Did the defiant Miss Grey Gown come under that heading? She had undoubtedly saved the childs life and, in his opinion, its mother should not be the only one who was grateful because his father, as Master of the Hunt, should also give thanks that his dogs and horses had not trampled the little one to death. Had he even been aware of her or the child as he hurtled through the garden after the dogs?
And what on earth had the woman meant by saying I intend to make it my business? It sounded like a threat, but how could a mere nobody, who could not be more than five and twenty, threaten someone like the Earl of Warburton? Miles was suddenly and inexplicably afraid for her.
He was walking his horse, deep in thought, and did not at first notice the man sitting on the milestone on the edge of the village. His attention was drawn to him when he stood up and took a step towards him, his hand outstretched. My lord
Miles pulled up. The man was in rags and painfully thin. Byers, isnt it? he queried, not sure the vision who confronted him could be the big strong man who had once been employed as a gardener at Ravens Park.
Yes, my lord.
What happened to you, man?
I came back from the war and there was no work to be had and my wife and children had gone to live with her sister. Will you give a coin or two to tide me over and help feed my little ones, my lord?
Miles could tell how difficult it was for him to beg.
Why did you not go back to Ravens Park when you were discharged? he asked.
The Earl had given my place to someone else, the cottage, too. He would not take me on again.
I am sorry to hear that.
I was a good worker, Byers went on. No one ever found fault with what I did; I served my time for king and country and thats all the thanks I get for it.
I can understand your bitterness, Miles said. But the garden at Ravens Park could not wait on your return, you know. And gardeners expect to be housed. He paused. Did you see the hunt come through just now?
Yes, nigh on bowled me over, it did. Why do you ask?
It ran over Mrs Watsons garden and wrecked it. If you go and put it right for her, Ill pay you. Better than begging, dont you think?
Yes, my lord.
Off you go, then. When its done, come to the house and ask for me. Ill have your wages for you.
The man touched his forelock and Miles trotted on towards Ravens Park. Jack Byers wasnt the only one unemployed in the area. There were other ex-soldiers begging on the streets and they were adding to the agricultural labourers who were out of work on account of the dreadful weather ruining the crops. Times were bad for everyone, especially in a countryside that depended on farming for a living. He ought to try to do something to help, but what? Handing out money was not the answer.
He shook the problem from him as he cantered up the drive towards the house. His father, who had been Viscount Cavenham at the time, had had it built just before he was born, to replace an older building that had fallen into disrepair. It was meant to celebrate his marriage and his earldom. Miless mother, Dorothea, only daughter of Earl Graine, was a catch for any man because of her ancient lineage, far superior to that of the Cavenhams. She was beautiful but frail and completely dominated by her husband. He was not physically violent towards her, but his tongue lashings often left her in tears. Miles loved his mother dearly and wished she would learn to stand up for herself. But he understood why she did not. She had been brought up in a culture in which the husband was head of the household and should be deferred to in all things and it distressed her when Miles argued with his father.
Their disagreements were usually over the way the Earl treated his people. He was like a petty king whose subjects were expected to bend the knee and obey his commands under pain of destitution. That only worked so far; sooner or later the people would rise up and rebel. Miles had seen what had happened in the army if an officer ruled by fear. It did not make for a happy and willing force, whereas justice tempered with mercy and a willingness to share in the mens hardship worked wonders for morale.
The last straw had been when Miles had defended the boot boy from a beating on account of his lordships boots not being as shiny as he thought they should be. He had suffered the beating instead of the lad, which he did not regret, but as soon as he was old enough he had left home to join the army. He had come home to find his mother even more cowed than before and was shocked by how frail she seemed. Many a time he had bitten his tongue on a sharp retort for her sake. But it would be difficult to keep silent about the way Mrs Watson and Jack Byers had been treated.
Helen was taking her leave of Mrs Watson when Jack arrived to say he had been bidden to set her garden to rights.
Who bade you do it? Mrs Watson asked.
The Viscount. He said he would pay me.
Then hes not as black as hes painted.
Its no more than youre due, Helen put in. But it should have been the Earl who ordered it.
Dont matter who ordered it, Byers said. Im glad enough of the work, though it wont get me my old job back.
Why did you lose your job? Helen asked.
I went to war. It werent as if I wanted to go, but the Earl hinted that if his son went, then I should not lag behind. Id be a coward if I did. And then when I come back, my job had gone to someone else and the cottage with it. My wife and family had been turned out and gone to live with her sister in Warburton. Shes only got a small house and theyre cramped for room. Ive been sleeping out o doors.
You put my garden to rights and you can sleep in my outhouse, Mrs Watson said. Its dry and theres straw for a bed. Ill give you a blanket.
Thank you kindly, maam.
Ill come back tomorrow and see how you got on, Helen said as she bade them goodbye.
She would ask Jack Byers to tell his story and she would talk to other ex-soldiers; she would have something to say about the Earl and his guests riding roughshod over other peoples gardens and their feelings. It would fill a page of the Warburton Record and perhaps she could stir up some influential consciences. She was already composing the article in her head as she walked the three miles back to Warburton.
Warburton was a bustling little market town with two churches, a chapel, a mill, a public school for those who could afford to send their children there and a dame school for those who could not. It had two doctors: Dr Graham, who looked after the elite who could afford his fees, and Dr Benton, who treated everyone else. The town also had a blacksmith, a farrier, a harness maker who also made and mended shoes, a butcher and provisions shop, a small haberdasher and the Warburton printing press, home of the Warburton Record, which was where Helen was bound.
The business occupied a building in the centre of the town. There was an office at the front and the printing press in a room at the back. Helen lived in an apartment above the shop with only Betty, her maid, for company. A sign hanging above the door proclaimed, H. Wayland, publisher and printer. Proprietor of the Warburton Record. All printing tasks undertaken, large and small. The H. stood for Henry, of course, but it also served for Helen so she saw no reason to change it.
The business occupied a building in the centre of the town. There was an office at the front and the printing press in a room at the back. Helen lived in an apartment above the shop with only Betty, her maid, for company. A sign hanging above the door proclaimed, H. Wayland, publisher and printer. Proprietor of the Warburton Record. All printing tasks undertaken, large and small. The H. stood for Henry, of course, but it also served for Helen so she saw no reason to change it.
A bell tinkled as she opened the door and let herself in. At a desk to one side young Edgar Harrington was busy writing. Helen went to look over his shoulder. He was composing a report on recent court hearings.
Committed to Warburton Bridewell for twelve months, she read. John Taylor for stealing a pig from Joseph Boswell, farmer of Littleacre near Warburton. And again. For stealing a peck of wheat from the barn at Home Farm, Ravensbrook, Daniel Cummings was sentenced to six months in gaol. There were several cases of poaching brought by the gamekeeper at Ravens Park. All had been found guilty and been sentenced to varying degrees of punishment, from prison to transportation, which Helen thought unduly harsh. No doubt the Earl, who controlled his fellow magistrates, had demanded they be made an example of. But if the poor men were hungry and had hungry families, who could blame them if they took a rabbit or two, or even a pig? It was different for the organised gangs, who came from the big cities to sell their ill-gotten gains to willing buyers. Those she condemned.
She moved through to the back room where Tom Salter was typesetting. Tom was in his middle years and had been working for the Record ever since Helens father moved to Warburton eight years before. He was good at his job, though Helen suspected he had reservations about working for a woman. He looked up as she entered. A Mr Roger Blakestone came in while you were out, Miss Wayland. He wants us to print that poster. He nodded to a large sheet of paper lying on another table. I said Id have to ask you. It could get us into trouble.
Helen picked the poster up and perused it. It was notice of a rally to demonstrate the plight of the agricultural labourers, which was to take place on the common the following Saturday afternoon at half past two. The speaker will be Jason Hardacre, it declared in large capital letters.
She understood why Tom was doubtful about accepting the job. Jason Hardacre was a known firebrand who went from town to town, urging workers to stand up to their employers and strike for more wages. He stirred up unrest wherever he went, inciting his followers to violence against the farmers, whom he called the oppressors, although the farmers were struggling to keep going themselves. He had had some initial success, but the labourers were too worried about losing their positions to support him wholeheartedly, especially when there were plenty of men ready to step into their shoes if they were dismissed. Publishing such a poster could be construed as seditious and the publisher liable to prosecution.
How many does he want printed? she asked.
Half a gross.
Print them.
Im busy putting the paper together.
Leave that. Ive something new to put on the front page. Ill write it now and have it ready in an hour. You can do that poster in the meantime.
Miss Wayland, are you sure? You know how Mr Wayland was always in trouble for taking on work like that. The Earl had him prosecuted more than once, as well you know.
Yes, Tom, I do know. But my father was never afraid to do what he thought was right, even if it meant he was in trouble for it. He did not see why the Earl should dictate what he published and neither do I.
Very well, Tom answered and set aside the page he was typesetting to begin on the poster.
The newspaper consisted of two large folded sheets and was on sale by lunchtime every Wednesday and Saturday. Helen kept the front for her own reports and for court announcements from the London papers. Her readers liked to know what the Regent and the nobility were up to in London. They wanted to know who had been granted a peerage, who had been made a knight and they keenly awaited a résumé of what was being said in Parliament. Earlier in the month she had copied the report of Princess Charlottes wedding to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. It had been a joyous occasion in an otherwise miserable year.
The back page was almost all given over to advertisements: comestibles, livestock, agricultural implements and quack medicines. The inside pages were filled with local news: a farmers stack set on firethere had been several instances of arson lately, which were put down to the unrest among the labourersa newcomer of note moving into the district, unusual happenings in the town, reports of the magistrates sittings, who had been convicted, who let off with a caution for anything from petty theft and criminal damage to poaching and assault.
Helen skimmed through the latest notices of births, marriages, obituaries and coming events. Josiah Bird-wood had died, aged seventy-six. He had been married three times and sired thirty children. Donations and prizes were needed for the races and various contests for the Midsummer Fair, held on the common every year. The Earl and Countess of Warburton and Viscount Cavenham would grace it with their presence and judge some of the competitions. There was to be a dance at the Warburton Assembly Rooms to celebrate the first anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. Lord and Lady Somerfields daughter, Miss Verity Somerfield, was to come out with a grand ball to be held at their ancestral home at Gayton Hall.
Helen took off her bonnet and sat at her desk to report the hunt and the destruction it had caused.
Gilbert Cavenham, first Earl of Warburton, flung the newspaper on the table and swore loudly. I thought Id rid myself of that thorn in my side, he said to Miles. But it seems his daughter is bent on continuing where he left off.
What do you mean? Miles asked. What thorn in your side? Whose daughter?
Henry Wayland. He owned the Warburton Record and was always publishing libel. I had to bring him to court on more than one occasion, but neither fines nor prison seemed to deter him. Now hes dead, Im getting the same sort of rubbish from his daughter. Whoever heard of a woman running a newspaper?
Why not? Miles said. I suppose she inherited it and had no other way to support herself.
I doubt shell carry it off. An appearance in court will soon dampen her ardour.
What has she said to annoy you so much?
Read it for yourself. He picked up the paper and waved it at his son. Libel, thats what it is, defamation of character. She needs to be taught she cannot ridicule me and get away with it.
Miles was busy reading and hardly heard him. It was all he could do not to smile. The lady, whoever she was, had a witty turn of phrase. The noble lord, in order to please his guests, literally left no stone unturned, he read. Everything was ordered for their entertainment. The hunt hallooed its way over hill and dale, down lanes and across fields, chasing a fox that had surely been especially selected to give the most sport. Reynard led them a merry dance into the village of Ravensbrook, scattering the population and trampling down the small garden of a poor widow and putting her baby son in mortal danger. The excuse given by the only rider who deigned to pull up was, The dogs follow the fox and the riders follow the dogs. So we must blame the fox and no one else. But can a fox put right the damage that was done? Can the fox reset the rows of beans and peas? Can the fox revive dead chickens? Or still a childs crying? Does killing the erring animal exact just retribution?