The Abyss

Book 18: Morland Dynasty

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

1833: the industrial age is sweeping through England and the Stephensons are planning the greatest engineering scheme ever undertaken- a railway line from Liverpool to London.

At Morland Place, Nicholas had hoped that his brother Benedict, had been banished forever, but railway fever has brought Benedict back to Yorkshire as an engineer on the Leeds & Selby line. It is a lonely life and he fears he will never be wealthy enough to marry his new love, Miss Fleetham. Nicholas fears that Benedict is not only a threat to his inheritance but to Morland Place itself, as plans to bring the railway to York will desecrate the estate.

The conflict between the brothers mirrors the nation's battle between the old and new, but the Morland feud seems certain to end in tragedy and no-one the victor.

Release date: August 25, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 592

Sample

May, 1833

The private parlour at Markby’s Hotel in York was up a steep and narrow flight of stairs, and Martha Moon had not been designed
by Providence for climbing. When she reached the top she was completely out of breath. Alarming red and black spots danced
before her eyes and she had to stop and bend forward and rest her hands on her thighs until they went away.


‘Stop a bit,’ she gasped as Mrs Markby, a decade younger and half a hundredweight lighter, wanted to show her into the parlour.
‘Wait till I catch my breath.’ Mrs Markby waited, eyeing her coldly. She disliked any call on her time that was not directly
linked to profit. Showing gentlemen up to their rooms was one thing; hopping attendance on such a creature as this quite another.


Bit by bit Mrs Moon straightened up and her face resumed its normal colour. ‘Eh, what a climb! I’m sweatin’ rivers. And all
a goose chase, I wouldn’t wonder. Like as not you’ve got it wrong, Liza Markby.’ She glared at Mrs Markby with the resentment
that could only be felt by a fourteen stone woman who has just raised herself by her own efforts nearly thirty feet above
ground level.


‘Got it wrong? T’isn’t likely, is it, with Mr Ferrars hisself asking me to fetch you here? The steward of Morland Place might
know a bit about what goes on there, I should think,’ Mrs Markby concluded with exquisite irony.


And you might know a bit about Mr Ferrars, you skinny cat, Mrs Moon retorted, but only inwardly. It was not wise to get on
the wrong side of anyone when a position like Housekeeper at Morland Place might be at stake. It was a position to make one’s
mouth water, and she was still sure there was a mistake somewhere; but if there were any chance at all – ‘Well, well,’ she
said with a placatory smile. ‘I’m ready now, Mrs Markby, thank you.’


Mrs Markby opened the parlour door, announced Mrs Moon with an air of taking no responsibility for her, and removed herself
with a toss of the head. Ferrars, seated at the table by the window, did not get up, but gestured Mrs Moon towards a chair
opposite him, which she took gratefully.


‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ he said. ‘Your husband is here too?’

‘I left him below, Mr Ferrars,’ Mrs Moon said. ‘Moon likes me to take care o’ business. To be open with you, he hasn’t much
to say for himself, hasn’t Moon. I speak for both, Mr Ferrars, rest assured.’


‘Very well.’ There was a silence, while they eyed each other speculatively. Ferrars, Mrs Moon thought, was a nasty sight on
a fine morning – an undersized and ugly man, with thinning, scurfy ginger hair, bad teeth, and a pasty face in which freckles,
blackheads and blemishes jostled for space: if it was true about Mrs Markby and him, she must do it with her eyes tight shut.
More importantly, Mrs Moon thought, he looked as though his character was as maculate as his complexion, and this raised her
hopes of the job. M-luck likes company, as the saying went, and if a man like him could get to be Steward of a fine old gentleman’s
seat like Morland Place, he wouldn’t be likely to want a paragon of beauty and virtue in a subordinate position to himself.


‘So, Mrs Moon,’ Ferrars began, ‘you are looking for a position.’


‘I do find myself in that unfortnit case, Mr Ferrars, so I won’t deceive you,’ Mrs Moon said with a large air. ‘Me and Moon,
we had our own little place – the Black Bull out at Osbaldwick – but things didn’t work out just as we planned.’


Ferrars nodded. He had heard of the Black Bull’s misfortunes from Captain Roger Mattock, a boon companion of his master’s
who liked to frequent low alehouses; and further enquiries had told him all he needed to know about the Black Bull’s landlord
and lady.


‘It’d be a step down for me to go into service, I don’t deny,’ Mrs Moon went on, ‘but such an establishment as Morland Place
– one of our oldest families – everything most respectable – well now . . .’


‘It might be a step down you’d be prepared to take,’ Ferrars finished for her.

‘It might hardly seem like service at all,’ she suggested hopefully.

‘It’s my turn to be open with you,’ Ferrars said, leaning forward confidentially. Mrs Moon watched the eyes, which were as
confidential as a viper’s. ‘The service at Morland Place has declined from what it once was. In the last few years of Lady
Morland’s life, she did not concern herself much with the household, and the servants got lazy and careless.’


‘As servants will, Mr Ferrars, if they are not kept up to the mark, the bold-faced, idle hussies. You don’t need to tell me!

‘Quite so. Well, my poor mistress died last year, as you may know, during the cholera outbreak—’

‘Aye, God rest her soul, poor Christian lady – for all I heard she was next-door to a Roman. But very kind and charitable
all the same, so they say.’


‘– and now, after a period of respect for her memory,’ Ferrars went on as though she had not spoken, ‘I am reorganising the household, removing all the servants I don’t find satisfactory and replacing them with others of my own choice.’


Mrs Moon’s attention sharpened. Now they were coming to it. ‘Has your master nothing to say in the matter, Mr Ferrars?’

‘Mr Nicholas Morland is a gentleman of affairs. He inherited the entire Morland estate from his mother, as well as the trusteeship
of the Skelwith estate. He is both immensely rich and immensely busy. Such a man has no time for trivial domestic matters.’


‘Which gentlemen don’t hardly understand such things anyway, Mr Ferrars, in my experience,’ Mrs Moon agreed comfortably.

‘My master leaves everything to me. As long as he is well served – and his needs are simple – he makes no enquiry into the
running of the household.’


Mrs Moon sat back a little, her stays creaking as though sharing her satisfaction. She’d got Ferrars’ measure all right. ‘A
gentleman – nor a lady neither – shouldn’t be troubled with poking into cupboards and looking at account books and so forth.’


‘Just so.’ Ferrars came abruptly to the point. ‘I am looking for a new housekeeper, Mrs Moon, and a butler. The present housekeeper
and butler have arrived at too comfortable an understanding with each other. For that reason I would prefer to take on a couple,
so that I know where I stand from the start. Divided loyalties make for an unhappy house.’ Mrs Moon nodded. ‘The new housekeeper
would be in authority over the rest of the female servants.’


He paused with an enquiring look, and Mrs Moon took the cue. ‘As to that, Mr Ferrars, there’s not much I don’t know about
keeping girls in check.’ Before her marriage she had been a wardress on the Women Felons’ Side at the County Gaol: the flightiest
maid would be no match for her.


‘Discipline is a great thing in the servants’ hall. And I’m sure we could manage with fewer girls if they were kept up to
the mark. The saving in wages could be considerable.’ He gave Mrs Moon a steady look. ‘The master, I’m happy to say, never
enquires into the household budget. A sum of money is allocated to me, and I dispose of it exactly as I see fit.’


Mrs Moon almost licked her lips. ‘That’s as it should be, Mr Ferrars. A gentleman should be above wondering what becomes of
every ha’penny piece he parts with.’


‘I would also wish the new housekeeper to oversee the kitchen. Her late ladyship’s cook was a profligate and wasteful man
– French, you understand. He left when her ladyship died, but some of his ways linger on. I should like the new cook to be
under the authority of the housekeeper, and for the kitchen to be run as economically as possible.’


‘There are many ways of saving money in the kitchen, for them as knows ’em,’ said Mrs Moon. One of a wardress’s duties was
to feed the prisoners on the fixed amount per head granted her daily by the governor, and a wardress usually reckoned on making
a profit to repay her for her trouble. ‘Provision of food of all marks I understand very well, Mr Ferrars. There are ways
to make a little look a lot.’


‘There is the reputation of the house and the family name to be upheld,’ Ferrars warned. ‘We do not entertain very often,
my master being a bachelor, but when we do—’


‘I understand you, Mr Ferrars, never fear! Economy in the kitchen – style upon the table. Everything just so and nothing wasted.
There is just the one gentleman in residence, I take it?’


‘Mr Nicholas Morland, the master, and his ward, Miss Skelwith, a child of twelve. Her entire family died of the cholera and
she was left to Lady Morland’s care. Unfortunately her ladyship lived only long enough to pass the trusteeship to Mr Morland.’


Mrs Moon nodded. ‘Quite a bachelor household, then – and just such a one as the lower servants take advantage of, in my experience.
Oh, I don’t doubt there are plenty of economies to be made.’


‘Now as to the butler – since we have few visitors and entertain little, his duties will be light,’ Ferrars went on. He placed
his hands on the table. ‘Your husband, I hope, will be equal to it? The failure of your last undertaking—’


Mrs Moon interrupted hastily and firmly. ‘Don’t you worry about that, Mr Ferrars. Moon has his weakness, I can’t deny it,
but I can keep him in check. He’s a good man at heart, and as honest as the day, except for his little weakness, but, bless
you, that’s only a matter of keeping him out of temptation’s way. An alehouse was too many opportunities, you see, and I couldn’t
always be on hand in the taproom – for, not to mince matters, it’s ale as he hankers for; wine nor brandy he will not touch,
and so I warrant you. But a better man with the silver and such there isn’t, and knowledgeable about the cellar like you wouldn’t
believe. Don’t you worry, I have him under my thumb. Moon will do whatever I say.’


Ferrars nodded coolly. ‘That’s as I should want it. I have a great many things to do about the place, Mrs Moon – indoors and
out – and my master to care for. What I want is one person who is absolutely loyal to me, who will be my second-in-command
in all matters to do with the household. Such a person, giving satisfaction, would find me generous. And, let me assure you,
with the way things are arranged, I have it in my power to be very generous indeed.’


She met his eyes. ‘I understand you, Mr Ferrars. I’m sure I am the person for you. Me and Moon, we’re the ones. You won’t
regret giving us a chance, I warrant you.’


Ferrars was sure she did understand him; and he understood her very well. She was unprepossessing of appearance, but then
what did that matter? A useful tool didn’t need to be nice-looking. He was pretty sure that he would be able to spot the ways
in which she would inevitably try to cheat him; and they would be small ways – it would merely be to salve her pride that
she would feel obliged to rook him of a few pence here and there. He had felt sure she would suit when Mrs Markby had told
him about her. An ex-wardress and alehouse keeper; and a brothel-keeper at one time – and in her very young days, probably
a prostitute too. She had all the experience of mankind she needed, and there’d be nothing she didn’t know about keeping order
in a closed community like Morland Place. Only a prioress from a convent would know as much, and he wasn’t likely to be offered
one of those, he concluded with a smirk.


Mrs Moon saw the smile and didn’t like it. He was a snake, that one, she thought; but if life had taught her one thing it
was that you didn’t have to like someone to make money out of them. Better, in fact, if you didn’t: Moon was her one weakness,
and he had caused her more trouble because of her puzzling and foolish fondness for him than all the other men she had known
rolled together. No, she’d be better off disliking Ferrars. She’d make more money that way. Morland Place – the thought of
it! The Morlands had been one of York’s first families for hundreds of years, wealthy, respected, almost revered; and Morland
Place itself was an ancient, moated manor-house built, as they said locally, ‘any time after t’Flood’. It was regarded almost
as a palace, the very apogee of service, every servant’s golden dream. It must have fallen on hard times, she thought, for
someone like Ferrars to be in charge. In the old mistress’s day, the likes of her and Moon wouldn’t have got past the gate,
leave alone be made housekeeper and butler. For a moment she felt almost uneasy at the idea of taking advantage of such a noble old place, but then she shook away stupid sentiment. Sheep were for fleecing, that was all; a house had no feelings
one way or t’other, and the dead were dead. If Nicholas Morland was daft enough to let his patrimony run through his fingers,
she had as good a right to cup her hands under the flow as Mr Snake-eye Ferrars any day o’ the year! Those as had must hold,
and those as hadn’t must take; and if Morland Place turned out as good a billet as she suspected, she and Moon could salt
away enough to spend their old age in comfort.


‘Very well, Mrs Moon,’ Ferrars said, ‘I will offer you the position. When can you start?’

‘Whenever is conformable to you, Mr Ferrars,’ Mrs Moon said grandly; the lofty position she was about to assume required a
certain amount of style. ‘Moon and me is entirely at your command.’


Nicholas Morland checked his horse at the top of the rise and sat looking down at his home. He had been born there and would
no doubt die there, and now, after trials and vicissitudes he preferred to shut out of his memory, he owned it. He was the
Master of Morland Place. The house looked beautiful in the afternoon sunshine: mellow rose brick and softly yellowed stone,
surrounded by its gardens, orchards, barns and stables; the light glinting from its moat and fish-ponds; its paddocks and
fields rolling away on all sides dotted with ancient trees and grazed by Morland cattle. All was harmonious, solid, long-established.
And it was all his.


The Morlands were sheep-farmers and clothiers from ancient times: villagers spun and wove the wool from his sheep, and rolls
of Morland Fancy were still sold throughout the Kingdom and born by ship to far corners of the earth. In more recent times,
the Morlands had become breeders of horses: racehorses, delicate and strong like silk; saddle-horses, gentle and clever with
mouths soft as kid gloves; and, the backbone of the business, the special breed of carriage horses called Morland Yorks which were so much in demand up and down the turnpike there was always a waiting-list.
Post-houses knew they could not get better, for strength and speed combined with beauty and good manners. And whenever there
was a wedding of the well-to-do in the York area, and the bridal couple took delivery of their nice shiny new carriage, their
highest ambition was to see it drawn up to their front door by a pair (or, if Papa came down handsome enough, a team) of finely
matched Morland bays or chestnuts.


All this had made the Morlands rich. They were also respected: Justices of the Peace; holding commissions in peace and war;
from raising militia to conserving woods and highways, they were the dispensers of local law, arbiters of the fate of tenants,
servants, pensioners and villagers. And now he, Nicholas, was master; the house, the park, the farms, the stock, the property
in York, the interest in the factories in Manchester and the rows of houses the factory workers lived in – all were his. It
was what he had always wanted; why, then, did he so often feel restless and unhappy?


The good times were when he was able to forget himself – like this morning, when he had been so busy schooling a pair of fine
carriage horses that he had not noticed the time pass. There was oblivion to be had in drink, too, and opium, and in those
pleasures of the flesh his friend Mattock had so successfully introduced him to. When he was carousing with a group of his
cronies, drinking, gambling, laughing, making a lot of noise, he felt cheerful enough; but when the whirlwind of gaiety died
down, and he was left alone with himself, then he felt, as he felt now, that there was something missing from his life, without
which the golden prospect lying at his feet, the ownership of everything any man could desire, was dry and tasteless, mere
Dead Sea fruit.


Checkmate sighed and shifted his weight and then tried to get his head down to graze, and Nicholas checked him automatically, frowning through his thoughts. Perhaps the trouble was that he was lonely? Every man needed someone to love,
someone to love him. He was singularly lacking in that commodity, he thought with rising self-pity. His mother, his adored,
his sainted mother, who had always loved him best in the world, had died of cholera exactly a year ago, in May 1832. He could
feel the tears rising at the very thought of that dreadful time. The loss to him – the agony: the wonder of it was that he
was still alive! As if it wasn’t enough for fate to have taken his noble, respected father three years ago, in a riding accident
(shocking irony for a man who had been known as the best rider in the Ridings!).


His mother’s death was typical of her unselfishness: her ward, Mathilde (with whom Nicholas had been brought up as if she
were an older sister) had caught the cholera, and she, her husband John Skelwith and five of their six children had all died.
Nicholas’s mother, nursing them faithfully, took the sickness home with her and died in a matter of hours, leaving poor Nicky
an orphan. Poor, poor Nicky, all alone in the world! Papa and Mother dead; Mathilde dead, who had been like a sister to him;
his sister Sophie married and gone away to Manchester, which might as well be at the other end of the earth for all he ever
saw her or heard from her. All alone! It was cruel!


It was more than cruel – now his self-pity spilled over into anger – it was wicked! If his mother had had any consideration
she would not have gone off to nurse Mathilde, risking infection like that. It was quite unnecessary – there had been plenty
of servants to do it. It was thoughtless, too – exposing Nicky to such anxiety on her behalf, endangering his life by bringing
the infection home, especially when he had always been so delicate, which his mother of all people ought to have remembered.
And then to die in that selfish way! But it was always the same, he had always been surrounded by heartless people who thought of nothing but their own concerns. It was a miracle he had survived to his present age, twenty-five,
in such a callous world. He had always known, he thought pathetically, that he would not make old bones.


Here he had to pull out his handkerchief to blow his nose and dab his eyes, so affected was he by the contemplation of his
own misery. Perhaps he ought to marry, he thought suddenly. He needed someone to care for him, and Morland Place ought to
have an heir. All his acquaintances were married. His erstwhile closest friend, Harry Anstey, with whom he had shared a tutor,
had got married last October to the love of his life, Celia Laxton – and apart from a ‘come and visit us any time at all,
our door is always open’, Harry had completely abandoned Nicholas to his loneliness. Everyone but him had someone. Even Harry’s
older sister Charlotte, whom everyone had expected to remain upon the shelf for ever, had married two years ago and become
châtelaine of Bootham Park; and a very good match it was for her, for though she was handsome enough, the Ansteys were too
numerous a family for her to have much of a portion. Well, if Lotte could marry, Nicholas Morland of Morland Place ought to
be able to.


The difficulty was, to whom? Heiresses were not so plentiful one could browse amongst them and take one’s pick. Of course,
Nicky had one of the most substantial of them under his own roof – Jemima Skelwith, sole surviving child of Mathilde and John,
was heiress to John’s not inconsiderable property as well as his building business. At the moment the business was being run
by agents, and Nicky himself was trustee of the estate. Yes, Jemima was a very substantial heiress indeed, and it was a good
thing that she was only twelve years old, for it would pain Nicky mightily when the time came to hand over control of her
wealth to whoever she eventually married.


Checkmate sighed again, felt his bit, and edged a step or two towards home: it was very hard to be held back when his stable was almost in sight. Nicholas patted his neck and gave
him the office to walk on. In the distance, coming along the track which led from the South Road, he saw a horseman whom he
had no difficulty in recognising as his former groom, now steward of Morland Place – Ferrars. Nicholas smiled to himself with
agreeable malice. You could tell Ferrars a mile off from his seat on a horse, which must be the worst in the Ridings! The
poor man must have no idea how dreadful he looked, or he would go into the city in a gig. If I looked such a muffin in the
saddle, Nicholas thought, I’d never cross another horse all the rest of my life!


Ferrars reached the junction of the two tracks first, and reined his horse to wait for his master.

‘Good day, sir.’

‘Well, well,’ Nicholas said, turning Checkmate’s head as he tried to take a bite out of Ferrars’ gelding in passing, ‘and
what have you been up to?’


‘Looking after your interests, sir, as I always do. Indeed, it is my pleasure as well as my duty,’ Ferrars said, falling in
beside his master. ‘Have you passed an agreeable day?’


‘I’ve been schooling the blacks up at Twelvetrees,’ Nicholas said, ‘and now all I have in contemplation is dinner alone in
my big empty dining-room, and an evening alone in my big empty drawing-room with nothing to do.’


Ferrars glanced sideways at him. Now what start was this? he thought impatiently. ‘I’m sure, sir, if it would amuse you, I
should be willing—’


‘To play chess with me? or tables? or piquet?’ Nicholas interrupted with a sarcastic sneer. ‘And no doubt you think that is
all the solace a personable man of fortune is entitled to expect when he has finished his day’s labours?’


Ferrars was feeling his way in the dark. Solace? What was this? Was he seeking encouragement to go into York to the Willow Tree, Mrs Jeffreys’ discreet establishment in Straker’s Passage, or the new and wildly expensive Golden Cage
whose little birds did a lot more than sing? ‘Pleasures of all sorts are available to the gentleman of sophistication, sir,’
he said carefully, ‘who knows where to look for them.’


But Nicholas was not in the mood to be reminded of the things he did that he would not have liked his mother to know about.
He blushed with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. ‘I’m not talking about pleasures, you block! Not – not that sort of thing! I’m talking about marriage.’


‘Marriage?’ Ferrars said incredulously. This was as bad as could be. Better nip it in the bud.

‘Yes marriage, what else? Why are you looking so stupid?’ Nicholas turned on him in exasperation. ‘What could be more natural
than that a man in my position should be thinking about marriage?’


‘Many things, I should think,’ Ferrars said boldly. ‘Most men in your position would be only too pleased to have their freedom
to enjoy themselves and spend their own fortune, instead of having a wife and a baggage of brats to spend it for them.’


‘You know nothing about men in my position,’ Nicholas said scornfully. ‘How could you? Son of a servant, born to service –
never owned anything but what your master puts on your back – how should you understand the feelings of a gentleman and a
landowner? Morland Place is the most important estate in the Riding, and the Morlands have lived here since – since – well,
they’ve always lived here. My position demands that I marry and get an heir. It is my duty as much as the King of England’s.’
Nicky liked that analogy, and paused to hear it again in memory.


Ferrars shrugged. ‘Oh, well, sir, if it is your duty – but there’s no hurry about it. Plenty of years yet to enjoy yourself,
before you need worry about the getting of an heir. Getting heirs is a sport for old men, when their hunting days are over.’


Nicky wasn’t impressed. ‘Don’t talk nonsense! It’s not just that the estate needs an heir. Morland Place needs a mistress,
and I need a wife. How can I entertain and take my place in society without a hostess? And – ’ he forestalled the next interruption
from Ferrars, ‘I want a companion. It is pitiful that the man who owns all this—’ he waved his hand to signify the house,
the land, and all the invisible assets of the estate, ‘should have no company or affection by his own hearth.’


Ferrars was contemplating the ruin of his dreams, but he knew better than to go on opposing Nicholas directly. Instead he
tried a sideways approach, pretending to consider the matter seriously.


‘Of course, sir, I understand. But you know, it occurs to me – forgive me if I speak out of turn – that if you were to marry
now it would put out of reach for ever your wonderful opportunity with Miss Skelwith. Even if—’


Nicky stared. ‘What are you suggesting? Jemima is a child – twelve years old.’

‘Only two years, sir, from marriageable age,’ Ferrars reminded him.

‘You don’t understand these things,’ Nicky said. ‘It would be scandalous for a man to marry his own ward before she came of
age. I don’t even know if it’s legal. But even if it is, it would be shocking bad form to take advantage of a girl in a position
where she would find it difficult to refuse.’


Ferrars looked away. ‘Well, sir, you might wait until she comes of age. There could be no objection then. If you marry now,
you may come to regret it later when Miss Skelwith is able to choose for herself.’


Nicholas had thought of that – of the pain of losing Jemima’s money – but there was another consideration which he could not
voice to Ferrars. Jemima’s mother, Mathilde, had been brought up almost as a sister to Nicky; but more importantly than that,
there was a persistent rumour, which Nicky had long been aware of, that Jemima’s father, John Skelwith, was in fact a by-blow of Nicky’s own father, which would make him Nicky’s half-brother
and Jemima, therefore, Nicky’s niece. Uncle-and-niece marriages were not unknown, but they were not considered the thing,
not at all the thing. Nicholas didn’t want a marriage that was in any way to be frowned upon; he wanted people to shake their
heads in wonder at his acumen and good fortune, not in pity for his shame.


‘Even when she’s twenty-one, it would still have a very off appearance for me to be marrying my ward. No, what I want is a
woman of large fortune and great beauty; a docile, good-tempered, affectionate, virtuous girl, who will admire me and look
up to me. If such a woman should come in my way, why, I would marry her tomorrow and make her mistress of Morland Place –
and that’s as good a bargain as any female could want, considering who and what I am.’


‘Yes sir,’ said Ferrars with such profound gloom that Nicky’s momentary golden vision faded. He sighed. The trouble was that
it seemed about as likely that such a woman would appear tomorrow as that it would rain seven-shilling pieces.


Mr and Mrs Henry Anstey had a small house in Gillygate – not a fashionable street, and the house was old and inconvenient
for the servants; but it had all been newly painted, and Henry, who was a great contriver, had by having a door rehung here
and a chimney improved there made