It came as a shock. She felt a little intake of breath, a sense of cold fear. She was familiar with the mansions of the New Forest; she had visited the great house of Wilton up at Sarum; but she had never seen anything like this before.
The vast classical palace of Blenheim, named after the duke’s most famous victory over King Louis XIV of France, did not sit in the landscape: it spread across it like a cavalry charge in stone. Its baroque magnificence utterly dwarfed even the largest of England’s manor-mansions. It was not an English country house. It was a European palace, of a kind with the Louvre, or Versailles, or one of the great Austrian palaces that stretch across the horizon at Vienna – behind whose classical façades one may sense a spirit of almost oriental power, like that of the Russian tsars, or the Turkic khans of the endless steppe.
For even in England, in that age – when portraits of aristocrats depicted them in the poses of classical gods – the founder of the Churchill family was not to be housed like a mortal. It was a quarter of a mile from the kitchens to the dining room.
They toured the house first. The Duke of Marlborough’s marbled halls and galleries had a haughty grandeur she had never encountered before. This, she realized, was an aristocratic world quite outside and beyond her own. She felt a little overawed. She noticed that Mr Martell looked quite at home, though.
‘There is a connection between Blenheim and the New Forest,’ Mr Gilpin reminded them. ‘The last Duke of Montagu, whose family owns Beaulieu, married Marlborough’s daughter. So the lords of Beaulieu now are partly Churchills too.’
They admired the Rubens paintings. ‘The first family picture in England,’ announced Gilpin of one. Although of the picture of the Holy Family he roundly declared: ‘It is flat. It possesses little of the master’s fire. Except, Fanny, you may agree, in the old woman’s head.’ But despite all the wonders of the palace, Fanny was not sorry when Mr Gilpin finally led them out to survey the park.
The park at Blenheim was very large, one of the greatest that Capability Brown had ever undertaken. There were no small comforts like those favoured by Repton: no modest walks or flower beds, but great sweeps across which all Marlborough’s armies might have marched. God, it seemed to say, in framing nature, had only presumed to make a rough preparation, to be ordered and given meaning by the authority of an English duke. So it was that the park at Blenheim, with its broad arrangement of stream and lake, belts of woodland and endless open vistas, rolled away towards a conquered horizon.
‘Every advantage has been taken, which could add variety to grandeur,’ declared Gilpin as they began their promenade.
They all chatted together quite easily by now. As she walked with Mr Gilpin behind the other three, she saw that even Louisa was saying a few words to Mr Martell, about the scenery or the weather no doubt; and if Mr Martell did not say much, he seemed to be replying, at least. One could not deny, whatever one’s opinion of him, that Mr Martell looked very handsome in this setting.
At one point, when a particularly fine vista, cunningly contrived by the genius of Brown, opened out before them, Gilpin cried out: ‘There. As grand a burst, I should term it, as art ever displayed. Picturesque. A scene, Fanny, for you to sketch. You would do it admirably.’
Mr Martell turned. ‘You draw, Miss Albion?’
‘A little.’ Fanny replied.
‘Do you draw, Mr Martell?’ Louisa asked; but he did not turn back to her.
‘Badly, I fear. But I have the highest admiration for those who do.’ And looking, now, straight at Fanny, he smiled.
‘My cousin Louisa draws quite as well as I do, Mr Martell,’ said Fanny with a slight blush.
‘I do not doubt it,’ he said politely and faced round again to resume his conversation.
Having walked some distance, they turned to look back at the palace of the Churchills and, by way of making conversation, she asked what was the origin of the family.
‘Royalists in the Civil War, certainly,’ said Gilpin. ‘A West Country family. Not one of the oldest or noblest, though, I think.’
‘Not like you, Martell,’ Edward laughed. ‘He’s a Norman. The Martells came with William the Conqueror, didn’t they?’
‘So’, replied Martell with a slight smile, ‘I have always been told.’
‘There you are,’ said Edward cheerfully. ‘No drop of lowly blood pollutes his veins; no contact with trade has ever blotted his escutcheon. Confess it, Martell. It’s very good of you to talk to us.’
Martell greeted this with an amused shake of the head.
Fanny was a little surprised to hear Edward raise the subject in this way when, as a Totton and undoubtedly still in trade, it might have seemed to place him at a disadvantage. But watching Martell’s amused reaction, she realized there was an element of calculation in her cousin’s boyish candour. With his own mother, she realized, belonging to a minor gentry family, his links to the Burrards – his close relationship, come to that, with herself, an Albion – young Edward Totton was already within the circle of relationship of the gentry. His oblique reference to his own family being in trade was therefore a subtle invitation to the aristocrat to tell him it didn’t matter.
‘I amaze myself sometimes,’ Martell finally remarked, rising very creditably to the occasion, ‘that I talk to anyone at all.’
At which Edward grinned and Louisa laughed; and Fanny, if the truth were told, could not help being secretly pleased that she was an Albion.
They walked back to their carriage after that, the two girls together with Mr Gilpin, Edward and his friend talking to each other. Everyone seemed in high spirits, except for Mr Gilpin, who had fallen rather silent.
Before they got into their carriage, however, it was time to bid farewell to Mr Martell, who had to ride on to another house in the neighbourhood.
‘But we are not parting for very long,’ Edward announced, ‘for Martell has agreed to come and stay with us, in Lymington. Quite soon, he says. It’s all agreed.’
This was a surprise indeed: yet not, Fanny had to confess, entirely unwelcome. After all, if he were at the Tottons’ house, she should not be obliged to see him more than she wished.
So they all said goodbye and watched him ride off, and then returned to Oxford for their final dinner before their departure with Mr Gilpin, whom they did not forget, at dinner, all to thank.
Fanny found as, with the help of the inn’s maid, she packed her clothes, that she was in a very cheerful mood.
She was somewhat taken aback, therefore, when Louisa suddenly declared: ‘Are you sure, Fanny, that you do not like Mr Martell.’
‘I? I do not think so Louisa. Not really.’
‘Oh,’ returned Louisa, giving her a strange little look. ‘Well, I do.’
Puckle set out soon after dawn. Nobody took any special notice. You didn’t ask where Puckle was going. He was a man of secrets.
Only a handful of the men who worked at Buckler’s Hard actually lived there; and although there was a village just outside the gateway to Beaulieu Abbey, not many of the labourers and carpenters lodged there either, since neither the owners of Beaulieu nor the villagers wanted them.
The reason was simple. If a labourer lived in Beaulieu parish and fell sick or grew old, he might become a charge on the Poor Rate, which meant that the parish, by law, would have to support him, his widow, possibly even his children. Naturally, therefore, all over England, parishes did their best to unload their poor upon their neighbours, sometimes going to great trouble to discover the distant birthplace of some poor person, for instance, in order that the charges could be levied there.
The solution for the Buckler’s Hard workers had consisted of a new settlement. Down the western boundary of the Beaulieu estate, along the edge of the open heath, a straggle of cottages had sprung up. Technically they had no right to be there, for each plot was actually an encroachment upon the king’s forest, but although there had been some talk of their removal, nothing had been done. As the settlement lay along th
e estate’s boundary, it was known as Beaulieu Rails, although sometimes called East Boldre. It was only two miles or so from the shipyard, so the workers had no further to walk than if they’d lived at Beaulieu village.
But they were off the parish.
Puckle had lived at Beaulieu Rails for many years, but would still go over to the western side of the Forest once in a while, where most of his relations lived, so when he set out across the heath that Sunday morning his neighbours assumed he was going there. They might have been surprised, therefore, when, across the heath, he instead made his way northwards through the woods, past Lyndhurst and even Minstead. It was mid-morning when he came along the edge of the trees to the meeting place, which he had selected both for its distance from his home and because, from there, it would be easy to retire into the deeper seclusion of the woods nearby. As he drew close, he noted with satisfaction that the place was deserted.
The Rufus tree was gone. Its hollowed old hulk had finally rotted down into a stump which had disintegrated half a century earlier. In its place, however, a stone had been erected to commemorate the historic site. For although its miraculous winter greening was still remembered by some, it was the tree’s false reputation, as the site of King William Rufus’s death, that was now enshrined in stone. Nor was this all: even Purkiss and his cart had now become a matter of historical record.
At the stone, Puckle stopped and looked around. A short distance away stood the old tree’s two sons. One had been pollarded, the other had not. Puckle’s expert eye took in both at once. The pollard oak would not make good ship’s timber, for the pollarding process made for weaker joints; but the other, he noticed, had been marked for felling any time. And it was from behind this tree that a figure now emerged, to whom he nodded.
Grockleton was on time.
He walked over and joined the Customs man under the oak, where they stood together. Puckle glanced around again.
‘We are alone,’ said Grockleton. ‘I’ve been watching.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
Grockleton waited a moment, to see if the Forest man was going to open the conversation; but as it seemed not, he began: ‘You think you can help me?’
‘Maybe.’
‘How?’
‘I might tell you things.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘I has my reasons.’
The scene Grockleton had witnessed was still vivid in his mind. What this fellow had done to annoy the landlord of the Angel Inn he had not discovered, but it had clearly been more than a question of brawling or drunkenness. Indeed, Puckle had appeared to be quite cool and sober at the time. But whatever it was that had caused Isaac Seagull to drag him to the entrance of the Angel and, quite literally, kick him into the High Street in front of him, Grockleton would never forget the look this fellow had given Seagull as he picked himself up. It wasn’t drunken anger: it was pure, undying hatred. Customs officer although he was, Grockleton had never received a look like that. He hoped he never did.
Shortly afterwards he had ridden after the Forest man as he went home and, passing him on a deserted stretch of the lane, remarked quietly that he would pay well if there was anything Puckle ever wished to tell him. It was just a hunch, of course, but it was the job of a Customs officer to make such approaches.
He hadn’t really expected anything to come of it; but two days later Puckle had made contact. And now they were talking.
‘What sort of things could you tell me? Things about Isaac Seagull?’
He couldn’t be sure that the landlord of the Angel was actively involved in the smuggling. Normally speaking, you could assume that the landlord of any inn received contraband, but he had long suspected that Seagull might be doing far more.
‘He’s a devil,’ Puckle said bitterly.
‘I had the impression you quarrelled.’
‘We have.’ Puckle paused. ‘’Tain’t only that, though.’ He looked down. ‘You heard about when they raided Ambrose Hole a few years back?’
‘Of course.’ Although the raid on the gang of highway-men had taken place just before his arrival in Lymington, Grockleton could not fail to be aware of it.
The other man now spat with disgust. ‘Two of them taken was my family. An’ you know who gave them away? Isaac damned Seagull. He knows I know, too.’ This was cause for hatred indeed. Grockleton listened carefully. ‘He treats me like a dog all the same,’ Puckle continued with heartfelt bitterness, ‘because he reckons I’m afraid of him.’
‘Are you afraid of him?’
Puckle said nothing, as though unwilling to admit it. His gnarled face reminded Grockleton of a stunted oak, just as Seagull’s made him think of a jaunty lugger, with a sail run up before the breeze.
‘Yes,’ the forest man said quietly at last, ‘I fear him.’ And then, looking straight at Grockleton: ‘So should any man.’
Grockleton understood. Violence between the smugglers and the Customs men was rare, but it could happen. Once or twice, if he had given them too much trouble, a riding officer might get a knock on the door and a bullet in the head. His claw-like hand clenched, but he gave no other sign. He was quite a brave man.
‘So what do you want?’ Puckle asked.
‘To intercept a big run. On shore. What else?’
‘You haven’t the men to do it.’
‘That’s my business.’
Puckle looked thoughtful. ‘You’d have to pay me a lot of money,’ he said.
‘A share of what we take.’ They both knew this could be a small fortune.
‘You’d take Isaac Seagull?’
‘So long as he’s there, yes.’
‘Kill him,’ Puckle said quietly.
‘They’d have to shoot at us.’
‘They will. I’ll need money before. Plenty. And a fast horse.’ Seeing Grockleton look doubtful he continued: ‘What d’you think they’ll do to me if they find out?’
‘They might not.’
‘They would. I’ll have to leave the Forest. Go away. A long way.’
Grockleton tried to imagine Puckle outside the Forest. It wasn’t easy. People did leave, of course. Not often, but it happened. And with plenty of money … He tried to imagine Puckle with money and couldn’t do that either, but then he sighed to himself. People changed when they acquired wealth, even a man like this. Who knew what he would become with money in some other place? Puckle was mysterious. ‘Fifty pounds,’ he said. ‘The rest later. We can arrange for you to collect your share in Winchester, London, wherever you like.’
He saw Puckle react, then try to hide it. The sum had impressed him. Good.
‘Won’t be for a while, yet,’ Puckle said. ‘You know that.’
Grockleton nodded. The big smuggling runs were usually done in winter when the nights were long.
‘One thing,’ the Forest man went on, looking thoughtful. ‘I’d need a way of getting word to you. Can’t be seen near you myself.’
‘I know. I’ve thought about that already. I may have a solution.’
‘Oh. What’s that, then?’
‘A boy,’ said Grockleton.
It was some weeks before Mr Martell came to Lymington, but when he did, he chose his time carefully.
On a fine summer morning he rode down the turnpike into the town. He was feeling optimistic. He had preferred to ride ahead, leaving his manservant to follow in the chaise with his dressing case and portmanteau. As he rode past the turnpike’s tollgate at the entrance to the borough, he realized that he had never been here before.
He had no doubt that he would have a pleasant visit and an interesting one, too. He liked young Edward Totton. They might not have a lot in common, but he had always liked the younger man’s cheerful spirit and the fact that Totton wasn’t frightened of him, which many people were. He actually quite enjoyed his stern reputation: it protected him from those who would have liked to take advantage of him; but it amused him when a young fellow like Totton refused to be abashed. Besid
es, in this case it was actually he who was intending to make use of Edward Totton.
Mr Wyndham Martell was in an enviable position: he didn’t have to please anyone. Master of a large estate, heir to another, a graduate of Oxford, of good character: in the society in which he lived there was no man, unless such a person were impertinent, to find fault with him. If he was courteous – and in his somewhat reserved way he was – this was because he would have despised himself for being anything else. The only danger to his enviable estate might have been if he were a gambler or a debauchee and Martell, whose natural inclinations were towards the pleasures of the intellect, was far too proud to be either. He had enough personal vanity to present himself well; he had concluded, quite reasonably, that for a man in his position to be without vanity would be an affectation. He intended, for himself and for his family name, to make a figure in the world and he could afford to do it on his own terms. That is to say, he had decided to enter public life as that phenomenon, so rare in the politics of any age, an independent man who cannot be bought. And if this should be adduced as evidence that his pride was really quite above the usual, why then, so it must have been.
His real reason for coming to see young Edward Totton, besides his kindly feelings towards the young man, was that Lymington, which lay conveniently between his two estates, returned two Members of Parliament.
‘And I think that at the next election’, he had informed his father, ‘I might like to be one of them.’
Why had the modest borough of Lymington two Members of Parliament? The short answer was that good Queen Bess had granted them a few years before the Armada when she wanted some extra political support. Did two Members for such a small place seem excessive nowadays? Not very, when you considered that Old Sarum, the so-called pocket borough on the deserted castle hill above Salisbury, returned two Members – and had practically no inhabitants at all.
The system of elections evolved in the borough of Lymington was actually typical of many of England’s towns in that Age of Reason and, it must be said, it had the merits of safety, convenience and economy. Indeed, its electors considered it a model for all times and places.