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    Man's Estate
    Man's Estate
    Man's Estate
    Ebook335 pages5 hours

    Man's Estate

    By Russell James

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    In late Victorian England, two fathers must choose between daughters and sons.
    Man’s Estate, the third in the Croome saga, takes place in 1893 when the story splits between lives in the growing town of Croome and the quite different life in the nearby Manor. Squire Lawrence’s four children are headed by the tall, proud, good-looking Riordan – but does he deserve to take over the Beauchamp estate? Is he a villain or merely a cad and bounder?
    His sister Maud is still unmarried, while his brother Clive, the budding poet, has invited the sparky Frances Vernon and her brother down from London. “If he invites that girl down here again,” thinks Riordan, “She’ll have to bring her parents. What a prospect: having to entertain the middle classes, marry into the middle classes.” Is Frances a suitable match for the unworldly Clive – and can she be more than a match for the raffish Riordan? And at a time of crisis, why does everyone ignore Maud?
    In nearby Croome meanwhile Nathan Brook, works foreman on a nearby speculative housing development, has welcomed home his eldest son Mervyn. He has been away at sea, he says, for several years – but what is his true story? Can he supplant his younger sister Megan in Nathan’s eyes? When Nathan finds Mervyn a job at the Manor, can he keep it? Can he hold down any job?
    In the space of less than three weeks both families, the Brooks and the Lawrences, find themselves confronted by different crises. Who among then will rise to the challenge? Who will fail?
    Man’s Estate is both a stand-alone novel and the third in the Croome saga – praised by the Historical Novel Society as “vividly described, historically accurate ... well written and impeccably researched.”

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRussell James
    Release dateMar 11, 2020
    ISBN9780463338162
    Man's Estate
    Author

    Russell James

    Russell has been a published writer for some 25 years, is an ex-Chairman of the Crime Writers Association, and has written a dozen and a half novels in the crime and historical genres. He has also published various non-fiction works, including 4 illustrated biographical encyclopaedias: Great British Fictional Detectives and its companion work, Great British Fictional Villains, followed by the Pocket Guide to Victorian Writers & Poets, and its companion, the Pocket Guide to Victorian Artists & Their Models. His books include: IN A TOWN NEAR YOU (Prospero) THE CAPTAIN'S WARD (Prospero) AFTER SHE DROWNED (Prospero) STORIES I CAN'T TELL (with Maggie King) (Prospero) THE NEWLY DISCOVERED DIARIES OF DOCTOR KRISTAL (Prospero) EXIT 39 (Prospero) RAFAEL'S GOLD (Prospero) THE EXHIBITIONISTS (G-Press) POCKET GUIDE TO VICTORIAN ARTISTS & MODELS (Pen & Sword) POCKET GUIDE TO VICTORIAN WRITERS & POETS (Pen & Sword) GREAT BRITISH FICTIONAL VILLAINS (Pen & Sword) GREAT BRITISH FICTIONAL DETECTIVES (Pen & Sword) THE MAUD ALLAN AFFAIR (Pen & Sword) MY BULLET SWEETLY SINGS (Prospero) REQUIEM FOR A DAUGHTER (Prospero) NO ONE GETS HURT (Do Not Press) PICK ANY TITLE (Do Not Press) THE ANNEX (Five Star Mysteries) PAINTING IN THE DARK (Do Not Press) OH NO, NOT MY BABY (Do Not Press) COUNT ME OUT (Serpent's Tail) SLAUGHTER MUSIC (Alison & Busby) PAYBACK (Gollancz) DAYLIGHT (Gollancz) UNDERGROUND (Gollancz)

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      Man's Estate - Russell James

      MAN’S ESTATE

      MAN’S ESTATE

      by

      Russell James

      MAN’S ESTATE

      first published 2020

      © Russell James 2020

      The right of Russell James to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by him Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

      All rights reserved.

      For more about the author check his website at

      http://russelljamesbooks.wordpress.com/

      Full-length novels by Russell James include:

      Underground

      Daylight

      Payback

      Slaughter Music

      Count me Out

      Oh No, Not My Baby

      Painting in the Dark

      Pick Any Title

      No One Gets Hurt

      The Annex

      The Maud Allan Affair

      Requiem for a Daughter

      Rafael’s Gold

      The Exhibitionists

      Exit 39

      The Newly Discovered Diaries of Doctor Kristal

      Stories I Can’t Tell

      Mother Naked

      After She Drowned

      The Captain’s Ward

      Works of non-fiction include:

      Victorian Artists and Their Models

      Victorian Writers and Poets

      Great British Fictional Detectives

      Great British Fictional Villains

      MAN’S ESTATE

      March 1893

      -1-

      The little railway station was new, barely a year old, yet already had a tired and uncared-for look. The platform had not been swept, the flowers in the trough had died, and although the lettering on the sign shone crisp and clear the ‘B’ in the middle of LONGBARROW was half hidden behind a grey-white cake of hardened birdshit. A wooden sign swung rustily on its chain. Trains stopped there only by request and on that particular afternoon the first to do so was at nearly three in the afternoon. As it lumbered reluctantly to a standstill it emitted impatient sighs of steam, snorting like a carthorse while passengers disgorged. Three passengers — three for this lonely forgotten spot, three for the dirty platform, three who had had asked specifically for Longbarrow Halt. Two of them travelled First Class, the other came in Third.

      Waiting for them on the platform were Jack Lewis, estate manager for Beauchamp Manor, and the coachman, Mr Iles. He was Bob Iles to Mr Lewis, but to Mr Riordan he was Iles. Riordan told him to fetch the bags. Lewis? Is something wrong?

      No, sir, I’ve come for the other gentleman.

      Riordan turned to see the third man, then turned back. Ah, staff?

      That’s right, sir.

      Mr Baron will come with me.

      Their words were lost as with a mighty groan and hiss of steam the engine shuddered and cranked into motion. The pistons punched, pulled back and punched again. Between the carriages the couplings tensed. Then with a hardly perceptible jerk the heavy train moved on its way and the man with Riordan stepped aside from it. Riordan didn’t move. Come on, Baron. He turned. Iles?

      Bob Iles waited with their bags. He gave his master no word of greeting, for it would not have been expected of him, but merely followed the two men along the platform to the gig that stood outside. Lewis greeted the third man waiting patiently. Mr Brook? I’m Lewis. I’ll give you a ride.

      Whatever Brook said was lost in the noise of the departing train. Lewis glanced at him briefly, then turned to lead the way outside. The young man looked a little grubby but not too weary from his journey — London, apparently, which in Third Class would have been quite a way — and carried his things in a sailor’s kit-bag. They went out to a pony and trap. That was Mr Riordan Lawrence, Lewis told him. Eldest son. You won’t see a lot of him, I shouldn’t think. The other fellow must be a guest. Did you catch his name? Brook shook his head and Lewis shrugged as if he’d hoped Brook might have been more awake. Baron is what he called him. Don’t think it was a title. Lewis laughed. Climb up. We’re only three miles or so from Croome.

      Brook, he remembered was twenty-three, a decade younger than him, though the man looked older than twenty-three, and as they started along the dusty road he took little interest in the countryside around them. He stared at the horse’s back with an air of mild resignation and didn’t speak. Tired after his journey, Lewis thought. You were brought up around here, weren’t you? Does it look familiar?

      Not out here. Isn’t this where the lead mines are?

      Hence the station. Built for the mines but they’ve shut down. Lewis chuckled. I suppose the railway company thought this little halt would serve the quarry, but now that’s closing too. They’re all played out.

      Like Croome.

      Croome is thriving. Turned its back on heavy industry. Don’t need it now, they say.

      Money comes from commerce now, Brook replied. The City.

      Well, you’re the book-keeper. Happy to leave London?

      I thought I’d come back home. They were leaving the gentle hills. Haven’t seen Croome for several years.

      On the way to town Lewis talked about recent changes. He didn’t get the impression Brook was more than mildly interested but it was the best part of an hour’s journey and it gave them something to talk about.

      In the gig trotting half a mile ahead were two men who knew each other well, and who chatted and joked as they rode through the chilly countryside towards Croome. Riordan, almost forty years old, was eldest son of the local squire, while Jason Baron, five years older, was a heavy-featured man with a shock of streaky brown hair kept in place — even in the breeze whipping across the gig — by liberal doses of scented pomade. Typical of every railway company, Baron said. They ran their trains straight past when the mine was working, and built a station when the mine shut down. Riordan grunted. Planning, you see, Baron continued. Takes them years. Committee after committee. Meeting after meeting. Minutes of last meeting. Matters arising. Motion deferred.

      Should’ve built the station closer to Croome.

      But the line doesn’t go by Croome, does it? Goes past here. Baron chuckled. Never mind. We’ll be the railway company’s saviour. In five years time when we’re supplying passengers every day they’ll say they always knew. They had the vision, they’ll say, and were thinking ahead.

      They’ll call it Croome station then, not Longbarrow Halt.

      Depends how many houses we build at Longbarrow.

      Typical of these damned railway companies: putting stations outside towns. Wherever it’s least convenient.

      Cheapest land. Who wants a railway through the middle of Croome?

      Townspeople.

      The company would’ve had to knock down a lot of houses.

      You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.

      "When did you ever make an omelette?"

      Don’t even like the things.

      Baron was watching the countryside about them. "Are they going to like me much, your people?"

      You haven’t been to the Manor before, have you?

      I usually stay at the Bull. I’m a city man, you see. Not used to country society.

      Riordan snorted. We’re very ordinary here. Don’t believe what you read in the illustrated papers.

      Dressing for dinner, and all that?

      Oh, as long as you don’t turn up in pyjamas. Riordan looked without interest at the still bare trees. And don’t try to interest the family in business. They don’t have the heads for it. Barely know where Longbarrow is. You interested in horses?

      Not a gambling man.

      Riordan snorted again. Longbarrow’s a gamble.

      A solid investment.

      It’d better be. But I was asking if you ride.

      Gingerly. A hackney carriage is as risky as I get.

      Riordan chuckled. You’re a card, Baron, and no mistake. They were on the outskirts of town. This is Croome.

      I know.

      We’ll go straight through.

      Baron stared at each house as they passed as if assessing each one’s market value. It was his habit everywhere, and he did it every time he came to Croome. None of the houses were large. Some seemed purely domestic while others accommodated small family businesses: a wheelwright’s, a timber yard, the Bull, a basket maker, a butcher, two shops selling general merchandise, two more that sold clothes and, on Baron’s count, at least three churches, one of stone, one of brick and one of corrugated iron. The commercialisation of religion, he thought, the department stores of God. A sleepy town, the kind that people said they’d like to retire to but never did.

      Their gig, being faster than the pony and trap behind them, was through and almost out the other side before Brook and Lewis rode into town. Brook had little to say, and Lewis too had relapsed into silence. He had thought the ride through open country might give him an idea of what the young man would be like. Brook had been brought up in Croome, had gone to school in Croome and, according to his father, had then run away to sea. As a country boy the lad might have thought the sea exciting but he didn’t have much to say of his nautical adventures now. Stavanger, Narvik and Riga he’d mentioned but with little enthusiasm, and if he’d seen the world it seemed to have left little impression on him. What would he think of Croome? According to his father young Mervyn had had enough of travelling and now wanted to settle down — in his early twenties? He had spent the last year in London, his father said, and had trained as a book-keeper but had found city life too dirty and too hectic. He wanted to return to healthy country air. Perhaps his health was delicate, for as he sat hunched in the cart with lower lip protruding, he did indeed have that peaky weak-chested look one often saw in city people — but not in sailors, Lewis thought. Though how many sailors did he know? Perhaps the boy had caught some illness abroad. He might even be consumptive. Working in the estate office would not be physically challenging and there would be plenty of opportunity to get out in the fresh air, so perhaps, in a sense, the work would be a kind of convalescence for him. But it was a job, thought Lewis: the Manor was not a convalescent home.

      I’ll drop you here, he said, at the end of Coxes Lane.

      *

      Too bad, the squire said. "It ain’t an hotel. We don’t have a suite of rooms."

      That one will do.

      Didn’t know you were coming with a friend.

      A business colleague.

      Fine. The squire grinned in triumph. Put him in The Bull.

      That’s where he usually stays. But he’s here now.

      Riordan and the squire were coming down the stairs, having left Baron in what Riordan called a servant’s room. The two principal guest rooms had been taken by friends of his brother Clive: Miss Frances Vernon and her brother Alex as her chaperone.

      Don’t scowl at ’em as you go in, the squire said. Try to smile. It was too early for dinner so Clive and his guests were in the library. Riordan sighed. He had met these two before. On the last occasion he had infuriated Clive by saying that Miss Vernon, at twenty-six, was practically on the shelf and — when Clive protested — that she seemed very worldly for an unmarried Miss and didn’t look as if she’d spent the last ten years saying her prayers. There was a history there, he thought, which was bad news for Clive if he was serious about her but might be good news for Riordan: she was an attractive girl.

      He followed the squire into the library, and did not scowl. Not even when that fool of a brother of hers uncoiled himself from a seat and approached him like an old friend. Riordan. How good to see you. You’d think that idiot was the host.

      Mr Vernon, he said. Why acknowledge him by his Christian name? And the fair Miss Frances. Good journey down?

      He smiled coldly through the small talk. Not only had these two taken the two best guest rooms but they had commandeered the best armchairs. So he would stand. He was the tallest in the room so they could all damned well look up to him. Alex Vernon was a creep, and had made it obvious last time that he looked up to Riordan as probably the poshest person he’d ever met. Vernon was the sort of man who’d use the word posh, the sort of person who’d admire anything approaching posh, the sort of man who’d sell his soul to break free from his middle class upbringing and jostle among the posh. Might Miss Frances Vernon also be tempted to sell her soul?

      Riordan’s also brought a friend, the squire announced. "I assume he’s a friend?"

      I don’t give shelter to my enemies.

      Frances laughed. But it’s a man friend?

      Riordan bowed. To invite a woman would be unfair. None could stand comparison with your beauty.

      That silenced her. She subsided into her chair, and he watched a blush infuse her cheek.

      Baron, his name is.

      Alex jumped. Baron who?

      "Mr Jason Baron. You should like him, Vernon. He’s one of those New Men the newspapers like to write about. He’s going to do great things for Croome."

      And is there a Mrs Baron? Frances asked. Who we mustn’t call a baroness?

      Riordan smiled at her. He’s a bachelor, I think, and I’m sure most eligible.

      If he’s a New Man perhaps he’ll marry one of those New Women, Clive put in.

      The squire was staring out the window. Not if he’s in his right mind. Cigarettes and bicycles.

      Ordering men about, Alex agreed.

      The door crashed open and Maud came in. Sister to Clive and Riordan and at nearly thirty-two the youngest of the clan, she had been out riding and had not yet changed her clothes. Chilly but gorgeous, she said. Oh, hello, Riordan. They told me you were around.

      I believe I live here, he said.

      Occasionally. She stretched her back. I won’t sit down.

      Saddle-sore?

      Haven’t been saddle-sore since I was twelve.

      Riordan’s brought a New Man for you, Clive said. She frowned. A New Man for all of us. Apparently he’s going to do great things for Croome.

      I hope not, the squire said. I like the place as it is.

      It could do with livening up, Maud responded with a yawn.

      So could we all, Riordan thought. It had suddenly occurred to him that if he considered Miss Vernon old to be unmarried at twenty-six, then the Lawrences were unforgivable in their tardiness. What an unmarriageable lot we are, he thought: I’m nearly forty, Clive’s whatever he is, thirty-four, and Maud’s an old frump approaching thirty-two. Cecilia is the only one to have bagged herself a spouse. But is Clive really thinking it’s time he popped the question? If he invites that girl down here again she’ll have to bring her parents. What a prospect: having to entertain the middle classes, marry into the middle classes. That’s not what the middle class is for. I’d be doing young Clive a favour if I were to step in and break up this budding alliance. He caught Miss Vernon’s eye and smiled.

      I’d be doing everyone a favour, Riordan thought.

      *

      Coming home hadn’t sunk in on Mervyn until the walk down Coxes Lane. Croome, seen from Mr Lewis’s pony and trap, had looked familiar but failed to stir him. Two of the shops, he thought, were new, but he was surprised to find he remembered so little about the place. Memories of Croome had been supplanted by memories of so many other towns, larger towns, more exciting towns. Dangerous and dirty towns in foreign lands.

      This though was where Mervyn had grown up. This little town. These little streets. He had played right here in Coxes Lane. There was a muddy path at the end that led to school, and if he went the other way, past the back of the church and across a field, he’d get to the woods and the river and the skating pond. He’d gone courting there once in summertime, he remembered with a smile, with a young girl from the village, the wheelwright’s daughter — Bryony, that was her name — though you could hardly call it courting, for she hadn’t let him kiss her. But he’d tried.

      He and Lewis had passed the wheelwright’s on the way in. Perhaps he’d call round one day and knock on the door. Ask how she was.

      And here was his door, his old front door.

      *

      The town’s bigger than it used to be, Nathan said. Bound to look a bit different.

      Bigger, thought Mervyn, bigger than what? His father had lived in Croome all his life, first in a cottage out near Sticklebank and then, once he’d married, he had come here to Coxes Lane. He and his wife had had two children, then his wife had died, and after another few years Mervyn had left the family home. He could hardly be blamed for that, thought Mervyn, and at the time Nathan hadn’t blamed him. A man has to make his way in the world, he’d said when Mervyn told him he was leaving. You’re not cut out for farming, boy.

      And he hadn’t been. Never strong and never relishing hard outdoor work he had heard, as everyone else had heard, that London’s streets were paved with gold.

      Besides, Nathan had added. This cottage is too small. Go out and see the great big world.

      He had seen the world in his fashion, and had now come back to this tiny cottage, smaller than he remembered, in a tiny town. The cottage had a tiny living-room and tiny kitchen cum pantry on the tiny ground floor, and two tiny bedrooms on the upper floor. For years he and his sister had shared one of those tiny bedrooms but their mother had died when Megan was twelve and Mervyn had moved into his father’s bedroom to share. They’d shared that room for three long years, so no wonder his father had told him to go out and see the great big world. Now, for a few days, he’d have to share with his father again. It wouldn’t be good, but he’d slept in worse places. When Megan had offered him her room, saying she could easily make up a bed for herself downstairs, he’d insisted she did not. He’d said he’d bunk up in the downstairs room himself; he was used to making do, and Megan had smiled admiringly as if she thought him some kind of hardy adventurer, a hardened sailor who had travelled the world. It surprised Mervyn to see how Megan had changed. She was nineteen now and nothing like the little sister he had left behind.

      His father wasn’t having her sleep downstairs, Like a maidservant, he’d said, bunking up on the kitchen floor? You can bunk up with me. Like the old days, Mervyn thought. For three years he’d had to share his father’s bed. The Brooks had two beds. Like most families, other than the rich, the parents slept in one bed and the children in another. But the Brooks were luckier than some in that they had two bedrooms. Even so, Megan was nineteen, Mervyn twenty-three, and they hadn’t seen each other for eight years. They were almost strangers. So Mervyn would sleep in his father’s bed.

      There’ll be lodgings in the town, Mervyn suggested.

      Aye. Once you’ve had your first wages. But it’ll do you no harm to stay with your family for a week or so. You can tell us how the job goes. We can keep an eye on you.

      Despite the grim smile that accompanied that last sentence, Mervyn guessed that his father meant to see that he stuck at the job he’d found for him. So he’d have a boss at the Manor and a boss at home. Wherever he was there would be someone to ‘keep an eye on him’.

      *

      Megan had finished the washing-up and was now clearing things away. Earlier, she had pulled the kitchen table from the wall so they could seat three at it, and had been surprised to find herself quite excited at having to lay an extra place; it had made the table seem different, like a café table, she’d thought, and the meal would seem different with three of them sitting, not as they’d used to sit all those years ago when she and Mervyn were children, but as three adults having adult conversation. Mervyn could tell them all about his adventures, she’d thought, but he didn’t. He’d talked about London where he’d been these last six months, but he’d said little more about his voyages other than that most of the time it was cold. There’s nowhere colder than a ship at sea. He’d mentioned Sweden and Norway and Copenhagen, which even she knew was in Denmark, and one of the few times he’d grinned had been when he’d chuckled with their father about Scandinavian mermaids and how everyone’s fingers stank of fish. Prodigious drinkers, those Swedes, he’d said, and she didn’t know whether that was a hint or not but Pa had said, Aye, we could take a glass, if you like, at the Bull, and Mervyn had almost leapt up from his chair.

      We’ll tidy up first, Pa had warned.

      He’d gone upstairs to fetch his jacket, and those had been the only two minutes she and Mervyn had had on their own. A pint of beer might soften him, he had said, as if he’d thought that Pa was stern. I thought he wanted me to come back, but it don’t seem like it.

      Of course he wants you here. We both do.

      Working in an office.

      Not as much fun as out at sea?

      I’ve done office work. I worked in an office in London.

      What happened? Didn’t you like it?

      He stooped over the sink to sluice his face, and Megan handed him a cloth. Wrong place for me, he said. Pa thinks this job’s a better one. But you heard what he said — he’ll keep an eye on me, as if I was a kid again.

      There must be all sorts of jobs in London?

      For them as knows what they’re about. But it’s a filthy place, London. Fog and dirt and smoke and muck. Did my lungs in. So I thought I’d spend the summer in the country, that’s the ticket. Fields and flowers and all of that.

      Just the summer, she wondered, then away again to sea?

      D’you know a place that does lodgings? Pa doesn’t want me here.

      "He asked you here. He found a job for you. Of course he wants you here."

      "In this house. In his bed? Mervyn laughed. You don’t want a sailor in your bed." He laughed again.

      He seemed so grown-up now to Megan. She remembered him as a boy, her big brother. She had looked up to him then. They heard their father on the stairs.

      Right, young man, let’s be going. See if there’s anyone there remembers you.

      I’m a stranger now.

      Then they were gone. Megan returned to the sink. There were still the pots to wash and the kitchen to put in order, and there was enough left in the stew-pot to stretch to another meal tomorrow if she added a few potatoes, and she’d leave the range another hour or so before damping it down for the night, and while the men were out of the house and the range was hot she could finish off last week’s ironing because there was always a pile of new on Monday, and she’d get the ironing done easily before they got back. She smiled at the thought of the two men in the Bull — two men, she thought: her own brother and her Pa. It was grand to have him home. He wouldn’t stay, of course, not in the house, but she’d suggest he tried Mrs Wilkinson for lodgings because she kept a clean and tidy house. And perhaps Mervyn would make a success of things at the Manor and decide to stay.

      Be realistic, Megan thought. He’s an outdoor man, a sailor, and before long, perhaps in autumn, he’ll get that wanderlust again and want the smell of the sea. Then he’ll leave and go away again and I’ll be left with Pa, and everything will go back to how it was.

      For nothing changes. It never does.

      -2-

      Baron gazed out beyond the trees. Interesting, he thought, to see a man on his home patch. All this land, he said almost to himself. How much of this do you own?

      Riordan shrugged. I don’t know, a few hundred acres. It’s rented out for the most part.

      Baron had thought it might be more. And it’s just farmland?

      For the most part. What else can you do with land?

      Jason Baron let out a breath. He had a taste of kidney in his mouth. It had been a fine breakfast and he suspected he had partaken of it too freely. With all those dishes on the sideboard he’d thought it was expected

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