The Vivian Inheritance Read online

  THE VIVIAN INHERITANCE

  The Brief Chronicles

  Book Three

  Jean Stubbs

  To the first seven years

  and the last twenty-one.

  Forget not to shew love unto strangers:

  for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

  — The Epistle of Paul to the Hebrews, xiii. 2.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE: LEGACIES, 1815-1818

  ONE: VICTORY

  TWO: THE CORNISHMAN

  THREE: NEWS

  FOUR: DEEP WORKINGS

  FIVE: DISASTER

  SIX: A DIGAN FOR THE BUCCA

  SEVEN: DESIGNS

  EIGHT: ON THE EVE

  NINE: THE LOCKED HEART

  PART TWO: ALLIANCES, 1820-1825

  TEN: RESURRECTION

  ELEVEN: PLAYING GAMES

  TWELVE: FATHER AND DAUGHTER

  THIRTEEN: THE WYNDENDALE RAILWAY

  FOURTEEN: COMING OUT

  FIFTEEN: PICKS, SHOVELS AND GUNPOWDER

  SIXTEEN: A FINE LADY UPON A WHITE HORSE

  SEVENTEEN: A GREAT OCCASION

  PART THREE: DESTINATIONS, 1826-1829

  EIGHTEEN: NEW GROWTH

  NINETEEN: VICTORS AND VANQUISHED

  TWENTY: A BREATH OF FRESH AIR

  TWENTY-ONE: AN END AND A BEGINNING

  TWENTY-TWO: ALL ABOARD!

  TWENTY-THREE: MANY A SPOILED BREAKFAST

  TWENTY-FOUR: GRAND DESIGNS

  MORE BOOKS BY JEAN STUBBS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PART ONE: LEGACIES, 1815-1818

  ONE: VICTORY

  June 1815

  Bells, bells, bells, bells. They are ringing in every town and village throughout the country, for the long war with France is over and won, the Duke of Wellington is England’s hero, and the field of Waterloo will stamp its name upon all future decisive contests.

  For the past four years, poor mad King George the Third has been declared unfit to govern, and frequently restrained by a straitjacket. So the stout Regent, though no more fit to govern than his father, and regularly constrained by a corset, will preside over the ensuing scenes of drunkenness and gluttony. His subjects, loyal and disloyal, have forgotten their differences in order to celebrate the occasion. Maypoles are being taken down and repainted, weathercocks freshly gilded, banners and flags set flying from window and steeple. Poor folk and rich will dance in their finery. Every guild will decorate a cart to join the local procession. Travelling professionals, combining loyalty with profit, will walk high wires, tumble and juggle, tell fortunes, sell sweetmeats and novelties and infallible medicines. For those who take their amusements violently, there will be dog and cock fights, boxing and wrestling matches, bull and bear baiting. Beggars will exhibit their sores, and freaks their monstrousness. At every inn, drinkers will sing ‘God Save the King’ as long as they can form the words and carry the tune. Bell-ringers, restored by ale at intervals, will pull their arms and shoulders into a multitude of aches, and before the day is done are certain to distort the changes. From head to foot, this jubilant island will be all beer and bonfires.

  In Wyndendale, Lancashire, the very essence of this triumph was distilled at the end of June in the year 1815. Lord Kersall, as titular head of the valley, had thrown open that part of his private grounds which he reserved for important public events. Every local squire and personage of any note in the nine-mile length of Wyndendale was treating his servants and dependants to food and fun of some sort. But down in the iron realms of Cunshurst, Upperton and Snape, the ironmaster had bested everyone as he always did.

  The medieval market town of Millbridge was the valley’s acknowledged capital, and its growth had absorbed a village or two in the last fifty years, but it was not as large even now as William Howarth’s iron kingdom. Indeed, the Borough Council were thinking of renaming that vast district, which once was nothing but mean farms, millstone grit and water. The question of its baptism was only one of many thoughts which preoccupied the ironmaster. At ten o’clock that summer morning, he was standing at the windows of the long library in Kingswood Hall, arms folded and brow dark, trying out names and looking down at the small public park he had recently given to his people.

  ‘Kingsfield?’ he asked himself softly. ‘Kingsmere? Kingshill?’

  A warm white hand upon his sleeve reminded him of present duties. He met his wife’s dark gold eyes with some anxiety. Did she love him? he wondered. Were he to ask her outright, she would reassure him. But the tranquillity of Zelah Howarth’s body and mind, the quiet joy which illumined her face upon occasion, owed little to the ironmaster and much to God. For she had long since found her Maker to be more reliable than her husband, and sensibly invested her trust in Him instead.

  ‘The solicitor hath been here above half an hour, love,’ she said without reproof, ‘and all the family is waiting for thee.’

  ‘What, is brother Dick come on time for once?’ asked William.

  His tone was rich, good-humoured, pleasantly bullying: the tone of a man who treats everyone as his equal but reminds them they are not.

  ‘With all his brood?’ cried the ironmaster, smiling broadly to show that he did not mind his brother siring five boys and two girls, while he himself had only daughters. ‘In the farm wagon?’ Laughing uproariously at the thought of such a spectacle.

  Even at fifty, his teeth were still sound and good. He was the handsomest of men, all black and grey like the metal he commanded, and the fire in his heart and belly was as hot and true as the fires in his many furnaces. But his wife’s Quaker upbringing forbade her to join in such mockery of honest folk.

  ‘If thou art ashamed of his wagon, thee should have sent a carriage,’ she replied coolly, and her tone reminded him that this was no occasion for mirth.

  Humbly he bent his head in acquiescence, proffered his arm, led his wife forth. What a mansion he had built, on expectations long since fulfilled, on self-belief long tried and proven. Yes, Kingshill, he thought suddenly, for that brings in the whole of the slope and echoes the name of the house. So ironmaster and lady paced the stately hall and stood in the doorway of the dining room. Their hospitality was a form of grace, and their guests rose as if for royalty. William inspected them, chin resting on his starched collar, black silk stock well in evidence.

  To his left, uncomfortable on their gilt and satin chairs, were the Howarths of Kit’s Hill: Dick and Alice, both ruddy and thickset, surrounded by seven little rustics in dyed mourning and with an eighth imminent. William smiled benevolently.

  To his right, his niece Cicely, her husband the Reverend Jarvis Pole, and their four children: gentlefolk but poor. He smiled sympathetically.

  Turning towards him gravely, his nephew Ambrose Longe, bachelor and London journalist: thin, brown and over-intelligent. William inclined his head a little.

  In the background as always, Caleb Scholes the Younger, Zelah’s brother and William’s former partner in Belbrook Foundry, now sole owner of that same ironworks: a small affair devoted to the production of domestic utensils, further up the valley. A hearty nod from the ironmaster, befitting both relationships.

  Facing him, Nicodemus Hurst, respectable family solicitor of Millbridge. William extended a cool hand, which was briefly shaken.

  Then five of his seven fair daughters came forward to embrace him, for he liked to be seen to be adored. His eldest, Tabitha, could not be with them. She had married almost a year ago and was shortly expecting her first infant. His youngest, Ruth, scarcely sixteen months old, was in her nursery.

  One other member of the Howarth family was missing: his sister Charlotte, who had died under peculiar and distressing circumstances and whose Will was about t
o be read.

  The ironmaster handed his wife to her seat at the foot of the dining table, and enthroned himself at its head. Mr Hurst, on his right-hand, cleared his throat in a pernickety fashion. His little sheaf of papers rattled in the collective silence.

  The mahogany surface mirrored twenty-five attentive faces. Their images were pensive, pale, thrown into relief by the night of their clothes, testifying to the depth of their grief. The ironmaster’s countenance became wintry, bleak, as he listened to the opening words.

  ‘This is the Last Will and Testament of Charlotte Sophia Longe of Thornton House, Millbridge, Lancashire, Widow of Tobias Longe, late of Lock-yard, London…’

  William pursed his lips against affliction, for she had been his only sister, his earliest friend, his closest confidante, his greatest embarrassment, and still remained an enigma to himself and everyone present. He saw his pained disbelief in her death reflected by each adult, for all had loved Charlotte and none had understood her — except perhaps that political idiot Jack Ackroyd, who had been hanged, drawn and quartered for their joint treason almost three years ago.

  ‘…I, being on the Eve of Transportation for the Term of Seven Years Hard Labour to New South Wales and in Delicate Health and therefore not Expecting to Survive the Rigours of my Sentence and yet Trusting in the Mercy of Almighty God…’

  On the eve of transportation, and what an eve! Her lover executed in the most diabolical manner, though stoical, just that one shout as he felt life torn from him and he from it. Her mother Dorcas Howarth, dead of grief within a fortnight of the sentence being passed. Her family disgraced. Herself turned grey almost overnight. And then those months aboard the convict hulk, so aptly named Retribution, until the Christmas of 1812, while they awaited the completion of necessary work on the Isabella. The ironmaster had done what he could, but even power and money can penetrate only so far. And Charlotte was already weak and ailing in body, sick with grief.

  The full details of her voyage had been culled from a reliable source, but William decided not to confide them to anyone but Zelah. The prison quarters wet, close, stinking of ragged and sick convicts. The storms which delayed the already delayed voyage. Outbreaks of fever and scurvy. Even attempted mutiny by the men. For which three were flogged to death. Well, not exactly flogged to death for that was not permitted, but they had all died after their floggings. By the time the ship docked in Botany Bay in the autumn of 1813 Charlotte was carried out on a stretcher, and the women convicts were sent off into the interior, taking their sick and dying with them. This painful news had come painfully back by the same long road, to reach them when England rejoiced at last.

  Poor lass! Poor Charlotte! Gently-bred and gentle of nature. It was all the fault of that ranting radical Fleet Street hack Toby Longe. His sins had lived after him, and his widow had paid for them.

  ‘…I leave my home of the past twenty years to my son, Ambrose Longe, to do with as he pleases…’

  Thornton House had been in the family, on Dorcas’s side, since it was built in the reign of Queen Anne. What would the fellow do with it? Sell it and take the proceeds back to London with him, probably! That would be a minor scandal. Far better to put good tenants in it, draw the rent and keep it together, as William himself had done so far in case Charlotte returned. Still, no reason for that now. And yet, and yet.

  ‘…my two small private incomes, inherited from my great-aunt Tabitha Wilde and my Dearest Mother Dorcas Howarth, whom God hath Safe in his Keeping, to my daughter Cicely Pole…’

  Now that was a different kettle of fish altogether. Cicely was a tender-hearted young woman. Very like Charlotte to outward view, but happily not of Charlotte’s political persuasion. See those tears, never too far from the surface and ready to spring with compassion? She had chosen a good husband in Jarvis, or rather Dorcas had chosen him. And, sorrow notwithstanding, that income would make a difference to them. Not a great deal. Perhaps fifty pound a year, all told. But a needy clergyman would find it a small fortune. He must advise them on better investment. And with poor Lottie dead and that Luddite scandal buried with her, Jarvis Pole stood a fair chance of becoming rector of St Mark’s in Millbridge. Old Robert Graham was swollen and lame with dropsy. A preaching piss-pot, as someone unkindly said. Give him a couple of years at most, and the living could be slipped from uncle to nephew, without a word spoken. Jarvis would be a better rector than old Robert in every way. He was a better man.

  ‘…and All my Capital to be Held in Trust for my Grandchildren and the Interest to be spent upon their Education until they be of such Age as to Inherit…’

  For once, Nick Hurst and he had seen eye to eye on the subject of capital. Given Charlotte’s former circumstances there would have been none, but Dorcas’s death had made her quite a wealthy woman. Comfortably placed, as folk said. And they could not let that spendthrift son of hers whim it away. Aye, Ambrose might well curl his lip. He knew what they had been at!

  ‘…to my Good Friend and Servant of many years, Polly Slack, the sum of One Hundred Pounds…’

  Polly would be well advised to invest that money before Ambrose parted her from it. William would tell Nick Hurst to hold the legacy until he had had a word with her. He remembered Polly first entering the Longe household when Ambrose was born, back in ’85. And the girl had been with them through thick and thin, and mostly thin, ever since. To give Ambrose his due, he had taken Polly back to London with him after the trial, to keep house for him. House! Some scurvy rooms near the Fleet, William supposed. Anyway, they were as thick as thieves together. He supposed it was not his business if Polly chose to hand over her legacy to Ambrose. William had suspected her of knowing more about Charlotte’s political activities, and of the Jack Ackroyd affair, than she admitted. Though the authorities had questioned her pretty sharply, and got nothing for their pains or hers. Stupid, they had said. William was not at all convinced of that.

  ‘…to my physician, Dr Hamish Standish … to my brother-in-law, Caleb Scholes…’

  Remembrances, small but in excellent taste, for past kindnesses to Charlotte and her two children. Kindnesses! Either man would have married her at the drop of a hat, any time in the past twenty years. Come to that, Nick Hurst had been sweet on Charlotte too. She had probably given him his memento when he visited her professionally in Lancaster Jail, to draw up the Will.

  All three men had courted her, and she had kept them graciously at arm’s length. Penelope and her Suitors, Ambrose had dubbed them. He had a neat wit. Well, he needed wit, he lived by it! Oh, granted, none of those gentleman callers was a brilliant light, but they were all decent men in decent professions. Lottie could have been a beloved wife instead of Jack Ackroyd’s mistress. She could have become a respected member of the community instead of a felon. Dear God, what had she seen in Jack Ackroyd? A misfit, if ever William met one. Son of a weaver, adopted son of an academic, with a head full of radical rubbish and a mouth full of Latin quotations. And he had lived two lives: one as headmaster of Millbridge Grammar School, the other as Charlotte’s lover and political accomplice. Well, he had got his deserts. Hanged, drawn and quartered. And serve the damned chap right!

  An ornament here, a picture there, a particular set of books elsewhere. That was like Charlotte, who could abstract herself for hours and days, and then become thoughtful and tender in a moment. He could see her clearly: not sorrowful and grey in her chains as she had been at Lancaster Jail, but dry of wit, warm of humour, teasing, magically aware. Lottie. Lottie.

  The ironmaster’s eyes were bright with tears. His throat ached.

  ‘…and to my niece and god-daughter, Mary Charlotte Howarth of Kit’s Hill, Garth Fell, Lancashire, my gold locket…’

  Which was Mary? He scanned Dick’s row of children. Ah, Mary, of course. The elder girl. That thin red-headed lass with the pale skin and sulky mouth. Wherever had she got such unfortunate colouring? The Howarths were all wheaten, the Wildes glossy as crows. Probably from her mother’s side. Ali
ce, formerly Braithwaite-Wharmby, the nut-brown maid from Windygate farm. Now fifteen years a wife, and neither nut-brown nor maid any longer!

  ‘…in WITNESS Whereof I have hereunto set my Hand to this my Will this ninth day of September, 1812…’

  Craning his head slightly, William could see the fine Italian hand, adopted by Charlotte from her mother Dorcas, stalking across the page. So that was that.

  Noiselessly, the ironmaster’s secretary entered the dining room to stand unobtrusively by the long doors. His manner and timing were perfect: two of the reasons why William employed him.

  The meeting was moving gently to its close when eight-year-old Mary Howarth suddenly burst into a passion of tears. Everyone started out of the trance induced by Mr Hurst’s modulated voice. Alice, unable to reach her daughter, scolded her in whispers to behave herself. Dick Howarth, scarlet with embarrassment and grief, lifted and dropped his hands helplessly, torn between loyalty to wife and child.

  At a sign from Zelah, up rose the ironmaster’s second daughter, Catherine, a silvery girl of seventeen summers, and bore the small mourner away to be dried and comforted. The secretary, standing courteously to one side, managed to convey disapproval of the lapse without seeming disrespectful. The assembly, as though given permission, was fractured with coughs and comments.

  ‘Our Mary,’ said Dick in explanation, ‘were right fond of our Lottie.’

  ‘Mary weeps for us all, my dear,’ said Zelah kindly, and made everything well again.

  The ironmaster cleared his throat and consulted his silver watch. Majestically, he crossed the room and pulled a bell-rope: watched by all eyes. Servants appeared, and opened white-and-gold doors to the rooms beyond.

  ‘Shall we take refreshment together?’ asked Zelah, smiling.

  William was walking away from them. His secretary hurried at his side, reading out the programme of the day, which began with a public ceremony in Snape Market Place at one o’clock, when the ironmaster was to carve the first slices of roast ox and order the festivities to begin. His part in this family proceeding was now over. His wife would see that their guests were watered and fed. He was free to put away the thought of death, to get on with the business of the world about him. His love and grief for Charlotte were sincere, but the moment was all. Effortlessly, he wiped his sister from his mind.