Brothers at Arms Read online

  BROTHERS AT ARMS

  JEMIMA BRIGGES

  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.

  Matador

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  ISBN 978 1784626 549

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Typeset in 11pt Aldine by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part 2

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Acknowledgements

  To my late father, George Ernest Bradley, the youngest great-grandson of the real Jemima Brigges (1753 – 1814)

  Author’s note

  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.

  PART 1

  BROTHERS AT ARMS

  (1794 -1801)

  CHAPTER 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.”

  “Why the mail coach, Tom?” She grumbled. “It is ridiculous. If you must go, then take our coach and travel in comfort. Pontesbury will insist on it.”

  Tom knew that she spoke the truth about her husband’s kindly nature. It wasn’t every gentleman who would house his brother-in-law without complaint, for months on end every year, thus rendering the need for separate accommodation unnecessary. Living with them was the only thing that made London bearable.

  “Because this is one occasion when I need speed, not comfort, Winifred. Can you imagine me urging your coachman to spring the horses, or to put ’em along?”

  “No, of course not, for Pontesbury never allows him to do any such thing, but you must know that living in Town is different to the country,” she said with a sigh. “I used to love to drive fast. Do you remember the wild curricle races we had with Jack in the park at Linmore? They were such fun…” Her voice broke. “I do so miss him… even now.”

  Tom felt similarly choked, as he provided her with a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Yes,” he said. “We were young and life was different. That is why I have to go home, Winifred. Our brother’s daughters are all that we have left of him. Now, two more children need help, but this time they are Jane’s kindred.”

  “I suppose that you are right.” Winifred sniffed indecorously, as she struggled to compose herself. “But it would not do for Lord Cardington to hear that Kate is supposedly ill, and for his wife not to be told. The first person he will harass is me.”

  Tom had forgotten Jane’s second sister, Clarissa.

  “I think that you are well able to deal with Humphrey Cardington,” he said.

  “He is dreadfully arrogant, and I have often wished to give him a set down,” Winifred said in the tone of one relishing the prospect. “Now, there is much to be done before this evening. I will ask Foxton to procure your ticket, and then speak with the chef. You must dine early, for I am sure you will not have more than a few minutes to obtain food whilst in transit. I must also warn the stables that the Tilbury will be needed to take you wherever it is that you board the coach.”

  She bustled away, calling for her husband’s secretary.

  At seven o’clock, Tom was in Holborn, waiting to board the mail coach. Harnessed behind a team of four thoroughbred horses, its distinctive maroon door and lower panels contrasted effectively with its black upper panels, to create a mobile badge of office on four red wheels.

  Undoubtedly the fastest means of transport in the country, the mail coach had priority over other vehicles on the road, but unlike the common stage, there was room only for four passengers who paid a premium rate for the privilege.

  Standing slightly apart from the folk milling around, Tom Norbery looked what he was: a man of means, quiet and unassuming, gentle in the true sense. A tall man, not yet forty years of age, the excellence of his tailor did justice to a well-made form that showed no sign of stoutness. Even in repose, his aquiline profile gave him a natural hauteur, until his crooked smile came into play – but his grey eyes were sad, as if life had not been fair to him.

  Had he sought rank and position, he could have acquired it by crossing the floor of the Commons to the Government benches. Things might have been different if he had the right wife by his side and the right son to inherit his country estate. Until that far off day, he would keep his integrity intact and remain Mr Norbery of Linmore.

  Having placed his valise on the rack, Tom settled in a corner seat, knowing that it would be many hours before he reached his destination. He was glad of a reason to leave London before the summer heat and the smells made it untenable. At times like that, he wondered why he ever left Linmore.

  As the coach set off, he raised a hand in farewell to the Pontesbury groom waiting at the roadside, and the man touched his hat in response. He had checked his gold timepiece before he left Winifred’s carriage, and secured it in an inner pocket, not wishing to advertise it in his possession. One could not be too careful.

  There were three other male passengers of varying ages and walks of life – all similarly anonymous. They said little and for that Tom was grateful.

  While others dozed around him, he remained awake until the coach had safely crossed Hampstead Heath, and then let the swaying vehicle lull him to sleep. When daybreak came, he saw the Cotswold countryside through a mizzling rain that gradually cleared the further west they travelled.

  Conditions were cramped and the only stops permitted were for essential needs. A regular change of horses was achieved in minutes, and likewise the dropping off of mail at postal collecting houses in Oxford and Gloucester, where relief drivers took their turn at holding the reins. Then they were on their way again, thundering along the toll roads, with the guard blowing the horn to warn tollhouse keepers of their approach. Obtaining food was of secondary consideration.

  Tom was the only one of the original passengers to step down from the coach in Hereford the following evening. He felt bone tired, hungry and in dire need of a wash. But the knowledge that he was still thirty miles away from Linmore made him offer twice the normal charges to the postillions of a light travelling coach. Three teams of fresh horses later, the distant view of Linmore Hill in the glow of the setting sun brought tears to his eyes. He was almost home.

  The clock over the stables was chiming the hour of eleven when the hired coach, drawn by a team of four sweating horses, galloped up the long drive to Linmore Hall and came to a halt in front of the entrance. The groom climbed down from the box to lower the steps for his passenger to alight, and then reached into the interior for the gentleman’s valise, which he placed on the floor at his feet. A coin changed hands and within minutes, the coach had gone.

  Tom Norbery looked thankfully towards the welcoming glow of light in the reception hall as one of the footmen opened the front door to peer outside.

  “Good evening, Hayton,” he said. “Is Miss Littlemore still downstairs?”

  “Oh my goodness, it’s Mr Norbery,” the man said to someone unseen over his shoulder, and then turned back. “We didn’t expect to see you tonight, sir.”

  Having thoroughly confused the footman by his appearance, Tom was removing his travelling coat when his sister-in-law emerged from the library.

  At the sight of him, she looked astonished. “Tom,” she said. “How can you be here so quickly, when you must only just have received my letter?”

  He smiled, delighted by Jane’s surprise. Surely she must know he would come when she needed his help. “It arrived early yesterday afternoon; but rather than send a reply, I caught the overnight mail coach to Hereford.”

  “Oh, Tom, you should not,” she said, her eyes moist. “There was no need for such haste.”

  He caught h
er hand and raised it to his lips in greeting.

  “There was every need,” he said. “I was afraid you would set off without me.”

  “Yes,” she said, gripping his fingers. “The thought did occur to me, but then I realised how foolish it would be to write, and not wait for your response. I didn’t expect you to rush home.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Have you eaten, or would you like supper? The fire is still lit in the library.”

  He gave a yawn and stretched his aching limbs.

  “I forget what time we stopped to eat, but I think I could manage some bread, cheese and ham, or something similar.” In fact, he was ravenous.

  “Cuthbert,” she called to the footman. “Please bring a tray to the library for Mr Norbery.”

  “Yes, Miss Littlemore. I’ll be as quick as I can,” the young man said, eager to oblige.

  “Don’t rush, Hayton,” said Tom. “I need to wash my hands and face first.”

  Ten minutes later, he entered the library to find a side table, ready prepared with food, set on one side of the fire, next to his chair. Jane waved away the servants who would have stopped to assist, and when the door closed, she moved forward to receive the greeting that Tom saved for the privacy of his favourite room.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” she said, returning his embrace. “I didn’t know what else to do but send for you when I received the letter.”

  “Who else has the right and the duty to help you?”

  “No one,” she said with a special smile she reserved for him. Then she filled his plate with a selection of foods. Cold ham, freshly sliced from the bone, a portion of homemade Shropshire cheese, and a crust of bread liberally spread with creamy butter.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said. “That looks delicious, and more so because you prepared it. Now, I can see you are bursting to tell me the news, so if you wish to unburden yourself whilst I eat, I am happy to listen.”

  Instead, Jane poured a tankard of ale and set it at his right hand, before returning to her seat opposite him by the fire.