Havisham: A Novel (23 page)

*   *   *

I’d had my wedding dress hung on the hessian mannequin. The veil was draped over three chairs. Nobody had been allowed to touch the dressing table. My powders and combs were where I’d left them. The lid was still raised on the jewellery casket, and all the items to hand as they’d been that morning. Beside it was the other white satin slipper I’d been on the point of fitting on to my right foot.

Only the letter was missing. How it had been lost I didn’t know, and wasn’t going to enquire.

I had the dressing room locked. I removed myself to a bedroom on the other side of the house. I had no dressing room there, but all I meant to do with my life was work at brewery business. What time would I have now for the vanities of dressing up?

*   *   *

Once I was installed again in my father’s office I put on a sober dress and a very little jewellery, to appear my most purposeful.

But I noticed straight away the change in Tice.

For one thing, the smirk as he sauntered into the room. He sat down without being requested to do so; I stared at him until my displeasure was fully plain to him, and he got to his feet.

In that conversation and the ones to follow he didn’t allow me to forget that he’d taken on himself proctorship of the brewhouse in my absence.

He seemed to believe that we met now on altered terms: that he was privy to Havisham business as never before. (I realised he would have been able to acquaint himself with the contents of the ledger books in the Compting House.)

I attempted to put him right about that, without directly putting the man down. I couldn’t decide if he was being deliberately obtuse, or truly didn’t perceive my point. The former, I concluded, given that sly canny look of his.

I was obliged to be less subtle.

‘I fear you may be under a misapprehension…’

He bit his lip, otherwise he might have spoken his mind. As it was, his remarks became terser, without the encumbrance of grammar: single-word responses sometimes, or a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. Not even a ‘miss’ to acknowledge my authority. Whenever I dismissed him, after informing him of my wishes, he would hold back for a few moments before turning to leave, as if he was awaiting some change of heart in me. I didn’t care for his expression: a wily reminder to me,
I
-know-a-thing-or-two.

The men, I heard through Mr Ambrose, were wanting to be ‘consulted’.

‘Who’s put that notion in their heads? Tice, let me guess.’

Mr Ambrose nodded.

‘Did my father allow “consultations”? We’ll have a revolution on our hands before we know where we are.’

I shook my head. It was the spirit of the times, but I was damned if I was going to entertain it here in Crow Lane.

‘Quite out of the question. You might intimate as much to them, Mr Ambrose. However you judge best.’

‘Very well, Miss Havisham.’

‘
Someone
respects the name! Thank God for that.’

*   *   *

The ordinary labourers – the semi-skilled men (and a few women) – were the most docile. The cooperage foreman was a calming influence, and probably the chief storehouse clerk. They had too much to do perhaps, those stokers and yeastmen, the spare-men and drawers-off. (The draymen and horsekeepers were mostly loyal, but several wavered.)

However, our esteemed superintendent of the brewers, Tice, was winning over some of the clerks in the Compting House, including the abroad-men I used to patrol my empire.

I had books from the Compting House brought in to my office, and I pored over them, believing them less and less as I scoured the entry columns for signs of tampering. I scrupulously examined every blot, every repeated stroke of the pen. I compared single numerals for consistency. I checked and double-checked for errors in the sums and subtractions, which involved hours more of that close work.

They
presumed I’d lost the knack, if I’d ever had it. I wasn’t just a woman, I was a madwoman.

But the figures didn’t add up, the entries on one page failed to tally with those on the next – and
they
imagined I wouldn’t notice. The emendations appeared to have been made in various hands, so there must have been a more complex conspiracy afoot.

I might have banged the table and watched them jump out of their skins. Instead, when I was asking questions I dropped my voice and addressed my enquiry little louder than a whisper, and I hoped it made their flesh creep.

Who was responsible I couldn’t tell. Maybe it didn’t matter who. If I were to replace them all, I should have had to test the loyalty of their successors. But the brewery couldn’t prosper on mismanaged figures, with a proportion of the profits being siphoned out by whoever was clever enough to get away with it. Now I was appreciating for the first time the magnitude of this endeavour I had taken on, which had the makings of a moral crusade.

*   *   *

I didn’t immediately understand what he was meaning.

‘I don’t follow you, Mr Ambrose –’

When I did, I couldn’t curb my temper.

‘You
dare
to suggest such a thing?’

‘But only Mr Compeyson was permitted to –’

‘That’s a slander.’

Why on earth was I defending the man? What possible reason could I have?

‘Take back that accusation. At once.’

‘I would if I could, Miss Hav—’

‘At once, d’you hear me?’

‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’

‘You
will
be sorry.’

‘It’s my considered opinion.’

Whatever else Charles Compeyson had been, and done, I hadn’t doubted that he’d supported me here.

I told Mr Ambrose, with just a brief quaver in my voice, in that case – if he was refusing to resile – I must inform him that I, and Havisham’s, had no further need of his services.

*   *   *

A notice in the newspaper. The engagement was announced between the Honourable William Chadwyck and Lady Frances Tresidder.

I enquired about the name ‘Tresidder’. They were a Cornish family, owners of tin mines. For two generations they had lived in a mansion built by one of Queen Bess’s favourites.

Satis House had once entertained Elizabeth. It was she who had given rise to the name, after thanking her host for his abundant hospitality. That Cornish mansion must have been grander than Thurston Park, and tin mines an even better prospect than brews of ale.

Had I seen W’m’s fiancée-to-be when I was still accounted one of them, the Durley Set? Had she been persuaded to visit the hermitage with him? No, probably not; that was by very special invitation only.

Thespis had turned everyone into practised actors, all of us except myself perhaps: so adept at not betraying our private purposes and designs.

*   *   *

I wore the darkest clothes I had, short of mourning. I felt that
light
didn’t involve me for the present, either entering me or being expelled. I was a woman of business and nothing else. I left off powder and my other applications. I dressed my hair plainly. I chose a few older items of jewellery, those passed on to me. Havisham heirlooms. Others might have judged that time had taken the shine of desirability off them. But their value to me now was as tokens of my lineage, unshowy symbols of the legacy I embraced.

I spoke for
les fondateurs venerables
, those original Havishams no longer with us.

*   *   *

The ledgers continued to divulge secrets from the time of the Compeyson stewardship, so called.

I requested that Mr Jaggers send someone to help me go through the books: he confirmed that, yes, there had been consistent meddling. An attempt had been made to disguise handwriting, but
he
would wager it was by the same person.

At first I told myself it must have been the work of an unknown, intended to reflect badly on the man I had elected to be in charge, my fiancé. But it took this Londoner, interpreting the evidence for me as he viewed it with outsider’s eyes, to convince me finally of the unwelcome truth of the matter.

I had kept to the old method whereby surplus grains and the residue in the tuns were sold off, for cattle-fodder and as fertiliser.
He
– whose name I couldn’t bring myself to speak – had terminated the existing and long-established arrangements and made his own, presumably more profitable, ones (although the figures were deliberately obfuscated in the accounts).

He might have attempted to affect the means of production – by cutting costs, by altering temperatures and quantities and durations, mixing brews – but I would have been bound to hear about that. (Using wild yeast, say, would have foxed the beer and caused infection.) Instead he had confined himself to petty frauds on the housekeeping: reselling returned (stale) beer, buying an amount of used oak casks in any batch of new, even – I had trouble believing it – having the draymen collect the horses’ dung on their rounds and taking a two-thirds cut for himself on what was sold.

It was pathetic.

Worse, though. Mr Ambrose had suspected he was holding up on credit, and may have been dealing with individual publicans who had the misfortune of bad debts. That was the next matter I must investigate.

*   *   *

Meanwhile …

They wanted me to restore the full-time jobs. They also wanted the average of working hours reduced.

I told them we were fighting for custom with our competitors. Everyone was looking for ways to trim costs. If I reduced general working hours, there would need to be pay cuts.

Tice appeared with a delegation.

‘We know what price the barrels are being sold at.’

‘I can’t think who’s told you. But the manufacturing costs have risen, doubled.’

‘Brewers are like farmers. They never run at a loss.’

‘Who says? Look, beer duties up twenty-five per cent. Malt tax, three hundred per cent more.’

‘But is there a loss –?’

‘Quart pot of ale. It’s been fourpence for how many years. Now suddenly it’s sixpence. There are breweries up for sale all over the country.’

‘Not this one, though.’

‘Because I’m looking for fresh suppliers all the time.’

‘That’s what
he
was trying to do. Mr Compeyson.’

‘I’m in charge now.’

‘Isn’t he coming back?’

‘No. No, he’s not.
I’m
master.’

Tice spoke. ‘Don’t you mean…’ He paused for full effect. ‘… “mistress”?’

All their eyes crossed tracks. Smiles, but no actual laughter. They will repeat the remark all evening long, and with each new mention the tone of voice will become more caustic.

‘Whichever,’ I said, ‘there can only be one of them.’

They seemed disinclined to believe me.

*   *   *

I had written Mr Ambrose three letters. The third brought him back to the Compting House. I led him through to my office.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Ambrose.’

‘You wished to speak to me, Miss Havisham?’

‘Please sit down, won’t you?’

He waited for me to speak.

‘Mr Ambrose, I think I owe you an apology.’

*   *   *

I was as modest as a nun. My manner was my best statement of contrition. Seated where he’d sat in my father’s time, he was persuaded by ghostly presences to give me another chance. I took his hand and shook it, while he stared in mild shock at the boldness of our two hands’ behaviour.

*   *   *

I had another visit from Tice and his cronies among the workmen brewers. They wanted their salaries to match the clerks’.

‘I’ll think about it.’

But they were already getting their perks and gratuities. £750 for a second brewer, with a wife. Sixpence per hogshead commission.

‘I don’t see what you’ve got to complain about.’

‘Mr Havisham, he wouldn’t let us put money in.’

‘You wish to invest? Although you say you don’t receive enough?’

‘It’d be a stake, though.’

And a means of applying stronger pressure on me. My father’s original decision had been the correct one.

I could have increased the workers’ wages a little. The additional price of their labour would have been quite insignificant set against the totals for purchases of materials and casks. I could have conceded something. But I was too angry to allow myself. They put a much lesser value on me, a Havisham born and bred, than they did on him, who had only ever been my appointee, and – strictly – a nobody.

To comfort myself, I asked Mr Ambrose to please make discreet enquiries about the rates of remuneration among our competitors. Just as I’d surmised, we were keeping pace very favourably.

‘I’ve given this very careful and extended thought,’ I told Tice.

‘The pay?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the investing?’

‘Both.’

‘And…?’

‘I don’t see any justification, I’m afraid, for what you’re asking me. None at all.’

I had to let my ire with Tice and company cool. I consoled myself with the reflection that I’d remained guarded about the economic facts. We claimed seven or eight per cent return, after deducting interest charges on capital; really it was nearer fifteen per cent.

I had Mr Ambrose out interviewing those publicans who were closing their home mashers, and also calling by at some of the big farms and poorhouses where he’d learned ale was no longer being produced.

I needed two faces for this job. Perhaps I might have been left feeling guilty afterwards, if
they
– those bullyrags – hadn’t insisted on bringing up his name still. The mention of ‘Compeyson’ wasn’t spontaneous or accidental, but quite carefully calculated beforehand.

I would give just as good as I got.

T
HIRTY
-
THREE

I took myself off to Norwich.

‘Where would I go if I wanted to buy land hereabouts?’

Wherever I asked in Norwich I was provided with a list of the same names. Two were sited in the centre. One, in Madder Market, was owned by a man in his eighties and managed by his son and grandsons. I couldn’t envisage any ‘friend’ being given a worthwhile job of work here, in these amply staffed premises. The other I found at Charing Cross, in the lee of the Strangers’ Hall. A brass plate by the door announced Calloway & Calloway. I waited in the parlour of an inn across the street to see who entered and left. I interrupted my watch to speak with the proprietor.