girls in your
circumstances do not usually get married.”

“But… that would be to live in sin!”

“Better than dying in the gutter, my dear!”

Mary found the flat common sense of that comment to
be quite unacceptably unemotional – this was tragedy and
should
be
treated appropriately.

“It would mean letting him…”

“Do what the tutor did? Yes, frequently.”

“But I did not like it at all when Mr Jevons said he
would show his love for me – it wasn’t very nice and it made me sore!”

Mrs Morris kept her temper and her patient smile
with some considerable effort. Just what did they teach these young girls of
today?

“After you have had a bit of practice you will find
that you quite like it, my dear, and it won’t be as if you are just doing that
all day, every day – not more than a couple of hours a week, when you think
about it.”

Mary remained unconvinced – she had a strong
suspicion that Mrs Morris might be right, but she must try to find an
alternative.

“Is there really nothing else at all, ma’am?”

“Yes, you can go into a bawdy house.” She thought
that a daughter of the chapel was more likely to have heard the old-fashioned
term while the word ‘brothel’ should never have sullied her maidenly ears.

“Oh! But they are very bad places, they are where
wicked girls end up!”

“That is right – they are the worst of places. In
exchange for your meals and a few pennies you must ‘entertain’ every man who
wants to pay for you, ten and twelve a day, every day, until you die, worn out,
old and often diseased.”

“No!”

“Then I shall tell Mr Andrews that you will go with
him tomorrow morning, shall I? He has bought a very pleasant little house for
you – he has seen you and thinks you are very pretty and would like you to be
his friend, his and nobody else’s. Think about it and tell me in the morning,
after you have packed your bag.”

Mary slept little that night; she thought of running
away, but had enough sense to realise that she had nowhere to go and no money
to live on – she would end up selling herself, with many fewer advantages than
Mrs Morris seemed to be offering. She cried herself to sleep, wondering if Mr
Jevons had known what he was doing to her and whether he would have cared; she
decided in the end that she had been a fool, a silly child, and now she must
make the best of what little she had left. It wasn’t fair, even so.

She came to breakfast in the morning in grown-up
mood, amazed herself by displaying an appetite for food – she had thought she
would have been unable to touch a thing.

“Well, my dear?”

“You are right, ma’am – better one man, in a house
of my own. What happens, ma’am, if he grows tired of me?”

“You must save your money, and try to keep him
amused, my dear. Mr Andrews is a gentleman, in his own way, and he will look
after you properly, will not throw you out into the gutter.”

They met and she was appalled by the scar, but then
felt ashamed of herself for being so hateful to the poor man – he had gained
the wound in battle, no doubt, fighting honourably for his King and his
Country, it was a badge of respect. She made her curtsey, a schoolgirl’s little
bob, and smiled bravely at him, walked out to the gig at his side, going nobly
to martyrdom, though sitting several decorous inches from him on the bench as
they followed Mrs Morris in her considerably more opulent town carriage to the
western outskirts and the cottage where her attorney waited for them.

The ‘hundred pounds’ Mrs Morris had estimated became
one hundred and thirty by the time fees and extras had been paid, but Tom had
learnt enough about lawyers to foresee that, had brought two hundreds in gold
with him. The cook-maid and skivvy were produced and approved, the one a
respectable forty, the other the merest scrap of a child, claiming to be twelve
but looking more like eight or nine. Tom placed ten guineas in the cook’s hand.

“Housekeeping, Mrs Johnson,” she had been introduced
by surname alone, the honorific promoted her to housekeeper status. “Buy in the
stores and staples you need and set up accounts with a butcher and a dairyman. Will
you buy in bread or bake your own?”

“In a small house like this, sir, ‘twill be less
wasteful to buy than fire up our ovens for baking every day.”

“Right, your choice, Mrs Johnson. Accounts to me, of
course.”

Both knew that the bills would include a few extra
pennies for her pocket; looking at the scar she decided that it would be kept
on the low side, he was no man to be trifled with.

“Put a guinea of those ten in your own purse, Mrs
Johnson, and a half-crown for ribbons and buns for the little one – she looks
as if she needs to be fed up, so tiny as she is. You have rooms in the attics,
I believe; are they furnished sufficiently?”

“Yes, thank you, sir, though I think Martha might
welcome another blanket for her bed, skinny little rabbit, she is, will never
keep warm without.”

“Buy it for her, and make sure she has warm clothes
for winter.”