Winning the War Hero's Heart

Helen picked the poster up and perused it. It was notice of a rally to demonstrate the plight of the agricultural labourers, which was to take place on the common the following Saturday afternoon at half past two. ‘The speaker will be Jason Hardacre,’ it declared in large capital letters.

She understood why Tom was doubtful about accepting the job. Jason Hardacre was a known firebrand who went from town to town, urging workers to stand up to their employers and strike for more wages. He stirred up unrest wherever he went, inciting his followers to violence against the farmers, whom he called the oppressors, although the farmers were struggling to keep going themselves. He had had some initial success, but the labourers were too worried about losing their positions to support him wholeheartedly, especially when there were plenty of men ready to step into their shoes if they were dismissed. Publishing such a poster could be construed as seditious and the publisher liable to prosecution.

‘How many does he want printed?’ she asked.

‘Half a gross.’

‘Print them.’

‘I’m busy putting the paper together.’

‘Leave that. I’ve something new to put on the front page. I’ll write it now and have it ready in an hour. You can do that poster in the meantime.’

‘Miss Wayland, are you sure? You know how Mr Wayland was always in trouble for taking on work like that. The Earl had him prosecuted more than once, as well you know.’

‘Yes, Tom, I do know. But my father was never afraid to do what he thought was right, even if it meant he was in trouble for it. He did not see why the Earl should dictate what he published and neither do I.’

‘Very well,’ Tom answered and set aside the page he was typesetting to begin on the poster.

The newspaper consisted of two large folded sheets and was on sale by lunchtime every Wednesday and Saturday. Helen kept the front for her own reports and for court announcements from the London papers. Her readers liked to know what the Regent and the nobility were up to in London. They wanted to know who had been granted a peerage, who had been made a knight and they keenly awaited a résumé of what was being said in Parliament. Earlier in the month she had copied the report of Princess Charlotte’s wedding to Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg. It had been a joyous occasion in an otherwise miserable year.

The back page was almost all given over to advertisements: comestibles, livestock, agricultural implements and quack medicines. The inside pages were filled with local news: a farmer’s stack set on fire—there had been several instances of arson lately, which were put down to the unrest among the labourers—a newcomer of note moving into the district, unusual happenings in the town, reports of the magistrate’s sittings, who had been convicted, who let off with a caution for anything from petty theft and criminal damage to poaching and assault.

Helen skimmed through the latest notices of births, marriages, obituaries and coming events. Josiah Bird-wood had died, aged seventy-six. He had been married three times and sired thirty children. Donations and prizes were needed for the races and various contests for the Midsummer Fair, held on the common every year. The Earl and Countess of Warburton and Viscount Cavenham would grace it with their presence and judge some of the competitions. There was to be a dance at the Warburton Assembly Rooms to celebrate the first anniversary of the Battle of Waterloo. Lord and Lady Somerfield’s daughter, Miss Verity Somerfield, was to come out with a grand ball to be held at their ancestral home at Gayton Hall.

Helen took off her bonnet and sat at her desk to report the hunt and the destruction it had caused.

Gilbert Cavenham, first Earl of Warburton, flung the newspaper on the table and swore loudly. ‘I thought I’d rid myself of that thorn in my side,’ he said to Miles. ‘But it seems his daughter is bent on continuing where he left off.’

‘What do you mean?’ Miles asked. ‘What thorn in your side? Whose daughter?’

‘Henry Wayland. He owned the Warburton Record and was always publishing libel. I had to bring him to court on more than one occasion, but neither fines nor prison seemed to deter him. Now he’s dead, I’m getting the same sort of rubbish from his daughter. Whoever heard of a woman running a newspaper?’

‘Why not?’ Miles said. ‘I suppose she inherited it and had no other way to support herself.’

‘I doubt she’ll carry it off. An appearance in court will soon dampen her ardour.’

‘What has she said to annoy you so much?’

‘Read it for yourself.’ He picked up the paper and waved it at his son. ‘Libel, that’s what it is, defamation of character. She needs to be taught she cannot ridicule me and get away with it.’

Miles was busy reading and hardly heard him. It was all he could do not to smile. The lady, whoever she was, had a witty turn of phrase. ‘The noble lord, in order to please his guests, literally left no stone unturned,’ he read. ‘Everything was ordered for their entertainment. The hunt hallooed its way over hill and dale, down lanes and across fields, chasing a fox that had surely been especially selected to give the most sport. Reynard led them a merry dance into the village of Ravensbrook, scattering the population and trampling down the small garden of a poor widow and putting her baby son in mortal danger. The excuse given by the only rider who deigned to pull up was, “The dogs follow the fox and the riders follow the dogs.” So we must blame the fox and no one else. But can a fox put right the damage that was done? Can the fox reset the rows of beans and peas? Can the fox revive dead chickens? Or still a child’s crying? Does killing the erring animal exact just retribution?

‘We must not begrudge the noble lord and his guests their sport, but who should pay for it? Surely not the poor widow endeavouring to provide for herself and her fatherless son. Not the fox, who was only doing what foxes do by nature and that is to run from its enemies. The dogs, perhaps? But they are trained to hunt the fox. Then we are left with whoever trained the hounds or caused them to be trained: the noble lord himself. But does he offer recompense, does he even apologise? No, because the land is his and he may ride over it whenever he chooses.

‘There is surely something wrong with that premise. However humble, an Englishman’s home is his castle and should be respected, even by those set above him, especially by those set above him. Responsibility should go hand in hand with privilege.’

Miles put the paper down with a smile. ‘She doesn’t mince her words, does she?’

‘I’ll send for Sobers,’ the Earl said. ‘He’ll issue a writ for defamation of character on my behalf and we shall see if she is so sharp when it comes to reporting her own downfall.’

‘That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?’ Miles said, wondering who had given the paper the information; it could have been Jack Byers or Mrs Watson, but it was more likely to have been Miss Grey Gown. Was that what her veiled threat had meant? ‘Why not give her the opportunity to retract? I promised to pay Jack Byers to set the widow’s garden to rights. If that were made public, she would have to put the record straight.’

‘You did what?’ his father demanded angrily.

‘I found Byers begging and thought to give him a little work. It is sad to see a good, upright man reduced to holding out his hand for pennies. He always worked well when he was employed by the estate. Men like him should not be penalised for serving king and country. I gave him work and the widow will get her garden back.’

‘I wish you would not interfere in matters that do not concern you, Miles. You have belittled my authority and added to the ridicule and that I will not tolerate.’

‘So are you going to issue a writ on me, too?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Miles turned and left him. It had become more and more obvious that he and his father could not live amicably under the same roof, but he was reluctant to leave his mother. Since coming home six months before he had been looking for a property in the area where he could live independently and yet be close to her. He had found nothing suitable and had been considering buying Ravensbrook Manor, which stood just outside the perimeter of Ravens Park. It had been empty and derelict for years, but it was possible to see it had once been a substantial house. As a child, he had often crept through a broken window and played in it, his footsteps and laughter echoing as he ran from room to room, brandishing a wooden sword and pretending to capture it from an imaginary enemy. It would take time and money to restore it, but it was in an ideal position and so he had set about tracing its owner in order to make an offer. He said nothing to anyone of his plans and in the meantime continued to live at Ravens Park and tried not to be contentious for his mother’s sake, even if it did mean turning his back on an argument.

He went to the stables and found Jack Byers there talking to the head groom. Seeing Miles, Jack turned to touch his forelock. ‘I’ve done what you said, my lord. I’ve repaired the hedge and the hen coop, and some of the cabbages will survive, but there’s no rescuing the peas and beans.’

Miles delved in his pocket for coins to pay the man. ‘Your wages as promised and a little extra to buy half-a-dozen laying hens and new pea and bean seeds for Mrs Watson. There is time to replant, is there not?’

‘If I get them in this week they should grow, always supposing the weather improves.’

‘Have you found more permanent work yet?’

‘No, my lord.’

‘If I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ He pocketed the money and took his leave. Miles ordered his horse to be saddled and set off for Warburton.

He found the offices of the Warburton Record easily enough, dismounted and went inside. A young man looked up as he entered and scrambled to his feet. ‘My lord …’

‘I wish to speak to Miss Wayland. I believe she is the proprietor.’

‘Yes, she is. I’ll fetch her.’ He scuttled away.

Two minutes later he was surprised to find himself confronted by Miss Grey Gown herself. This time she was wearing a brown taffeta afternoon dress with a cream-lace fichu. Her rich chestnut hair was cut unusually short and fell about her face in soft curls. Her hazel eyes looked into his fearlessly. He smiled and bowed. ‘Miss Wayland?’

She bent her head in the polite gesture she would have used to any slight acquaintance. ‘My lord.’

He smiled. ‘Miss Wayland, you have upset my father, the Earl …’

‘Good.’

‘Not good. He is determined to teach you a lesson and is sending for his lawyer to issue a writ for defamation of character.’

If she was upset by this she did not show it. ‘Then you may tell the Earl I shall defend it. I wrote nothing but the unbiased truth.’

‘Truth is not considered a defence, you know.’

‘Then it ought to be.’

‘Can you afford a court case and a heavy fine?’

‘I shall win.’

‘Better to retract. You heard me apologise to Mrs Watson and I asked Jack Byers to mend Mrs Watson’s garden, which, if you had taken the trouble to discover, you would have known. That rather defeats your argument, don’t you think?’

She had felt guilty about not mentioning that in her report, but she was not going to admit it. ‘It is not relevant to the point I was making, that it was for the Earl to recognise his responsibility, not his son.’

‘I represent my father.’

‘I find it hard to believe the Earl sent you to plead with me.’ She chuckled suddenly and the hazel eyes were suddenly full of humour, which changed her whole countenance. He realised with a start that she was beautiful and found himself smiling back. ‘It would be entirely out of character.’

‘He did not send me, but that is neither here nor there. Mrs Watson was recompensed.’

‘That you did it is to your credit, my lord, but it does not invalidate my argument. The Earl should be the one to make restitution and he should learn that even the humblest widow is a person deserving of respect. But I fear he is too set in his ways for that ever to come about.’

Miles was inclined to agree, but it would be disloyal to his father to say so and in his opinion family disagreements should be kept within the family. ‘Nevertheless, restitution was made and it gives you the opportunity to reciprocate,’ he said. ‘Publish the true facts in your newspaper and the whole matter will be dropped.’

‘Do you speak on behalf of the Earl?’

He hesitated and in that hesitation she had her answer. ‘No, of course you do not. I wonder why you came.’

‘To save you from your own folly,’

‘Is it folly to stand up for the poor and oppressed? Is it folly to point out injustice when I see it?’

‘No, I admire that, but if it leads to your own downfall …’

‘Why are you concerned for my downfall? I should have thought you would rejoice at it.’

‘I do not rejoice at anyone’s downfall, Miss Wayland,’ he said, smiling to soften the fierce look she was giving him. ‘I suppose I like to think I am a just and fair person and you are—’

‘A woman!’ she finished for him. ‘And not equipped to deal in a man’s world, is that what you were about to say?’

‘There is some truth in that.’

‘Then I shall have to prove you wrong, my lord.’

‘So you will retract?’

‘There is nothing to gainsay. What I wrote was the truth. And I shall continue to write the truth, however uncomfortable it makes people feel.’

‘Making someone feel uncomfortable is only the half of it,’ he said. ‘There is the consequence to consider.’

‘A change of heart, perhaps?’

He did not think that would happen. ‘I meant an appearance in a court of law.’

‘I shall welcome the opportunity to have my say.’

‘I would not advise it. You might make matters a hundred times worse.’

‘Thank goodness I am not required to take your advice,’ she retorted.

He smiled and changed tack. ‘I believe your father and mine were often at loggerheads, Miss Wayland. Do you have to continue the feud, for feud I believe it was, though I have no idea how it started? It would be a pity to perpetuate it.’

‘It was not a feud, it was simply that my father published the truth as he saw it and that did not please the Earl who saw, and still sees, his position as unassailable. But I think it should be challenged.’

She had spirit, he would give her that, but did she really understand the implications of taking up swords against his father? ‘And you are determined to carry on where your father left off without even knowing why.’

‘I do know why. I have just told you: justice and fairness for those who cannot stand up for themselves.’

‘And who is to stand up for you?’

‘I can look after myself, my lord.’

This was sheer bravado. He could see the doubt in her expressive greeny-brown eyes. Beautiful eyes, he decided, bright and honest-looking. He doubted she could lie convincingly. ‘Then, as I cannot budge you, I will take my leave.’ He bowed, turned on his heel and was gone.

She watched him stop outside and look at the large sash window in which she had stuck the pages of the latest edition of the paper. Poor people could not afford newspapers. With tax duty of four pence they had to be sold at sixpence or sevenpence at least, which put them out of the reach of the ordinary working man and left her very little profit. She was convinced the tax was high in order to keep the lower orders from learning of things the government and those in authority did not want them to learn and so she had begun the habit of putting the pages in the window, so that it could be read aloud by those who could read to those who could not. His glance moved from that to one of Roger Blakestone’s posters advertising the rally on the common. As he walked back to his horse, she noticed he limped. She had read in the London paper that he had been wounded doing some deed of valour during the recent war with Napoleon and supposed that was the result.

Helen turned back to work, but the prospect of being sued was worrying. If she were heavily fined or sent to prison, then the Warburton Record and the printing business would have to be shut down and that meant no work for Edgar, who was the sole support of his mother, or Tom Salter, who had a wife and three children, or Betty, her maid, who was an orphan and whose only relation was a distant cousin too poor to help her. She had brought this on them in her pig-headedness.

Her father had spent six months in Norwich Castle for speaking out against the Earl enclosing common land which the villagers had worked since time immemorial. His crime had been called seditious libel. He had returned home after he served his sentence, a shadow of the man he had been. He was gaunt and thin, his hair had turned white and he walked with a stoop. It was a long time before he stood upright again and put on a little weight, but it did not seem to have taught him a lesson.

The fire in his belly against injustice wherever he saw it, and particularly against the Earl of Warburton, had been as fierce as ever. She had watched him and worried about him, tried to tempt him with his favourite food, tried to persuade him to rest while she ran the paper, but to no avail. His pen was vitriolic. She had no doubt that if he had not died of a seizure, he would have been arraigned again. That was her legacy, not bricks and mortar, not printing presses, but his undying passion, a passion she shared.

‘You are not going to let him bully you, are you?’ Edgar said from his desk where he had been setting out advertisements, one for a lecture at the assembly rooms called ‘At Waterloo with Wellington’ being given by some bigwig from London, Mr West advertising his agricultural implements, and the miller his flour. Another was for an elixir of youth at sixpence a bottle. Goodness knew what it contained, but she did not doubt it tasted vile and could not live up to its name.

‘I don’t want to, but it’s not only me I have to consider. There’s you and Tom and Betty.’

‘We’ll manage, don’t you fret.’

Tom came in from the back room in time to hear this. ‘Manage what?’

‘The Earl is threatening to sue me for defamation of character,’ she explained. ‘I am wondering if I ought to retract?’

‘But you said nothing that wasn’t true, did you?’

‘No, but the Viscount tells me that is no defence.’

‘He is only trying to frighten you. Call his bluff.’

‘You think I should?’

‘Yes, if you think you are in the right. Your father would have. We will stand by you.’

‘Thank you, both of you, but I fear I have made an enemy of the Viscount.’

In any other circumstances and if he was not who he was, she could have liked the Viscount. He had none of the arrogance of his father, but he was his father’s son nevertheless. Was he right about a feud? Her father had had no love for the Earl, but she had always supposed it was for altruistic reasons and not personal. But supposing there was something personal in their enmity, what could it possibly be? A wrong never righted? But why? Who was to blame? She sighed and went back to her work; she was unlikely to find the answer to that now.

Chapter Two

In spite of the overcast skies and threat of yet more rain, the crowd began gathering on the common by the middle of Saturday morning. Men, women and even children were milling about trying to find the best places to hear the speaker, for whom a flat cart had been drawn up to act as a platform. They were noisy and for the most part good-humoured, treating it as a day out. Stalls had been set up selling food and drink and favours. These were made of red, white and blue ribbon, no doubt leftover from the celebrations of victory the year before.

Helen, in her grey dress with a shawl over her head, mingled with the crowds. She had a small notebook and a pencil in her reticule, but did not bring it out for fear of being recognised. She wanted to report the proceedings anonymously. She was not the only one incognito, she discovered, when she found herself standing next to Viscount Cavenham. She hardly recognised him; he was dressed in yeoman’s clothes, fustian breeches and coat, rough boots, with a battered felt hat on his curls.

‘My lord,’ she said. ‘I never thought to see you here today.’

‘Shh,’ he said, looking about to see if she had been overheard. ‘Not so much of the “my lord” if you please.’

‘I could shout it,’ she threatened.

‘And have me lynched? I had not thought you so bloodthirsty, Miss Wayland.’

‘And not so much of the “Miss Wayland” either,’ she said.

He laughed. ‘Then what am I to call you?’

‘You do not need to address me at all.’

He ignored that. ‘I believe your name is Helen. A lovely name and most suitable for one as beautiful and fearless as you are.’

‘My lord, you go too far.’ It was said in a fierce whisper.

‘My name is Miles,’ he said. ‘Pray use it, then we shall be equal.’

‘We can never be equal,’ she said. ‘You, of all people, should know that.’

‘All are equal in God’s eyes.’

‘Then the Earl of Warburton must consider himself above God, for he would never accept that.’

‘My father belongs to the old school, Helen. I doubt he could be persuaded to change his ways now.’

They were being jostled by the crowd and he put a hand under her arm to steady her. She resisted her first impulse to knock it away. It was firm and warm and rather comforting. ‘And you?’ she asked, turning to look up at him and found him looking down at her with an expression she could not interpret. It was full of wry humour, which she found unnerving. Her life until recently had been governed by her work with her father. The men she met were her father’s employees, friends and business acquaintances and she dealt with them accordingly. Meeting and dealing with this man was outside her experience. For one thing they had not been properly introduced, which was absurd since they had already encountered and spoken to each other twice before. But it was not the lack of an introduction that confused her; it was the way he looked at her and his self-possession, which somehow seemed to diminish hers. She took herself firmly in hand. If she was going to fight the Earl, she had better learn to stand up to his son.

‘I am my own man, Helen.’

‘But you are also your father’s son.’

‘Oh, undoubtedly I am that.’

‘So, why are you here?’

‘Curiosity. I want to know why men risk everything to take part in meetings like this which could have them arrested and can have no favourable outcome.’

‘Desperation, I should think.’

‘And you, I presume, are here to report it for your newspaper.’

‘Yes.’

‘And can you do that without bias?’

‘I sincerely hope not. It would be excessively dull and achieve nothing.’

It was not the answer he expected and made him chuckle. ‘How long have you been producing the Warburton Record?’

‘The Record was started by my father. He worked for a printing press in London, but when we moved to Warburton he set up on his own account as a printer; then he realised there was no way of disseminating local news except by pamphlets published by those with an axe to grind, so he started the Record. That was eight years ago.’

‘I meant how long have you been doing it?’

‘I used to love helping my father as a child and learned the business along with my growing up, especially after we moved here. When he died last year, he left the business to me.’ She did not add that it was all he had to leave. His many clashes with authority had left him almost penniless. No one was interested in buying the business as a going concern; the only offer she had ever had was for the machinery. She was not told who the prospective buyer was, but suspected it was someone who had no interest in running the Record, but rather wished to shut it down. Far from discouraging her, it had given her the impetus to keep going, especially as Tom and Edgar were both behind her.