Hugh Kenrick (22 page)

Crispin Hillier was a short, compact man, tending to the rotund, though he was lively and active enough for a wit and fellow member of the Commons to dub him the “Moloch of Mitigation.” He was a Londoner by birth and preference, though this did not stop him from representing a rural constituency he visited only from necessity, perhaps once a year, and during election weeks, and knew less about than did a native of Calais. He was a lawyer, and maintained a practice that often took him to the Law Courts in nearby Westminster Hall to represent clients ranging from bankrupt gentlemen and jilted brides to notorious felons and unlucky pickpockets. He carried a silver-topped cane, dressed in the dark hues of a Quaker, and wore reading glasses. He was painfully respectable.

Now, the House of Lords, though not an elective body, acted as a kind of senate for the country, as a check on the power of the Commons. Though it could not originate “money bills,” that is, bills that had to do with raising revenue by taxes or means of any kind, it had the power to veto or amend any that came from the Commons. The Commons jealously guarded its privilege of originating money bills; if any were submitted or amended by the Lords, these bills, before discussion or recognition, were in the Commons literally and contemptuously tossed to the floor by the Speaker or his clerk. But if amendments to a Commons money bill were by consensus viewed as practical, the bill was redrafted to incorporate the Lords’ changes, and usually passed by the Commons and then sent to the king for his assent. Nor could the Lords change any fundamental feature of a money
bill, such as the rates of taxation, the method or agency of collection, or the estimated revenue from the new charge; it could only attach amendments that would mollify or increase its severity.

The House of Lords, to which the Earl belonged as a peer, was powerless over the nation’s purse; this was a consequence of the Commonwealth and Protectorate of nearly a century before. The Commons reserved the right, won after centuries of warring with kings and lords, to judge what was good for the country and what was not. On one hand, this was a good thing, a step in the right direction; on the other, a bad thing, for the Commons, though it ostensibly represented the eligible electorate and regularly heard passionate oratory on the liberties of the Englishman, represented its members exclusively and bitterly fumed about its privileges.

The Commons’ chief enemy was the Englishman and his liberties, and so far as the typical member was concerned, an Englishman’s liberty was limited to the right to elect him, but did not extend to telling him what to advocate or vote for; all else was privilege. Crispin Hillier and many of his better-read colleagues on the benches agreed with parliamentarian Narcissus Luttrell’s observation in 1693 that, regarding the rights of Englishmen, “their representatives are here, and their consent is sufficient.” This was a presumptive power for which Parliament had beheaded a king, banished many a lord, and persecuted legions of royalist pamphleteers and essayists. The Commons had abrogated an abuse, but called it governance. It was quite constitutional.

Hillier’s value to Basil Kenrick was his envied privilege to introduce private bills in the Commons, specifically money bills and bills that would allay the effect of land taxes and assessments on property. Hillier was occasionally successful in getting these passed, no mean feat even for one who had mastered the complex and byzantine rules and procedures of the Commons. Hillier also joined, and on occasion led, opposition to any ministerial proposals he construed as displeasing to the Earl, such as a reduction in import duties on certain commodities or the relaxation of criminal or revenue law, though, of course, he would never mention the Earl. His ardor in this realm had earned him the wit’s nickname.

Hillier also sat on many committees that reviewed petitions against new and old taxes; petitions against new taxes were summarily rejected, for the unspoken rule of the Commons was to take no cognizance of any challenge to its power; petitions concerning the burdens of old taxes were accepted and discussed, for the members knew that a merciful recognition
of one grievance could be balanced with the callous ignorance of another. “What one hand giveth back, another taketh away,” Hillier had slyly remarked on numerous occasions with his fellow committeemen when they had reluctantly granted the petitioners’ grievance the venue of debate from the benches of the Commons.

And so, in the quiet of the Earl’s study, in comfortable chairs and with tea and brandy at their elbows, Crispin Hillier and Basil Kenrick talked. Hillier reported on many things, among them: the mood of the Commons vis-à-vis the Duke of Newcastle and the French threat; the rumor that the Speaker, Arthur Onslow, had indicated a wish to retire, perhaps before the current Parliament had adjourned; the status of various private and ministry bills before the House, and in which the Earl had an interest; the expected resignation, or even dismissal, of William Pitt as Paymaster of the Army, and possibly even that of Henry Legge, Chancellor of the Exchequer, in light of their opposition to the Hessian subsidies; and Sir Henoch Pannell’s speech on the colonies.

When Hillier had finished reciting the gist of Pannell’s speech, Basil Kenrick was silent for a moment, the clip-clop of hooves and the rattle of coach wheels on Whitehall Street beyond the courtyard wall seeming to mark the progress of his thoughts. Presently, he said, “Goodness, Hillier, that won’t do!”

Hillier smiled. “That was the sentiment of many members, your lordship, as I learned upon canvassing the House in the lobby some hours after the event. Though, however, many others received the speech with fervent alacrity.”

“Alacrity,” sighed the Earl. “Such a harsh-sounding word, don’t you think? Confound it, Hillier, it ought to mean the opposite of what it does! Every time I encounter it, I think of some unpleasantness, such as alum, or acid! ‘Lord So-and-So punched Mr. By-and-By on the nose with alacrity for the insult,’ or, ‘Mr. Hillier replied with alacrity to each of Mr. Pitt’s points, and made the former cornet of horse choke on his own confusion.’ Do you see what I mean?”

Hillier chuckled in amusement. “I quite agree with you, your lordship. But that is a matter you must perhaps take up with Mr. Johnson.”

“If Mr. Johnson is not on speaking terms with his former patron, the Earl of Chesterfield, he would hardly trade words with me.” The Earl grunted once, then asked, “Do you think Sir Henoch made a permanent impression?”

“No, your lordship, I do not.” Hillier put aside his cup and saucer to think for a minute. “I would express it this way: Sir Henoch waved his own ensign, to which many rallied in the heat of the moment, but it was subsequently deserted on the approach of the Hessians.” Hillier cocked his head once. “It was undoubtedly a cunning speech, your lordship. I wish I’d made it myself. I told him so, too, and asked him what was his purpose. He was somewhat circumspect, though he assured me he would not raise the subject again. He was content with the results.”

“But you gave me to understand there were no results.”

“None that we can see, your lordship—except, perhaps, that Sir Henoch has proved to himself and to others that there exist grounds for concern—or that they will exist, once the war is finished, and it has not yet even begun. Who knows how much time will pass, and what the outcome will be?”

“Are you in agreement with him, Hillier?” asked the Earl. “I mean, ought the colonies to be chastised and brought to brook?”

Hillier shook his head. “No, your lordship, not at present. Though I must concede that sooner or later—preferably later—the issue should be faced and resolved. The colonies are growing ever so full of themselves, and if we expend men and treasure to retain them, well…they may possibly conclude that they are too valuable to remain colonies.” Hillier paused to finish a thought, and added, “They may conclude that they are a cause unto themselves.” He frowned. “That, I believe, was the warning contained in Sir Henoch’s speech.” He shook his head. “I must credit him for knowing that it was not a point to be said in so many words.”

The Earl scoffed in protest. “Surely, such rifled wisdom is not possible to that…puffed-up buffoon! I have made Sir Henoch’s brief acquaintance, or rather he made mine, and cannot believe that the rascal is some sort of Oracle of Albion!”

Hillier shrugged. “I’m certain that it is a wisdom, your lordship, that emanates, not from the head, but from a queasy gut. When the time comes, I believe we shall all know the sensation, and speak as Sir Henoch spoke, from the rumbling turmoil of our innermost fears.”

“Hmmm…fears that we may lose the colonies, and the better part of our great fortune? Fears of other kinds of unstoppable disturbances?”

“Yes, your lordship.”

A moment passed, and then the Earl sat forward and folded his hands on the desk. “Well, that won’t do, either, Hillier. They oughtn’t to be chastised,
unless they provoke the Crown. And they needn’t be chastised, if they are not given cause to complain or otherwise misbehave. And speeches like Sir Henoch’s would give them cause.”

“Well put, your lordship!” said Hillier. “Said with inspired alacrity! Do you plan to speak in Lords?”

“No, no,” replied the Earl, waving a hand. “Not unless I am myself provoked! But—are you certain that Sir Henoch will not pursue the matter?”

“No, I’m not entirely certain of it, your lordship. I’ve only had his assurances. Should he speak on the subject again, it must be outside the House. Mr. Onslow would not permit it to be put in the business of the day.”

“Yes, of course. But we must be certain that he does not stir up trouble in any quarter.”

Hillier frowned. “Excuse me, your lordship, but we can’t stop a man, or even a member, from speaking his mind outside the House, unless he means something treasonable or seditious.”

Basil Kenrick smiled. “I wish to make better acquaintance with Sir Henoch, Hillier. You will invite him, on my behalf, to sup with me and you tomorrow evening. Here, of course, as we wouldn’t want to be seen together in public. There may be other guests, including my nephew.”

Hillier was dumbfounded. Never before, in his long association with the Earl, had he ever been invited to sit at table with him. Not even in Danvers. He had made plans, barring a long session of the House, to go to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow evening, but that was now impossible. And he was certain that Sir Henoch Pannell would also cancel his own plans, once he had received such an invitation.

“Yes, your lordship,” said the member for Onyxcombe, with a bow of his head.

T
HE SUPPER ROOM OF
W
INDRIDGE
C
OURT WAS A RECTANGULAR SPACE
twice as long as its banquet-sized table, with cream-colored papered walls punctuated by silver sconces, gold neoclassical statues on marble pedestals in blue niches, and portraits of ancestors of the Kenrick family.

There were eight of the latter, though not all were of earls. Two represented barons, younger brothers of their primogeniture-favored siblings. One was of Sir Bowler Kenrick, member for Onyxcombe under Elizabeth I, gentleman usher to that queen, author of two published treatises on mathematics, and the family’s only dabbler in physics, for which he was very nearly charged with witchcraft. The other was of Sir Stanier Kenrick, also member for Onyxcombe—the last Kenrick to sit in the Commons on behalf of the dynasty—adventurer, traveler, renowned minor poet, unrepentant rake, planner of the grounds of the Danvers estate, and captain of a troop of cavalry that participated in the decisive charge at Blenheim in 1704 and captured three French colors; Sir Stanier personally presented those colors to his commander, the Duke of Marlborough, and they now hung with all the other Duke’s captured banners in the vast arcade of Westminster Hall. Neither brother outlived his elder one to inherit the earldom. Both had had their likenesses recorded at their own expense: Sir Bowler with his trimmed beard, ruffled collar, and a twinkle in his eyes, holding in his arms a great tome whose Latin title was obscure and illegible; Sir Stanier with his shoulder-length locks, feathered tricorn, and filigreed breastplate, which bore the indentations of several French musket balls and the crisscrossing scars of innumerable sword-hits, standing with a sword in one hand and a captured banner in another.

There was not a single smile, however, on any of the portraits, earl or baron. They glared at each other from across the room, or down at the occupants of the banquet table.

Hugh Kenrick appeared promptly at nine in this room, and crossed it to the table, whose far end had been laid for two settings.

Basil Kenrick, fifteenth Earl of Danvers, stiffened as a servant closed the door behind his nephew and as he watched the boy approach. A boy?
No, thought the Earl. And not quite a man. He could not fathom the change in Hugh, but it was a change nonetheless. He was seated at the head of the table, but in an instant Hugh was standing before him, almost like a soldier at attention braced for a dressing-down. Yet, there was an aloof, almost menacing quality to his person, and in his movements and carriage. The phenomenon put the Earl on his guard. He had the unshakable feeling that he himself was the object, not of deference or respect, but of toleration, and that in this toleration was an element of indifference. For a moment, he experienced the humbled insignificance of a servant in the presence of a true aristocrat. He fought a compulsion to rise and bow to Hugh in greeting.

Basil Kenrick had never before addressed his nephew by name. He had always resorted to “sir,” or “young sir,” or “you.” But as a concession to his brother, he had secretly practiced pronouncing “Hugh” in the privacy of his chambers and study. And now he could not utter the simple syllable; some unsavory emotion choked it in his throat. He started to say “sir,” but decided on “nephew.” It seemed easier. He tried to imbue the word with a quantum of affection; he was not certain he succeeded. Worse still, he had the absurd notion, as he spoke, that the eyes of all his ancestors were upon him, witnessing his predicament with the silent jeering capable only to an aristocrat.

None of these things endeared his nephew to Basil Kenrick.

After what seemed like an eternity, he said, “Good evening, nephew. You are looking well.”

Hugh, with a nod of his head, replied, “Good evening, sire. As are you.”

The Earl gestured to the setting near him. “Please, nephew, sit.” With another hand he signaled to two waiting servants, who stood by a long table that held the supper on trays covered with copper and silver domes.

As he took his seat, Hugh realized that this was the first time he had ever been alone with his uncle. He was not aware of any tension between himself and the man, only of the strain within himself to be civil, and the effort to keep from exhibiting his boredom and indifference. He sensed that his uncle was uncomfortable, too, and decided to put him at his ease. And so he tactfully remarked on the precedent.

“Yes,” replied the Earl, astonished both by the fact and the gentleness with which Hugh made the observation. “It is the first time, is it not? Well, it is my earnest hope that this repast augurs the foundation of a mutual confelicity between us.” A servant approached and put a plate of food
before him.

The reply, “Pompous ass,” flashed through Hugh’s mind. He hoped it did not show in his expression. Another servant placed a plate of food in front of him. Hugh began to ask his uncle what he had been doing, but stopped, because it struck him that his uncle did nothing, and would not be able to reply. It was inconceivable that he would be doing anything. Instead, he asked his uncle why he had decided to attend Lords.

“To know what is the mood of Parliament, and to block any actions that would imperil this nation,” said the Earl. “Newcastle must be prodded into taking stronger actions to prepare for this conflict with France, or into stepping down and letting someone who will take those measures steer our policy.”

“The French seem to be after our colonies,” said Hugh. “One can only wonder how the colonists would fare under the French Crown. There is France, with twenty millions of people, and an estimated revenue of twenty millions of pounds per annum, and it is all at the uncontested disposal of the Crown. I believe that if the French tore the colonies from us, the colonists would revolt against France.”

The Earl blinked at this statement. “Why do you think that, nephew?”

Hugh shrugged. “I do not believe the colonists would tolerate the terms of conquest which the French ministry would likely impose, nor long put up with being treated like cattle, as much of the French populace are.”

The Earl did not wish to pursue this line of conversation. He himself believed that the colonists ought to be at the absolute disposal of his own Crown, and that they were merely extraordinary servants of it. However, he did not want to seem reluctant to discuss the subject. “Yes, of course,” he said. “So we must establish a policy that will retain the colonies, and see to it that the French are removed from Canada, and from the Indies. Then we shall enjoy peace again.” He paused. “Your father reports that you are excelling in your studies here,” he broached.

Hugh knew that his uncle had changed the subject, but did not understand why. “It is a good school,” he replied. “The instructors are sound. One is left alone to master the subjects, and not much required to engage in social distractions or sports, as pupils are at other schools.”

The Earl, so adept at conversation with his peers, and with men like Crispin Hillier, found himself helpless from that point on to raise any subject that would elicit the interest of his nephew. Secretly he hoped to incite Hugh to make some outrageous, offensive statement that would give him
an excuse to punish him or exert some kind of control over him. Checking this wish was a curiosity about the boy’s new manner. As they ate, their conversation continued in fits and starts, the Earl introducing mundane subjects, and Hugh responding with frigid courtesy.

The Earl, after one long silence, raised the subject of his brother’s new project. “The Earl of Uxbridge, as you know, has had some troubles with the villagers and cottars around his park who wish to destroy his rabbits. That is because he regularly prosecutes poachers of them, and will not allow free ingress on his lands for any reason. Your father does not anticipate such trouble.”

On this subject, Hugh agreed. The villagers and tenants in and around Danvers had a certain affection for his father, who treated them fairly and generously. This affection, he knew, did not extend to his uncle. “Yes,” he replied. “Father wrote to me about the conies. He expects them to be a profitable venture.” He changed the subject. “Do you expect to attend any concerts or plays while you are here, sire?”

The Earl almost smiled, so pleased was he with this diplomatic tack, and grateful, for he knew what his nephew, brother, and the villagers thought of him. “Perhaps,” he said, “if time allows, and if it is not tiring.” He paused to take a sip of wine. “Have you been to Lords?” he asked.

Hugh shook his head. “No, but I have been to the Commons, and heard speeches made. Our neighbor, Sir Henoch, gave one on the colonies that roused the benches and the galleries.”

The Earl regarded his nephew with new interest. “Oh? Mr. Hillier was here earlier, and told me about it. What did you think of it?”

“It was a heartfelt address, moved by a curious enmity toward the colonies.” Hugh paused in what his uncle sensed was the first instance this evening of genuine interest. “I would say that he cozened the House into sharing this enmity, except that I do not believe that the House was entirely a dupe of his artifice.”

“Perhaps it was not,” remarked the Earl. “But…you were not persuaded by his artifice?”

“No, sire. It seemed to be a speech without purpose, as another member rose and pointed out, but there is always a purpose to such well-laid ranting. I have learned that in my rhetoric lessons.” Hugh sighed and pushed his half-finished plate away, and a servant whisked it from the table. “And then the House debated some election grievances, which were postponed, and turned to some minor, silly-sounding bills. I did not hear
what was said about Mr. Pitt’s cause, or whether the Crown’s war chest was deep enough to oppose the French, because I had promised Mr. Worley I would assist him in the afternoon and left before anything else was said. But I met Sir Henoch in the Yard, and had a cordial exchange with him.”

The Earl made up his mind. “I am pleased to hear this, nephew. I am having him and Hillier here tomorrow evening for supper. You will have occasion to exchange pleasantries with Sir Henoch again, as I wish you to attend, also. As a kind of ally, you see. Then you will witness some true politicking.”

“We did not exchange pleasantries, begging your pardon, sire,” said Hugh. “I scored him on his artifice, but he is quite a resilient sophist.”

“So much the better,” said the Earl. He paused. “A word of caution, though. At tomorrow evening’s table, speak from true motives, but never talk sententiously. Keep your wisdom with your pocket watch, and produce it only when you think it necessary.”

The request was a demand, Hugh realized, and could not be refused. “Yes, sire,” he replied without enthusiasm.

A servant set a large glass of syllabub topped with strawberries in front of him. It was a favorite of his, but now he had lost what little appetite he had. The supper and conversation droned on, and an hour later his uncle dismissed him. Hugh went to his room and fell upon his bed, drained of energy. He had not known, until now, how exhausting self-control could be.

*  *  *

“What is the nature of your borough, Sir Henoch?” asked the Earl the next evening.

There were five settings now at the richly appointed table. Crispin Hillier and Sir Henoch sat across from each other along a length of it; the positions of their chairs had been minutely adjusted so that they sat at a subtle distance from the Earl at the head of the table.

At the Earl’s right sat Hugh, who had resumed his rigid formality. To the Earl’s left sat an elderly man who did not seem to know why he was here. This was Andrew, Viscount of Wilbourne, another close neighbor of the Kenricks. He was an amateur botanist who grew flowers in his small garden that overlooked the Thames. He also bred racing dogs. He had once served as proxy Lord Chancellor in Lords—a position analogous to that of Speaker in the Commons—three long Parliaments ago, standing in briefly
for a peer who had taken ill. It was the only time he had ever spoken in that House; he had not missed a single session there in thirty years. Wilbourne wavered between lucidity and absent-mindedness. He could be convinced of opposing views on any subject within the space of a minute, and some peers practiced this cruelty on him for their own amusement. He was small, thin, and fragile-looking. When he entered Lords his colleagues often wondered if his robes weighed more than did he, and if they were too much of a burden for him to wear. He listened to this evening’s talk with an expression that may have been either cool comprehension or utter bafflement. Basil Kenrick had invited him to the supper “for balance,” as he had explained to Hugh, and not because he expected the Viscount to contribute much to the conversation.

“Well, your lordship,” answered Sir Henoch with a marked jauntiness, “in truth, it is a mongrel franchise. I own Canovan and all the property in it, and as I am the sole householder and payer of the poor rate and other assessments, the place is a burgage. And, as I am its only legal inhabitant, and its only enfranchised voter, it is also a scot and lot borough.” He laughed once. “I nominate myself, entertain myself, vote for myself, elect myself, and represent myself in the Commons.” He laughed again, hoping that the Earl would see the humor in the irony, too.

“A very salubrious arrangement, Sir Henoch,” remarked the Earl, refusing to smile. “May you always have such a faithful and captive constituency.”

“Thank you, your lordship. It compensates in no little way for the fact that neither Marsden nor my country estate has representation.”

“And many happy returns, Sir Henoch,” interjected Crispin Hillier.

Sir Henoch beamed at him. “Thank you, Mr. Hillier.”

Hillier had not warned his fellow member of the purpose of this supper. He had simply delivered the Earl’s summons, confessing to Sir Henoch only that he had reported his speech. Sir Henoch knew that Hillier was the Earl’s voice in the Commons, and Hillier presumed that Sir Henoch had offered to speak at some time on the Earl’s behalf against the relaxation of the duties on finished hats of French, Dutch, or colonial origin, by way of another thread of connection between the two Houses. He knew that the two had met before, but did not know the nature or depth of their former association. Hillier had come this evening in a state of dour, morbid expectancy; he could have been attending a hanging at Tyburn Tree.