Off the Rails (23 page)

George agreed that he was.

‘I should like to bring gas light to this house and the surrounding farms and cottages,’ Felix told him. ‘Could you put the matter in hand for me, perhaps?’

As he was trotted back to York in his smart carriage and four, George Hudson was annoyed to realize that the deal he’d just signed was not as advantageous as he’d expected it to be and certainly not as he’d thought it was when he was putting his signature to it. In fact, if the truth be told, he’d been outwitted by a slip of a boy. The thought was altogether too shaming to be entertained for long so he set about reshaping it. By the time he arrived back at Monkgate, he had decided that he had struck a most
advantageous
deal and was, as usual, a man to be admired and congratulated.

The great Mr Hudson was dressing for his farewell dinner as Lord Mayor. It was a raw November evening so he was glad he would be wearing his robes and his chain of office. He stood before the long mirror admiring his image, brandy glass in one hand and cigar in the other. There was no doubt he looked the part, solid and wealthy and dependable in his expensive
jacket and his white waistcoat, with a white cravat the equal of any cravat he’d ever seen, even the one that young Sir Felix had been wearing and all of it set off by the rich red and thick fur trimming of his mayoral robe. ‘Aye,’ he said to himself, ‘tha’s done well, lad.’ And now he would be wined and dined and thanked for all the good work he’d done. He was licking his lips at the prospect.

It was a very fine dinner. Excellent fish, roast goose, plenty of wine. And better still, there was a vote of thanks to finish it off. As the master of
ceremonies
struck the floor with his stave to call for attention, George stroked his waistcoat pocket where his gracious acceptance lay folded, written and ready, and turned his face towards the speaker ready for praise and
adulation
.

It was a bit of a disappointment to see that it was Mr Leeman who was rising to his feet. The man was a Whig, which was the wrong party for a start, and one of their local solicitors with a reputation for a sharp tongue. But he smiled at the assembled aldermen and counsellors and began well.

‘My Lord Mayor, ladies and gentlemen, it has fallen to me to propose the vote of thanks to our outgoing Lord Mayor, Mr George Hudson.’ There was a shuffle of interest and a ripple of applause from the Tories. ‘Mr Hudson has proved himself to be one of the most notable holders of that office, as all of us here could bear testimony. I feel sure there are many in our company today who have benefited from his endeavours, as I am equally sure he has himself.’ That was a bit pointed, George thought. And unnecessary. ‘His exploits have brought him fame and renown.’ Quite right. Now tell us about them.

It was a list rather than an approbation. He read it from the notes in his hand. And when he’d finished, he laid the paper on the tablecloth and looked round at his listeners. ‘Had Mr Hudson stepped down last year, when it was the correct and constitutional time for him to do so,’ he said, ‘I would have proposed a vote of thanks to him and I would have meant every word. However, Mr Hudson did not step down when it was the constitutional time for him to do so. Mr Hudson contrived to remain in office, unconstitutionally. Now I have to tell you, Mr Hudson, sir, I am delighted to see you go.’

The Whigs were cheering and banging the table but the Tories were on their feet, booing and hissing and shouting ‘Shame!’, ‘Retract, sir!’

Mr Leeman had been prepared to raise hackles but the strength of their opposition was greater than he expected and that, combined with rather too much wine, made him suddenly angry. Within seconds he was too angry for moderation. He turned to face his hecklers, red in the face and shouting back. ‘Shame on
you
, sirs,’ he yelled. ‘Do you think we’ve not
taken your measure? Oh no, sirs, we know you, we know what you are. You are bought men, every one of you. You bow down before the golden calf of Hudson’s wealth. You bow down and worship it. Shame on
you
!’

His audience was making such a noise, either booing and shouting or cheering and shouting, that his voice was only intermittently heard. It took nearly five minutes and a great deal of banging before the master of
ceremonies
could restore order. As soon as there was a hush he proposed the vote of thanks, asked for a show of hands, counted them in an extremely summary fashion and declared it carried. Then, as was customary, he offered the floor to the outgoing Lord Mayor.

George was so angry he was shaking. How dare they do this to him! And at a dinner held in his honour, what’s more. Had they no sense of what was proper? It was disgraceful, insupportable, despicable! They should be downright ashamed of themselves to treat a man of his calibre in such a disgusting way. He’d never heard anything to equal it. He wrapped his red cloak around him and stood to face them out, his face puce and his eyes bulging with rage, a bull ready to charge.

‘Oh yes, you may mock and bay,’ he roared at them. ‘Let me tell ’ee, mockery is the mark of unimportant men. The mark of unimportant men. I know just the sort of men you are.’ And when they roared back at him, ‘You are actuated by a littleness of feeling. A littleness of feeling which, when it is exhibited in its
deformed
state, as it has been this day, is utterly and totally
disgraceful
. Utterly and totally
disgraceful
. For what are you, when all’s said and done? Toadies, that’s what you are. Toadies who tout for meals and invitations, which is another disgrace, toadies who resort to backbiting when they don’t get their own way, toadies who invent
conversations
which never occurred. Shame on you! You’re a disgrace to the name of aldermen and councillors.’

He was still shaking with anger when he and Lizzie got back to Monkgate.

‘How could they do such a thing?’ he said, slumping into his armchair. He was too distraught to get ready for bed. It was enough just to sit down. ‘How could they? After all the good things I’ve done for this town.’

‘Jealous,’ Lizzie said, her face full of sympathy for him. Poor George to be shouted out like that. He was right. It was disgraceful. ‘That’s what. They’re nasty jealous. Don’t you tek no notice of ’em.’

‘They would never have done that to Sir Felix,’ George said,
remembering
how calm and self-assured that young man had been. ‘No matter what nasty thoughts they might have had, they’d have stayed polite wi’
him
. But they think they may torment me. Well, they’ll have another think coming, that’s all. I’ll show ’em.’

‘Course you will,’ Lizzie soothed. ‘You’re twice the man of any one of
them
.’

‘Happen I should buy a country seat,’ he said. ‘Make myself a landowner, a man of property. That’d show ’em.’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie agreed, yawning because she was tired after all that to-do. ‘So it would.’

‘I shall give it thought,’ he said.

T
HE YEAR
1840 was a bumper year for railway companies, which were springing up everywhere as railway fever spread through the country. George Hudson had a poor opinion of most of the newcomers, and expressed it forcefully, saying they hadn’t got the remotest idea about what was involved in running a railway or how much it would cost and predicting that they would come to grief. On the other hand, by skilful accounting, he made sure his own York and North Midland Railway was doing very well. In the spring, the shareholders were paid their first
dividend
, which was one guinea and was spoken of approvingly as an excellent return. So it was no surprise that, at their annual general meeting later in the year, they voted to grant
£
500 for a survey of the proposed line to Scarborough, which provided more work for Nathaniel Cartwright.

‘Whatever anyone may think about Mr Hudson,’ he said to Jane when he got home from the meeting, ‘his railway company is going from strength to strength. The line to London should be up and running by June.’

Jane was sitting in her easy chair sewing a jacket made of the best white lawn for the baby. It was only a matter of weeks before the little thing would be born and she wanted to have everything ready. She put in the last stitch and bit off the thread before she answered. ‘So the meeting went well,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It did.’

‘No fisticuffs then.’

He smiled at that. ‘No. It was all very civilized.’ And when she gave him a teasing look, ‘Mr Rowntree was anxious about the accounts, but that was all.’

He’s been fiddling the accounts, Jane thought, and someone’s found out.
Hadn’t she always known he’d be caught out? Not that she could say anything about it to Nathaniel, given his admiration for the man. It was a continuing sorrow to her that it was impossible to talk to him about the obnoxious Mr Hudson, especially as it was the one and only subject they couldn’t discuss, but the habit was established now and not likely to change unless he found out for himself that his god had clay feet up to his haunches. However, if she couldn’t ask Nathaniel there were others who would tell her, and the best of them was Mr Leeman, who seemed to know everything that was going on in the city. It wasn’t something she could ask him at a dinner party but she often saw him walking in or out of his office when she was out a-marketing. With a bit of luck she could ask him then.

It was several weeks before she got the chance and then it came when she wasn’t expecting it. She was walking briskly along Low Petergate enjoying the pale sunshine and so busy thinking about Milly’s baby and wondering if it really would arrive in a week’s time the way Mrs Hardcastle seemed to think, that she very nearly bumped into the gentleman himself, who was walking equally briskly in the opposite direction. They jumped back from one another, both laughing, and then he raised his hat to her and gave her good day.

‘I was in a dream, Mr Leeman,’ she apologized. ‘However that’s no excuse. I should have been watching where I was going.’

‘Mr Cartwright is in Scarborough, I hear,’ he said.

‘He is,’ she said. ‘There’s a deal to be done on the new Scarborough line, so it seems, if it’s to be finished on time.’

‘It is like to be up and running next year, I believe.’

‘Aye,’ she said, thinking how knowledgeable he was. And that reminded her of what she wanted to know. ‘There were questions asked of Mr Hudson at the AGM, I believe.’ And when he looked rather puzzled, she prompted, ‘Mr Rowntree was asking about the accounts.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he remembered. ‘He was indeed.’

She assumed the most innocent expression she could contrive. ‘Were they not in order?’ she asked.

‘Well now, Mrs Cartwright,’ Mr Leeman said, giving her his wry smile, as if he knew what she was really thinking, ‘the truth of the matter is that we have no way of knowing whether they were or they were not since nobody is allowed to see them. There was a great deal of bluster from Mr Hudson but no offer of disclosure.’

She was too close to the gossip to be cautious. ‘Do you have suspicions, Mr Leeman?’ she asked.

He answered her seriously. ‘We do, ma’am, but suspicions are worthless without proof.’

‘And what are your suspicions, Mr Leeman? If I may be so bold as to enquire.’

He considered for a few seconds and then told her. ‘We think he paid the first dividend out of company capital, when, as you probably know, they should have been paid from the profits.’

‘If my knowledge of the man is anything to go by,’ she told him, ‘that sounds entirely likely.’

He was remembering the conversation around her dinner table. ‘You knew him when he was a child, I believe.’

‘Aye, I did.’

‘That is extremely interesting,’ he said, adding gravely, ‘However, for the moment at least, it is incumbent upon us to be discreet in our dealings. For lack of evidence, you understand.’

‘I will be discretion itself,’ she promised, keeping her face quietly calm, which was difficult because inside her head she was roaring with triumph. Hadn’t she always known he would come to grief, always known it and always wanted it, great coarse bully that he was. Serve him right. She was walking so quickly that she was home before her heart had recovered its usual rhythm.

There was an unfamiliar carriage and pair waiting outside her door. For a second she stared at it, wondering who could be visiting at that hour in the morning, then her mind shifted into focus and she recognized the Fitzwilliam crest and knew it must be there because of the baby and ran towards it, half hopeful, half anxious, forgetting all about George Hudson and Mr Leeman and the proprieties and even the proper way to behave, calling as she ran. ‘Is it the baby?’

‘It is, Mrs Cartwright, ma’am,’ the coachman said, catching her
excitement
and beaming at her. ‘Sir Felix sent me. Born last night. He thought you’d want to visit and see him.’

‘I should just think I would,’ she said. ‘My first grandchild!’

He was the most contented baby. When Jane was ushered into the bedroom, he was lying happily fed and blissfully asleep in Milly’s arms. And what better place for him, dear little man. For the next hour and a half, they were lost to the delights of baby worship, admiring his exquisite fingers, his soft fair hair – isn’t he just exactly like his father? – his dear little snub nose, the delicious smell of him. It was the happiest, easiest occasion and one that was to be repeated every day all through Milly’s fourteen-day lying in.

‘I’ve never seen her so happy,’ Jane said to Nathaniel when he finally came back from Scarborough. ‘Not even when Felix asked her to marry him and I thought she was happy then. As she was. But this is different. ’Tis an absolute joy to see.’

‘All very natural,’ Nathaniel said. ‘You were just the same when Nat and Mary were born. You looked like a cat that had had the cream.’

‘She’s been saying she’ll need a nursemaid,’ Jane told him. ‘She was talking about it again this afternoon. Do you think she would like Audrey? Should I suggest it?’

‘What about Nat and Mary? Don’t they need her?’

‘They’re too old for a nursemaid,’ Jane said easily. ‘Nat will be off to school next year, don’t forget.’

That was true. ‘In that case,’ Nathaniel said, ‘you might suggest it.’

Nat and Mary weren’t at all sure that they approved of their mother rushing off to see some strange baby every day and when she told them she was sending
their
Audrey to be the baby’s nursemaid, they were both
decidedly
cross.

‘I know it’s Milly’s baby,’ Nat said, when he and his sister were sitting together in the empty drawing room, ‘but it doesn’t have to have our Audrey. That’s not fair. And Mama doesn’t have to go rushing off to see it every day. I’m beginning to forget what she looks like.’

‘
Are
you?’ Mary said, blue eyes wide.

‘Not really,’ Nat admitted. He was aggrieved but he had to be truthful. ‘But that’s what it feels like. When was the last time she read us a fairy story?’

Mary couldn’t remember.

‘There you are then.’

‘I tell ’ee what,’ Mary said, trying to cheer him. ‘Let’s take Spot out for a walk.’

‘Who with?’ Nat wanted to know. They always went for walks with Audrey.

There was a lot of the daredevil in Mary. ‘Ourselves,’ she said.

So they took the dog and went out for a very long walk, across the fields until they came to Monkgate and then back home through the crowded streets. And as they were strolling along Goodramgate, calling to Spot to keep up with them, who should they meet coming out of the draper’s with two fat parcels in her shopping basket but Mrs Hudson. She was rather surprised to see them and stopped to talk.

‘You’re never on your own,’ she said. ‘Surely.’

‘Oh yes,’ Nat said with splendid aplomb. ‘We often walk on our own nowadays, don’t we, Mary?’

Mary agreed with him, staunchly, nodding her head and giving Mrs Hudson the benefit of her honest blue eyes.

‘I thought you had a nursemaid,’ Lizzie said.

‘We’re much too old for nursemaids now,’ Nat said grandly. ‘I’m going to school next year. You don’t need a nursemaid when you’re a scholar. She’s gone to help our sister Milly with her new baby.’

‘Fancy!’ Lizzie said, and she was thinking, Just wait till I tell George all this.

He wasn’t the least bit interested, although she thought she’d chosen her moment well, between the roast and the sweet, when he was full fed and had drunk a great deal of wine and ought to have been in a good humour. But when she’d told him all about meeting the children and how she was sure the little dog was Dickie’s that he used to have, he was the spit and image, if a dog can be the spit and image if you know what I mean, and about Milly’s baby and how she could hardly believe it, she truly couldn’t, he put down his empty glass and glared at her.

‘What are you talking about?’ he said.

‘Milly’s baby,’ she told him, quivering a little because he looked so stern.

‘Who?’ he hooted.

‘Milly,’ she said and now she was visibly quivering. ‘You remember Milly. She was Dickie’s nursemaid and a better one you couldn’t hope to find. I mean to say, the way she picked him up off the floor when he’d tumbled over that time, poor little man, and kissed it better….’

‘Why do you imagine I should be interested in some nursemaid’s child?’ he said crossly, pouring himself more wine. ‘I’ve got better things to do with my time. It’s the grand opening of the York to London railway in a matter of weeks, or have ’ee forgot?’ He sighed dramatically. ‘There are times when I despair of you, Lizzie, I truly do.’

‘She’s Jane’s daughter,’ Lizzie ploughed on. ‘You remember Jane. Mrs Smith as was when she was our housekeeper only now she’s Mrs Cartwright, of course, on account of marrying Mr Cartwright.’

‘If you’ve nothing more illuminating to talk about than housekeepers and nursemaids, you’d be better to stay silent,’ George told her sternly. ‘These people are nothing to me. I have a railway to run.’ And another to build and profits to watch.

Trade had not been good for the last twelve months, with the price of most shares falling rather too steeply and far too many bankruptcies and far too many shops closing, which was never a good sign. In fact there was a general air of decided gloom pervading the city and something would have to be done to dispel it. I must organize something spectacular for the grand opening, he thought. That should do the trick.

The first train on the York to London line ran on 30 June, exactly as Mr Hudson had promised. Thanks to his extravagant planning, it was a great occasion with bunting fluttering in the summer breeze, a band playing very loudly and occasionally in tune, and magnums of champagne being served to the guests. When the train puffed away from the station there was a chorus of happily contented cheers.

I must push them to get on with the railway hotel, George thought as he looked back along the line. We need Mr Andrews’ grand building up and running. Our little station won’t do at all now we’ve got a direct line to London – and that site’s been cleared and ready for nearly a year. There’s no need for all this shilly-shallying. The council must be made to see it. As always on these occasions, he felt he was equal to anything. Let lesser men go to the wall, he thought, as the engine blew its triumphant whistle. I mean to go from strength to strength.

Young Master Felix Nathaniel Fitzwilliam, having been given the
traditional
silver spoon and had his name put down for Eton in the traditional way, was going from strength to strength that summer too. He was
christened
when he was three weeks old, looking angelically pretty in the family christening gown and with his entire and fashionable family gathered about the font in their grand clothes and their most elegant hats and bonnets to welcome him into the clan. His father looked particularly handsome in his fine clothes with a Prince Albert moustache silky on his upper lip and his mother wore her finest day gown, with its seams let out for the occasion, and smiled a welcome to her guests as if she were a lady born.

‘We shall expect great things of him,’ Lady Sarah told her brother, when the company was back in Foster Manor sipping champagne.

‘He won’t disappoint you,’ Felix promised her. ‘He has a splendid spirit.’

‘Never a truer word!’ Milly laughed. ‘I never knew such a determined baby.’

She was right, for despite his angelic appearance, with that soft fair hair and that delicate skin, he was a lusty child and had made it clear, almost from his first day, that he had no intention of being asked to wait for anything, especially his food. By the time he was five months old and was sitting up in his highchair, he had learnt to bang on the table with his spoon and to go on banging until he got the attention he wanted. But he had a smile of such melting sweetness that Milly said she couldn’t deny him anything. And his grandmother was bewitched by him and took the carriage to visit him whenever she could.