Winning the War Hero's Heart Page 2

  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 men’s hardship worked wonders for morale.

  The last straw had been when Miles had defended the boot boy from a beating on account of his lordship’s 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 he’s not as black as he’s painted.’

  ‘It’s no more than you’re due,’ Helen put in. ‘But it should have been the Earl who ordered it.’

  ‘Don’t matter who ordered it,’ Byers said. ‘I’m glad enough of the work, though it won’t get me my old job back.’

  ‘Why did you lose your job?’ Helen asked.

  ‘I went to war. It weren’t as if I wanted to go, but the Earl hinted that if his son went, then I should not lag behind. I’d 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. She’s only got a small house and they’re cramped for room. I’ve been sleeping out o’ doors.’

  ‘You put my garden to rights and you can sleep in my outhouse,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘It’s dry and there’s straw for a bed. I’ll give you a blanket.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll 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 people’s 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.

  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 Helen’s 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 I’d 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.’

  ‘I’m busy putting the paper together.’

  ‘Leave that. I’ve something new to put on the front page. I’ll 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 Charlotte’s 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 farmer’s stack set on fire—there had been several instances of arson lately, which were put down to the unrest among the labourers—a newcomer of note moving into the district, unusual happenings in the town, reports of the magistrate’s 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 Somerfield’s 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 I’d 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 he’s dead, I’m 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 she’ll 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, that’s 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 child’s crying? Does killing the erring animal exact just retribution?

  ‘We must not begrudge the noble lord and his guests their sport, but who should pay for it? Surely not the poor widow endeavouring to provide for herself and her fatherless son. Not the fox, who was only doing what foxes do by nature and that is to run from its enemies. The dogs, perhaps? But they are trained to hunt the fox. Then we are left with whoever trained the hounds or caused them to be trained: the noble lord himself. But does he offer recompense, does he even apologise? No, because the land is his and he may ride over it whenever he chooses.

  ‘There is surely something wrong with that premise. However humble, an Englishman’s home is his castle and should be respected, even by those set above him, especially by those set above him. Responsibility should go hand in hand with privilege.’

  Miles put the paper down with a smile. ‘She doesn’t mince her words, does she?’

  ‘I’ll send for Sobers,’ the Earl said. ‘He’ll issue a writ for defamation of character on my behalf and we shall see if she is so sharp when it comes to reporting her own downfall.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?’ Miles said, wondering who had given the paper the information; it could have been Jack Byers or Mrs Watson, but it was more likely to have been Miss Grey Gown. Was that what her veiled threat had meant? ‘Why not give her the opportunity to retract? I promised to pay Jack Byers to set the widow’s garden to rights. If that were made public, she would have to put the record straight.’

  ‘You did what?’ his father demanded angrily.

  ‘I found Byers begging and thought to give him a little work. It is sad to see a good, upright man reduced to holding out his hand for pennies. He always worked well when he was employed by the estate. Men like him should not be penalised for serving king and country. I gave him work and the widow will get her garden back.’

  ‘I wish you would not interfere in matters that do not concern you, Miles. You have belittled my authority and added to the ridicule and that I will not tolerate.’

  ‘So are you going to issue a writ on me, too?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Miles turned and left him. It had become more and more obvious that he and his father could not live amicably under the same roof, but he was reluctant to leave his mother. Since coming home six months before he had been looking for a property in the area where he could live independently and yet be close to her. He had found nothing suitable and had been considering buying Ravensbrook Manor, which stood just outside the perimeter of Ravens Park. It had been empty and derelict for years, but it was possible to see it had once been a substantial house. As a child, he had often crept through a broken window and played in it, his footsteps and laughter echoing as he ran from room to room, brandishing a wooden sword and pretending to capture it from an imaginary enemy. It would take time and money to restore it, but it was in an ideal position and so he had set about tracing its owner in order to make an offer. He said nothing to anyone of his plans and in the meantime continued to live at Ravens Park and tried not to be contentious for his mother’s sake, even if it did mean turning his back on an argument.

  He went to the stables and found Jack Byers there talking to the head groom. Seeing Miles, Jack turned to touch his forelock. ‘I’ve done what you said, my lord. I’ve repaired the hedge and the hen coop, and some of the cabbages will survive, but there’s no rescuing the peas and beans.’

  Miles delved in his pocket for coins to pay the man. ‘Your wages as promised and a little extra to buy half-a-dozen laying hens and new pea and bean seeds for Mrs Watson. There is time to replant, is there not?’

  ‘If I get them in this week they should grow, always supposing the weather improves.’

  ‘Have you found more permanent work yet?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He pocketed the money and took his leave. Miles ordered his horse to be saddled and set off for Warburton.

  * * *

  He found the offices of the Warburton Record easily enough, dismounted and went inside. A young man looked up as he entered and scrambled to his feet. ‘My lord…’

  ‘I wish to speak to Miss Wayland. I believe she is the proprietor.’

  ‘Yes, she is. I’ll fetch her.’ He scuttled away.

  Two minutes later he was surprised to find himself confronted by Miss Grey Gown herself. This time she was wearing a brown taffeta afternoon dress with a cream-lace fichu. Her rich chestnut hair was cut unusually short and fell about her face in soft curls. Her hazel eyes looked into his fearlessly. He smiled and bowed. ‘Miss Wayland?’

  She bent her head in the polite gesture she would have used to any slight acquaintance. ‘My lord.’

  He smiled. ‘Miss Wayland, you have upset my father, the Earl…’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Not good. He is determined to teach you a lesson and is sending for his lawyer to issue a writ for defamation of character.’

  If she was upset by this she did not show it. ‘Then you may tell the Earl I shall defend it. I wrote nothing but the unbiased truth.’

  ‘Truth is not considered a defence, you know.’

  ‘Then i
t ought to be.’

  ‘Can you afford a court case and a heavy fine?’

  ‘I shall win.’

  ‘Better to retract. You heard me apologise to Mrs Watson and I asked Jack Byers to mend Mrs Watson’s garden, which, if you had taken the trouble to discover, you would have known. That rather defeats your argument, don’t you think?’

  She had felt guilty about not mentioning that in her report, but she was not going to admit it. ‘It is not relevant to the point I was making, that it was for the Earl to recognise his responsibility, not his son.’

  ‘I represent my father.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe the Earl sent you to plead with me.’ She chuckled suddenly and the hazel eyes were suddenly full of humour, which changed her whole countenance. He realised with a start that she was beautiful and found himself smiling back. ‘It would be entirely out of character.’

  ‘He did not send me, but that is neither here nor there. Mrs Watson was recompensed.’

  ‘That you did it is to your credit, my lord, but it does not invalidate my argument. The Earl should be the one to make restitution and he should learn that even the humblest widow is a person deserving of respect. But I fear he is too set in his ways for that ever to come about.’

  Miles was inclined to agree, but it would be disloyal to his father to say so and in his opinion family disagreements should be kept within the family. ‘Nevertheless, restitution was made and it gives you the opportunity to reciprocate,’ he said. ‘Publish the true facts in your newspaper and the whole matter will be dropped.’

  ‘Do you speak on behalf of the Earl?’

  He hesitated and in that hesitation she had her answer. ‘No, of course you do not. I wonder why you came.’

  ‘To save you from your own folly,’

  ‘Is it folly to stand up for the poor and oppressed? Is it folly to point out injustice when I see it?’

  ‘No, I admire that, but if it leads to your own downfall…’

  ‘Why are you concerned for my downfall? I should have thought you would rejoice at it.’