The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Read online

  The Old House at Railes

  Mary E. Pearce

  Copyright © 2019 The Estate of Mary E. Pearce

  This edition first published 2019 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1993

  www.wyndhambooks.com/mary-e-pearce

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover artwork images: © Matthew Dixon / Irina Alexandrovna (Shutterstock)

  Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd

  Books by Mary E. Pearce

  The Apple Tree Saga series

  Enjoy all five books in the Apple Tree Saga series

  from Wyndham Books

  Apple Tree Lean Down

  Jack Mercybright

  The Sorrowing Wind

  The Land Endures

  Seedtime and Harvest

  and these standalone novels, also by Mary E. Pearce:

  Cast a Long Shadow

  Polsinney Harbour

  The Two Farms

  The Old House at Railes

  www.wyndhambooks.com/mary-e-pearce

  Wyndham Books: Timeless bestsellers for today’s readers

  Wyndham Books publishes the first ebook editions of bestselling works by some of the most popular authors of the twentieth century, including Lucilla Andrews, Ursula Bloom, Catherine Gaskin and Naomi Jacob. Enjoy our Historical, Family Saga, Regency, Romance and Medical fiction and non-fiction.

  Join our free mailing list for news, exclusives and special deals:

  www.wyndhambooks.com

  In memory of

  Arthur and Ellen Millest

  Contents

  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

  Also by Mary E. Pearce

  Chapter One

  The early wealth of the Tarrant family, as of so many Gloucestershire families, had been founded on wool and the manufacture of fine cloth, and the manor house at Newton Railes had been built in 1565 by William Tarrant, who owned a number of fulling mills in and around the town of Chardwell, at the head of the Cullen Valley. William and his immediate descendants had invested their surplus profits in land until the Newton Railes estate, lying at the foot of Ox Knap, in this southern corner of the Cotswold Hills, comprised a thousand acres or more, divided into four farms. By then they had severed their connection with the woollen trade and had settled comfortably into the life of the typical country gentleman.

  During the eighteenth century, however, there had been a steady decline, and successive members of the family, some from thriftlessness, some from bad luck, had seen their fortunes dwindle away until, by 1815, most of the estate had been sold and all that remained was the Home Farm. Later, during John Tarrant’s time, even this had to be sold, which left only the house itself and the five hundred acres of parkland in which it stood. The Home Farm was now known as Old Manor Farm and its stock still grazed in the Newton Railes park, thus keeping the turf trim and bringing Tarrant some revenue.

  His only other income came from a few investments: shares in the Cullen and Leame Canal; in the Turnpike Trust, threatened by the advent of the railways; and in the District Railway itself. He also owned a number of cottages, some in Chardwell, some in the villages round about, but often spent more in repairing them than he got back in rent. So, by the year 1844, John Tarrant’s income was barely enough ‒ sometimes it was not enough ‒ to cover the upkeep of the house and grounds; to enable him, in the winter months, to entertain a few friends now and then; and to keep half a dozen good horses in stables built to hold a score.

  Over the main door of the house, the date of its building was carved in stone, together with the figure of a Cotswold sheep, now somewhat worn away by time, and William Tarrant’s woolmark: a square, seriffed cross with his initials set twice in its four quarters. John Tarrant was proud of his origins and would point out the woolmark and the sheep to visitors from other districts.

  ‘We were people of substance then, and all of it came from wool,’ he would say. ‘But we’re not the men our forefathers were and money slips through our hands these days.’ And sometimes, in a teasing way, he would tell his children, a boy and two girls, that they must be sure and marry well, to repair the Tarrant family fortunes. ‘Though what I shall do without Kate, to manage the house and mind my affairs, is something I don’t care to think about. And her suitor will have to be somebody special before I’ll agree to let her go.’

  Katharine then was eighteen and the twins, Hugh and Ginny, were three years younger.

  ‘And what about me?’ Ginny asked. ‘Don’t I deserve someone special, too?’

  ‘If I can find him for you, my child, you shall have the noblest, handsomest husband in all England. And he’d better be the richest, too, for you don’t have Kate’s gift for making a little go a long way.’

  Ginny, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with the kind of prettiness so often seen in Romney’s portraits, looked at her father with a mischievous smile.

  ‘Have you got that gift yourself, Papa?’

  ‘My own special gift, as you well know, is for robbing Peter to pay Paul, and as I’ve been practising it for thirty years ‒’

  ‘What sort of wife will you find for Hugh?’

  ‘Well, now, let me see!’

  But here Hugh, looking up from his book, put in a word on his own behalf.

  ‘I don’t think I am cut out for marriage. It does so tie a fellow down. I think, if you don’t mind, Papa, I would prefer to stay as I am.’

  ‘And who will carry on our name?’

  ‘Does it have to be carried on? We’ve had a good enough innings by now. Personally, I am quite content to go down in history as the last of my line.’ Then, in a deliberate way, he tilted his face towards the light, thus drawing attention to the mottled scar that disfigured his throat and part of his jaw: the result of a burn in early childhood when, due to a nursemaid’s carelessness, a candle had set fire to his cot. ‘And who would wish to marry me, marked as I am in this ugly way? To say nothing of my unfortunate asthma.’

  ‘My dear boy!’ Tarrant exclaimed. ‘Do you expect to go unloved simply because of a facial blemish? You underestimate womenfolk. They will see past that scar of yours ‒’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about it, you know. I never worry about it myself. Most of the time I forget it’s there.’

  ‘Yes, well, and so do we. So, too, do all your friends. And so it will be, when the time comes, with whatever young woman you choose to marry. So let us not have foolish talk about being denied a happiness that is every man’s expectation and hope.’

  Gravely, Hugh inclined his head.

  ‘I shall in all my best obey thee, Father. Behold me
, chastened and contrite. But I hope, being barely fifteen, that I may perhaps be allowed to enjoy my freedom a while longer yet.’

  He returned to his book, his face quite tranquil, absorbed, content. It was not a defensive pose with him when he claimed to forget his disfigurement; it was, for the most part, true and sincere; for life, as Hugh Tarrant found it, offered such an unending variety of interest, amusements, and pleasures, that vanity had no place in it. What he looked like meant nothing to him. His mind was too full of other things. And when he did discuss his scar, it was in a philosophical way, with something of the whimsical humour already habitual to him.

  ‘It’s a good thing it happened to me and not Ginny. She could never have borne it so well as I.’ And once, regarding himself in the mirror, when Katharine had just cut his hair, he said: ‘It’s just as well I’m marked like this. I should be too pretty otherwise.’

  The twins took after their dead mother in looks. They had the same corn-coloured hair, thick, with a light crisp curl to it, and the same vivid blue eyes. Both were somewhat short of stature, slightly built, with small delicate bones. Katharine, on the other hand, favoured her father’s family. She had their height and their upright bearing; their look of unhurried serenity; and she had the Tarrant colouring: dark brown hair, smooth and straight, with a hint of burnished copper in it; clear grey eyes under shapely brows; and a skin that seemed always to glow from within. Though just eighteen, she appeared older, probably because, for the past five years, she had borne the responsibility of running her father’s household; had been substitute mother to the twins; and, for the past eighteen months, had also been their governess.

  For although John Tarrant often talked about the need for economy, it was only the practical Katharine, always diligent, always alert, who actually succeeded in saving him money. She it was who made sure that there was no wastage anywhere; who encouraged Jobe Roberts, the gardener, to grow enough fruit and vegetables to keep them supplied throughout the year; who had the old shabby carriage adapted so that one horse could pull it instead of two. It was she who, when Miss Sturdee retired, decided to teach the twins herself.

  ‘Where should we be without Kate, and her talent for making shift?’ Tarrant said. ‘It is she who keeps this household together and stops me from getting too badly in debt.’

  ‘I’m good at making shift, too, Papa,’ Ginny said plaintively, ‘but you never seem to appreciate it.’

  ‘I know your shifts of old, that’s why. You save a shilling repairing your hat and expect to get a new dress in return.’

  ‘I haven’t had a new dress these three or four months past.’

  ‘And how long is it since Kate had a new dress?’

  ‘Oh, Kate never seems to mind about clothes.’

  ‘She still manages,’ Tarrant said, ‘to look fine and elegant all the same, and you would do well to study her ways, first to achieve the same effect, second to avoid extravagance.’

  ‘Oh, Papa!’ Ginny exclaimed, shaking her head reproachfully. ‘That you should talk of extravagance when only three weeks ago you bought that rug to put down in the window-bay of the great hall. Why, I could have had twenty new dresses and as many new silk wraps, out of what you paid for that rug.’

  ‘And grown tired of them all in a twelvemonth, no doubt, whereas my Polonaise rug will delight all beholders for years to come, long after I’m dead and gone. It is the same with this house of ours. It takes an enormous amount of money ‒ more than I can find sometimes ‒ but would you have me neglect the place and leave it to tumble about our ears?’

  ‘No,’ Ginny said, with a little sigh. ‘You know I wouldn’t want that, Papa.’

  The old house at Newton Railes was built of good Cotswold stone. It had stood for nearly three hundred years and would probably stand for three hundred more. But later additions, such as the end of the kitchen wing and the newer parts of the stable block, were already crumbling badly because, forty years before, they had been built with inferior stone, quarried on the estate itself.

  All repairs to the stone-work at Railes were done by Rufus Cox, a local mason and quarryman, and that year he had been called in to renovate part of the stable walls and extend the groom’s quarters over the coach-house. The work had taken a long time, for the only assistant Rufus had was his son, Martin, aged fifteen, and they had to bring the new stone down from Scurr Quarry, on Rutland Hill. But it was all finished now ‒ only the tidying-up remained ‒ and, as always with Cox’s work, everything was well done.

  Tarrant stood in the stable-court and surveyed the repairs with satisfaction. The only thing that irked him was the way the new rubblestone blocks stood out so very clean and pale, almost the colour of shortbread, against the old, rough-weathered stone, encrusted with lichen, silver-grey. But this, as he knew, would tone down in time, and the main thing was that the work was done; that the buildings surrounding the stable-court were all in good order again, just as they deserved to be.

  Above the coach-house, with its wide entrances, there was a sun-dial carved in stone: a new block, newly engraved, the old one having crumbled away till its rays and its Roman numerals could only barely be discerned. The new dial could be read with ease, and the wrought iron style, casting its shadow, showed the time to be just after four. Tarrant, shielding his eyes from the sun, read the inscription newly carved above and below the rim of the dial: I count the light hours only: Do thou likewise.

  Behind him, in the yard, Rufus Cox was clearing up. He had put his tools into his bag and now, with a small hand-brush, was sweeping the dust from the workbench, onto the cobblestones below. Tarrant went over to him.

  ‘Your boy did an excellent job, carving that new sun-dial. It tells the time accurately and he’s carved out the old saying exactly the way I wanted it.’

  ‘I should hope so, too,’ Rufus said. ‘It’s his job to get things right. We should soon be out of work, him and me, if we didn’t do as we get asked.’

  ‘Not much likelihood of that. Not with a man of your quality. And there’s always more work for you here, to be done at some future date. Repairing the end of the kitchen wing ‒ that’s the next important job. But it will have to wait, I’m afraid, until the day my ship comes in.’

  ‘H’mph!’ Rufus said scornfully. ‘It’s no good talking about repairs ‒ not where that kitchen wing is concerned. That wing-end needs a lot more than repair, as I’ve told you time and time again. Your father had that extension built, and he thought to save himself money by getting the stone dug from his own quarry, so-called. And that won’t do, Mr Tarrant, sir. That stone is all very well for field-walls, and the odd pig-cot here and there, but when it comes to important work, like part of a house, it’s no good trying to do it cheap cos that always comes dearer in the end. Bad stone, badly laid. ‒ That’s what’s wrong with the end of that wing. It needs to come down, the whole lot of it, and be built again new, from the footings up.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay,’ Tarrant said. ‘But where is the money to come from, eh? Tell me that and the job is yours ‒ and you can start just as soon as you like. Meantime, I already owe you for three months’ work, which will make a tidy sum, no doubt.’ Looking at Cox’s grey-stubbled face, with its long straight nose and wedge-shaped jaw, he added in the same jocular way: ‘Don’t be in too much of a hurry, sending in your account, will you, or I may have trouble paying it. Things are just a bit tight at present. These are hard times for men like me.’

  Rufus, having finished sweeping the workbench, put his hand-brush into his toolbag and took up a long-handled broom instead. He glanced at Tarrant once or twice from under lashes pale with dust.

  ‘I know how it is, right enough. These are hard times for everyone. But you’ve never found me pressing you hard in the past, Mr Tarrant, and you won’t find me pressing now. I’ll send my account in due course and you can pay when it suits you to.’

  ‘Thank you, Cox. You’re a good man. I knew you’d be sure to understand.’

  And Tarra
nt, having got that little matter out of the way, spoke again in praise of the work Cox and his son had just completed on the stable buildings surrounding the yard. ‘Where is Martin, by the way? Has he gone home?’

  ‘He’s taken some bits and pieces of stone back home in the cart,’ Rufus said, ‘but he’ll be back again directly, to take this bench and the rest of our stuff.’

  ‘He must be a great help to you, now that he is growing up. He works hard, I’ve noticed that, and he has the makings of a first class mason, like yourself.’

  While talking, Tarrant stooped and took a scroll of paper, dirty and dog-eared, from Cox’s toolbag. He opened it out on the workbench. On it were notes, drawings, and measurements, relating to the work just done, and although there were some spelling mistakes, ‒ ‘harness-rume’ and ‘mountain block’ ‒ the writing was neat and disciplined, and the drawings and diagrams showed great skill.

  ‘This is Martin’s work, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, every bit.’

  ‘It’s really very good, you know.’

  ‘Not bad, Mr Tarrant. Not bad, I’ll allow.’

  ‘Come now, Cox! For a boy of fifteen? Don’t be so grudging!’ Tarrant said. ‘Or is it that you don’t like to boast of your own son’s cleverness?’

  ‘Cleverness is all very well, but it isn’t a lot of use by itself.’ Rufus stopped sweeping and leant on his broom. ‘I worry about that boy sometimes. I do, that’s a fact. I’ve learnt him pretty well all I know, in the way of reading and writing and that, and of course I’m learning him mason’s work, too, but ‒’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong with him?’ Tarrant asked.

  ‘He needs bringing out a bit,’ Rufus said. ‘He needs to mix with other folk.’

  ‘Not much chance of that, eh, stuck up at Scurr most of the time? It isn’t much of a life, you know, for a young lad like him. Nor for your daughter, come to that.’

  ‘What my boy Martin needs is to mix with all manner of folk. People with something to say for themselves. People of learning, like yourself.’