On the House Read online

  About the Author

  When Helen retired, she decided to have a twenty-year exit strategy which would see her through to old age. She would complete all the tasks she’d never finished and try to achieve things which she had put on hold while raising a large family and working full time. One of these projects was to try her hand at a novel. In the past her writing experience had been academic, as a professional in the education world.

  She began writing On the House in December 2012. This book came about following extensive research into her family history where she made a sad discovery. One of her ancestors volunteered for Wandsworth workhouse, where he hanged himself in 1863. What could have prompted such a desperate act? This led her to fascinating research about living conditions, regulation and control in nineteenth-century workhouses. In Victorian England, provision of welfare for the poor was a fractious political issue which divided opinion, as it still does today. But, while those issues are integral to the story, the events that unfold in this Suffolk workhouse in the early months of 1838 are considerably more graphic, as her synopsis describes.

  Helen enjoys all aspects of historical writing: developing the strands of ideas, researching and discovering the different perspectives of her characters. The Lawes and Hudson trilogy is now complete and she has grown to like her two protagonists. She hopes you will too.

  On the House

  Helen Maskew

  This edition first published in 2017

  Unbound

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  All rights reserved

  © Helen Maskew, 2017

  The right of Helen Maskew to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN (eBook): 9781911586272

  ISBN (Paperback): 9781911586098

  Design by Mecob

  Cover image: © Shutterstock.com

  © Textures.com

  To Roger

  Dear Reader,

  The book you are holding came about in a rather different way to most others. It was funded directly by readers through a new website: Unbound.

  Unbound is the creation of three writers. We started the company because we believed there had to be a better deal for both writers and readers. On the Unbound website, authors share the ideas for the books they want to write directly with readers. If there are enough who will support the book by pledging for it in advance, we will produce a beautifully bound special subscribers’ edition and distribute a regular edition and e-book wherever books are sold, in shops and online.

  This new way of publishing is actually a very old idea (Samuel Johnson funded his dictionary this way). We’re just using the internet to build a network of patrons for each writer. Here, at the back of this book, you’ll find the names of all the people who made it happen.

  Publishing in this way means readers are no longer mere passive consumers of the books they buy, and authors are free to write the books they really want. They get a much fairer return too – half the profits their books generate, rather than a tiny percentage of the cover price.

  If you’re not yet a subscriber, we hope that you’ll want to join our publishing revolution and have your name listed in one of our books in the future. To get you started, here is a £5 discount on your first pledge. Just visit unbound.com, make your pledge and type HUDSON17 in the promo code box when you check out.

  Thank you for your support,

  Dan, Justin and John

  Founders, Unbound

  Super Patrons

  John Andrew

  Paula Bond

  Carolyn Box

  Bruce & Lesley Budd

  Judith Fish

  Catherine Grimmitt

  Barbara Hanson

  Dan Kieran

  Nicky Martin

  Dylan Maskew

  Graham Maskew

  Helen Maskew

  John Mitchinson

  Julia Parker

  Justin Pollard

  Val Ruddle

  Lesley Taylor

  Juliet Thompson

  Jayne West

  Jon Whiteoak

  Lorraine Worley

  Edward Young

  Contents

  About the Author

  [Dedication]

  Dear Reader Letter

  Super Patrons

  Foreword

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Part Two

  Ambrose Hudson’s Account

  March

  April

  May

  June

  Part Three

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Postscript

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Patrons List

  Innocents to the Slaughter – A Preview

  Foreword

  There was a hanging today, although it was more of a strangling – demonstrating the practical difference between being hung and being hanged. A hanged man will have a regulation knot and a measured drop through a trapdoor to ensure a cleanly broken neck for a swift exit. All this is officially overseen by the services of a professional hangman, a doctor to certify death, and a chaplain to pray the man’s soul into heaven.

  This was not official. Just a home-made plait of odds and ends of rope; a stocky bundle dangling from its noose, slowly swinging this way and that under its own momentum until finally coming to a stop, like the pendulum of a clock whose mechanism has run down. Having expended all its energy, it hung still in the sweet May air; the supreme imperative of gravity by which the body should reach the earth only denied by the stout hook to which the carefully measured rope was tied, and the resulting tension as it pulled against the beam.

  A wooden crate had been kicked away by feet clad in poor, thin shoes. The legs, arms and body were straight as an arrow, but the head hung down impotently, chin on top of chest. The neck was squeezed by the rope, turning the skin beneath purple. The face was the same hue, as was the tongue that had protruded through the lips, grotesque and swollen. No colour could be determined from the bloodshot eyes that bulged expressionless. The man was of average height and build, dressed in meagre grey clothing, cotton shirt, jacket and trousers – grey in every particular. Ecce Homo. What would lead a man to end his existence this way? Undoubtedly this is a house of misery, where all dignity has been extinguished and nothing is left but black despair.

  Part One

  Edgar Lawes’s Account

  Seddon Hall, Suffolk, 1838

  Chapter 1

  ‘Edgar, you know there’s nothing sentimental about me. As a practical man I’ve always tried to live out my morality in actions not words.’

  I sat by my father’s bed and watched as the man of whom I was fondest in all the world peered at me over his spectacles as he lay propped up by numerous pillows. His face was grey, although his breathing was regular and still strong enough for him to form his words coherently. But the doctor had already told me it would only be a matter of days before there would be no more conversations.

  ‘I’ve been privileged to live in an age of wise men – the new prophets who aren’t frightened to express enlightened ideas – even against established and embedded pr
ejudices. The Scotsman David Hume’s that kind of man: a good philosopher who thought our knowledge of existence can only come from our experiences, something with which I fully agree – any man of logic must.’

  ‘I know you do, Father, but why don’t you rest and take your ease for a while? Besides, perhaps it’s not the time for philosophical debate. There’ll be plenty of opportunity for that later when you’re well.’

  ‘You and I both know that’s not the case – I’ve spoken to the doctor and he’s been mercifully frank with me – no placatory bedside nonsense. No, there are things I want you to know. What better time for a man to be reflective than on his deathbed? I want to be certain you understand the precepts on which I’ve tried to live my life. I’m not necessarily expecting you to adopt them all but I do encourage you to consider some of them as options.’

  ‘A few minutes, then I insist you sleep for a while.’

  He leaned forward and gripped my hand with his thin pale one. ‘Listen then! Bentham’s principle of “the greatest happiness of the greatest number” – that’s what I believe myself, the combination of social equality with freedom of the individual. Lately I’ve been wrestling with ways to achieve it but I fear there’s no more time for me, but I might persuade you to follow that principle in your own life.’ I nodded and squeezed his soft, cold hand. He went on: ‘You and I’ve been soulmates since your mother died and I’ve tried to be a good protector and counsellor. It’s my view that children should be taught by example not exhortation. I’ve always hoped I’ve given you good guidance, but tried to do it through my own behaviour.’

  ‘Father, you have been – are still – the wisest and kindest counsellor any son could have. There’s no one else I would ever seek out for advice.’

  ‘I’m glad, but never be afraid of listening to others, Edgar, although you must always keep a discerning mind – and most important, a loving heart. For myself I face the end with equanimity, since I believe there’s nothing beyond it. But I’ll tell you this – even as a non-believer in the afterlife, if I’m wrong, Edgar, I’ll surely have questions to answer and to ask; unfortunately if I’m right I’ll never know. How frustrating for a man who prides himself on his logic!’

  His voice faded away as he fell into a deep sleep. There was no sound in the room other than the quiet ticking from the longcase clock; from outside could be heard the dribbling winter song of a robin just below the open window. The room was full of the man and his interests – curios, paintings and mementos from his few travels. On his bedside table was a pile of books set aside to be read, but in my heart I knew they would never be opened.

  *

  As his only child, my father’s death radically altered my way of life, since, at the age of twenty-seven, I became the inheritor of Seddon Hall, an estate of some size, with a position in local society to match it. I was already a Justice of the Peace with considerable local power as one of the county’s legal officers and general administrators. My father had always determined that deeds not words fuel progress and so I began to cast around for additional ways in which I might be part of the spread of Jeremy Bentham’s ‘greatest happiness’. I considered entering politics, but the Member of Parliament for Suffolk was firmly established. In any case we shared certain Whiggish political ideas, besides the fact that he was a distant relative. With a minor aristocratic background and correspondingly useful connections, I was now what was understood as a man of standing and had that ultimate benefit of independent means – time. I was also unencumbered by domestic considerations since matrimony had as yet escaped me, although as a full-blooded bachelor, considered reasonably good-looking, as kind friends assured me, I’d not lost hope in that direction. Only on one occasion had I felt myself really drawn to someone, but had prevaricated, missed my chance and left the field open to another. The numbers of young women my age in my immediate circle were few and, as a result, I was considered a real catch by their mothers, whose persistence I managed with great difficulty.

  Seddon estate was centrally placed in the county and twelve miles from Ipswich. Suffolk is an agricultural county through and through, farming a mix of sheep, cattle and arable, the soil well drained and fertile. My land was well managed and profitable under the regular and sustained supervision of my father’s bailiff, Samuel Saunby, who’d been with the family since I was a small boy. His intimate knowledge of all aspects of its running, at all times conscious of my father’s wishes as to how tenants and workers were to be treated, required no substantial oversight on my part and so I decided to continue as my father had and leave him to it. I also ran a racing stud on a very small scale but with good-quality animals. For this I relied on the expertise of my stable manager and groom Harry Valentine, whose knowledge of horses exceeded anyone’s in the county. With such expertise in both land and equine matters my presence was sometimes more of a hindrance to them than a help. With all this in mind my instincts told me it was an appropriate time to take stock of how the ‘greatest happiness’ can be achieved and what I might contribute to it personally.

  My father was a voracious reader with a substantial library, and once I’d put away my law books from Cambridge I took full advantage of the contents of its shelves. It was an eclectic mix, mostly devoted to works of philosophy and science, but with poetry and novels as new additions. I found works by Wordsworth, Byron, and a new writer – Benjamin Disraeli – who my father insisted ‘was one to watch’. But my father’s last conversation drew me back to Jeremy Bentham whom I’d read but forgotten. The philosopher had been dead for six years but his utilitarian morality and ethics were undiminished. In the year that Bentham had died, the Great Reform Act of 1832 had enfranchised more men than ever before. Last year, for the first time for over a hundred years, a young woman of eighteen became queen; between the reign of Queen Anne and the newly crowned Victoria there had been five kings of varying quality.

  Times are certainly changing and increasingly there are those who strive to propel the country into more enlightened thinking. Questions of conscience have arisen over the enthusiasm with which industrial progress is being achieved, and at what cost to the individual well-being of the workers who service the great engine of technology. Social change is surely accelerating. New ideas and processes are accepted by some, but for the critical mass I suspect there are many questions they would like to have answered about their futures, as would those of us encouraged to think for ourselves who ponder over the wider social effects of mechanisation.

  But at this time these national concerns, crucial as they were, didn’t answer my immediate problem: how to put this luxury of time to profitable use in the search ‘for the greatest happiness’? It was a casual meeting with a friend that set me on a path to achieve my ambition. But until that point I had no idea how, within weeks, I would become involved in matters and experience events that previously would have been unimaginable.

  *

  Market day in our small town of Seddon: even by late afternoon it was still crowded with local farmers and dealers, their mothers, wives and daughters, as well as pedlars, tinkers and providers of sundry services who are always attracted to the town on such a busy day. After my morning sessions at the magistrates’ court I crossed Seddon’s main street and was almost bowled over by a small terrier-like man who was looking over his shoulder and not where he was going.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir!’ he said and raised his hat. ‘Why, it’s Mr Edgar Lawes; good day to you!’

  ‘Good day, Ted. You seem in an almighty hurry and somewhat distracted.’

  ‘Indeed. I was looking to the clock to see if I had time for a drink before loading up and driving home. It seems I have – perhaps you’d join me in the Fleece? It’s a piece of good luck meeting like this, Edgar, for I was going to seek your opinion on a matter.’

  My father was particularly careful to keep his circle of acquaintances as wide as custom allowed and I followed his practice, making a point of moving socially among all my neighbours an
d keeping my ear to the ground. Edward Lake was a man I counted as a friend and one I respected for his openness and fair dealing. He owned Rushie Farm, two hundred acres in the adjacent parish of Maiden Lindsey.

  My curiosity piqued I said, ‘I was thinking of taking drink so, yes, I’ll join you Ted,’ and followed him across the road and into the inn.

  The Fleece Inn was a respectable house: one universal bar, clean and plain with wooden floors and walls. As it was now well into the afternoon the place was only half full and we had no difficulty finding a quiet corner well away from the fire. Badly ventilated, the flue gave back puffs of smoke every now and then, leaving a faint haze as it dispersed around the room. Ted Lake had his own pint tankard that the landlady selected from a row of others hanging above the bar, filling it with the house ale from a large jug; I took a brandy. Being late winter the light was poor and besides the smoky atmosphere the small windows were an additional bar to visibility; our eyes took some time to adjust to the gloom.

  ‘So, Ted, what’ve you been about? Sarah and the boys are well I hope?’

  ‘They’re all thriving, Edgar, thank you. The boys are growing apace and I tell them they’re costing too much to feed and will soon have to look out for themselves! But of course they’ll stay on the farm as long as we can make a go of it. I couldn’t afford to lose them; they’re excellent workers and earn their keep.’

  ‘And are you making a go of it? Is the farm still profitable?’

  ‘As usual – like everyone else we have our ups and downs. This cold spring hasn’t helped with the wheat, but the four of us soldier on. Sarah does more than her share of hard work. We’re lucky.’ He took a pull at his ale and leaned forward, elbows on the table; he suddenly seemed pent-up and more akin to a small canine on the scent than ever. ‘But never mind that, what I want to tell you is I’ve put myself up as a candidate for a place on the board of guardians for the union workhouse. I’m quite excited about it; it’s the first time I’ve stood for any public office.’ He took a gulp from his tankard, his face animated and his brown eyes bright. A small, neat man with regular features, his was an honest physiognomy full of life and open to all emotions, which passed across it like waves on a pristine sandy shore.