The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) (28 page)

Tom could not start out by breaking a man on rumour
alone – he had to be seen to be fair and above board in all of his dealings or
he would never be accepted by his people.

“He has been given the bulk of the waste, sir, which
will mostly turn to pasture land rather than arable – the better part of three
hundred acres of it, at his request. I believe he will wish to run horses
there.”

“Then, again, you must watch him, Mr Quillerson, and
let him be well aware that he must be honest and above-board in all his
dealings – Smythe is to set no precedent here! We must bring all five together,
I think, and talk with them; they must meet me, and they must discover your new
status.”

“As well, sir, we would wish to discover whether my
suspicions are correct – I believe they were forced to pay a ‘premium on entry’
to Smythe – fifty or so guineas cash which will have gone into his pocket.
Entry fees are not uncommon, sir, when leasing houses, but are less so when it
is a matter of land. They may also have been expected to drop another ten or
twenty at each Quarter Day when they paid their rent.”

“If they have then it will be repaid, immediately,
with an apology, and it will be made clear to them that there will be no extras
demanded in future.”

“That last goes without saying, sir!”

“I thought it did – that’s why I offered you the
job! What is your current wage?”

“Fifty pounds, sir, and free quarters in what was
used to be a groom’s cottage.”

“Are you married?”

“No, sir.”

“If you wed you will shift into a larger, more
appropriate house, equally free, of course. As a single man you will probably
prefer to stay in a small place. Your wage will be one hundred and fifty per
annum, to be revised each year in the light of your performance of your duties.
Any increase in long term profitability and value of the estate will be to your
benefit; short-run profiteering will not be.”

Quillerson’s face brightened, life suddenly seemed
much more attractive to him.

“Understood, sir! The Home Farm, sir - which is very
large, due to Mr Rockingham having a number of plans for it and adding to its
acreage at the enclosure – is overdue for modernisation; I would wish it to
become a Model.”

“Which means what, sir? I have been told, and you
have already mentioned it, that there is a ‘new agriculture’. Explain it to me,
preferably briefly in the first instance.”

“It will take some little time to understand, sir,
and you might be well advised to read some of the many books and pamphlets
available on the subject, if you will excuse me for making such a suggestion,
sir, I am not attempting to…”

Quillerson suddenly seemed apprehensive again, life
not such a wonderful thing any more, his mistake quite likely to be terminal –
one should not rub the nose of the uneducated in their inadequacy, or so he
understood, they were not puppies, after all.

“I am literate, Mr Quillerson, despite the tales you
may have heard of the barbarian manufacturers who have come to infest our
country!”

Quillerson sighed in relief; this man was no
overweening, self-made bully.

“Yes, sir. As I was saying before, ah… my enthusiasm
led me astray, sir, modern practice in agriculture is really all about selling
the farm’s produce rather than eating it oneself. Working to the market, in
fact. To do that one must specialise – you have read Adam Smith, sir? Pins?”

“No – I have been more concerned to
do
rather
than to study – I suspect I should remedy that error.”

“I have copies of some of the more significant
volumes, sir?”

“Have we a library in the house? I have not managed to
look over the place yet!”

“Not as such, sir – the Quillers believed that
unguided reading was dangerous to the soul and Mr Rockingham was not one for
books – he was always one for doing.”

“Even when he did not know what he was doing?”

“Oh, especially then, sir!”

“Then we should remedy that lack, I think. I will
borrow your books, if I may, for the while. Where would I find a bookshop to
patronise?”

“Cambridge, sir, I suspect, or London.”

“Then it must wait. Tell me more of this new
agriculture – you say specialise – do you mean to grow but the one crop, year
in year out?”

“No, sir – that would destroy the fertility of the
land; it is necessary to rotate crops. Even though wheat is far the most
profitable no more than one third of the fields will grow wheat in any one
year. Wheat first, then turnips to clean the land, then beans or peas to
strengthen the soil, unless the farmer has a large herd of cattle when he may
wish to plant clovers and good grasses for the animals. The meanwhile he must
add to the land – if it is clay then he will wish to spread marl, a chalky
substance that will lighten the soil; he will wish to spread dung, as much as
he can; if there is a slaughterhouse then there will be offal, mostly the guts
and their contents; here, where we have iron making, there is the slag which
can be broken down almost to dust and is rich in useful chemicals.”

“Slag? It is useful, you say? Could be sold to
farmers?”

“Yes, sir, very handy stuff!”

“I have a damned great heap of it, getting in the
way and growing every year at Roberts – my iron foundry, in Lancashire. I must
send a note to my managers to make enquiries in the farming areas. Now, then –
rotations, dung and the like – what else?”

“A stock book – a record, sir, of every animal -
weight, how much milk they produce, how well they breed, how healthy or sickly
they may be – so that the farmer will know which must be permitted to breed and
which must be culled in order to improve his herds and flocks. As well, sir,
there are new tools invented almost every year – new ploughs, seed drills,
harrows, dung carts even – and the Model Farm should always have the best, so
that the tenants can see what they should buy when the time comes. Also, sir,
it is often the case that the estate will breed its own heavy horses or
Berkshire hogs or German cattle that the tenants can buy, or which may be sold
to other estates in the neighbourhood – to the benefit of its name, of course.”

“It will cost, then.”

“Undoubtedly, sir, not less than a thousand in the
first setting-up, more in following years, breaking even in five or ten, I
expect. As well, sir, I shall have to gee-up Newton, the farmer, on a daily
basis – not the most enterprising of men, sir, on a good day, that is.”

“I suspect it must be done, Quillerson, but we shall
have to watch the costs – I do not like open commitments with no more than a
guess of what they will demand of my funds. My name is not Rockingham! A full
budget with an indication of cash demands and dates.”

Tom saw the blank expression, settled down with pen
and paper for a few minutes of brief explanation, not unhappy to display a
knowledge that the young man lacked. He was a bright, quick learner, thought
that he could produce an outline of what would be required, said that he would
come back with his first proposals in two or three days.

Just before five o’clock, Tom strolled out to the
stableyard, finding his way by following his ears; at least forty men and women
and twice as many catcalling children were farewelling Smythe and Daniel; he
leant quietly in the shade of the doorway to watch and listen.

The insults and abuse were unoriginal, he had hear
them all before, though the one about the pigs was quite entertainingly
expressed; they seemed to revolve around a pair of themes – Smythe was a thief
and a swindler who had had his hands in everybody’s pockets, down to deductions
from the servants’ wages as ‘fines’ for breakages, and that he had been free
with his hands, a bully clipping the girls’ ears, a dirty old man grabbing
their bottoms. Where jobs were few and far between it was a brave girl who made
a fuss over anything short of rape, Tom reflected, more especially when her
father worked for the estate and needed to keep his tied cottage and his weekly
wage. He scowled at a pair of children selecting suitably squishy horse apples
– better to keep things short of riot; ‘very useful, that scar’, he thought as
the two little boys fled in horror.

He ate in solitary splendour at the great table in
the large dining-room, attended by Morton the butler, taking a single glass of
wine with his goose, one of port afterwards, serving notice that he was the
lightest of drinkers – all in the house please note! He asked Morton to send a
message to cook, telling her what an excellent dinner it was, how much he had
enjoyed it.

“What can you tell me of our neighbours, Morton?”

“You will be seen as superior to most, because of
the size of the estate and having an income twice theirs, except for Major
Hunt, and his money is in the Funds to a great extent, not in land, and the
bulk of them will make calls upon you. You will, of course, leave cards with
the Marquis.”

“The Marquis?”

“Grafham, sir – he owns most of the land between
here and Thrapston, though much of it is unenclosed and the bulk of the rest
encumbered by debt. Not a rich gentleman, sir, mainly, one understands, due to
his father’s predilection for the Turf – which has been inherited, I hear, by
his son, the Viscount. The Marquis took over only a few years ago, being
unfortunate in that his father was long-lived; I am told that he sold a stables
at Newmarket and upwards of two score of blood-horses kept there, as well as
disposing of almost all of the stud at the manor here. The Marquis has three
sons and two daughters, all unwed; the heir, young Viscount Rothwell, resides
in London, while the second son is a lieutenant at sea and the third is a
schoolboy still. Both daughters are out.”

Tom nodded – courtesy demanded he should make a
call, but they were socially much superior to him and he would expect to make
no further contact with the family except on matters of business such as the
upkeep of roads and parish affairs.

“Major Hunt will make a morning call, sir, probably
tomorrow – he is punctilious in the extreme in the fulfilment of his duties –
and he will see this call as nothing other than duty, unless you can bring him
onto friendly terms. He has but one arm, having been wounded in America in the
last war – I suspect he experiences pain, more or less occasionally. He has a
small estate, only two farms, less than one thousand acres between them, but he
is very well-off, I believe, due to his mother marrying very late in life and
failing to survive her only childbed, her portion, which was very large,
falling entirely to the heir as a result.”

Normal practice was for younger sons and daughters
to inherit their mother’s portion, patrimony going exclusively to the eldest
son.

“The major is married, sir, has two sons, both away
at school; his wife is sister to Mr Parker, your third neighbour to the east.
He is unwed, and rumour insists that he will remain that way – but any
gentleman who has no wife will be said to have inclinations, sir – that is the
way of the countryside. He is Master of the hunt and will, no doubt, be
interested to discover whether you intend to mount your own pack, as was Mr
Rockingham’s avowed purpose.”

“A thousand a year, they tell me, even a local pack
will cost.”

“I would imagine so, sir. Mr Rockingham was a man of
large ambitions and intended to cut a figure in the county.”

“Mr Rockingham was a fool, Morton. I am not. I
believe – I know in fact – that I am richer by a very large degree than Mr
Rockingham ever was, but I would think twice before I committed another
thousand a year from my income. In this case, however, I will not need to think
more than once – there will be no foxhounds here, Morton!”

“Very wise, sir. Might I venture to suggest that a
subscription to the hunt would be very well received?”

“The estate is expected to do so, I presume?”

“It always did, sir – even the last generation of
the Quillers, who were very devout and more interested in paying for masses for
each others’ souls, kept up that tradition.”

“What is the correct amount to offer, Morton?”

“One hundred per annum, sir.”

“It will be done. What about to our west, are there
many of the gently-born there?”

“None who visit in this area, sir. The manor is
owned by the Devonshires, who live elsewhere, as no doubt you know, sir.

Tom did not know, listened in silence while Morton
explained that the Devonshires owned land all over England, were the most
powerful single family in the country, most governments, Whig and Tory alike,
tending to have one half or more of their ministers belonging in some way to
the clan – they were not to be seen in rural areas, certainly did not visit
mere neighbours.

“The villagers, sir, in Finedon, are mostly small
tradesmen into cordwaining and iron. There is a doctor there and an attorney
resident, a few spinster ladies inhabiting cottages in genteel poverty, a
half-pay naval captain retired as far from the sea as he can get as well – none
who would presume to visit, sir.”

“Iron?”

“Very small, sir – not your sort of thing at all.
Charcoal, one understands, forges rather than foundries. There is no canal,
sir, and hence no way to bring coke to the iron mines or to transport iron ore
to the coal mines.”