He looked at her and nodded a sleepy agreement. It was obvious, if Aunt Jane needed him, then he could not possibly go away and leave her.
While Jane led the way holding a lighted candlestick, Tom carried his son upstairs to the nursery corridor where Joshua slept. He was tired, and there were many plans to make before he set off to Ireland, but they could wait until tomorrow.
It was three days later before Tom was ready to embark on his errand of mercy. The first thing he did was to send a letter to inform Lucius Cobarne of his impending visit. Then he revised his intended mode of transport when Jane pointed out the difficulties of travelling with children.
“It would be impossible to drive a phaeton, and take charge of the children, with just a groom in attendance. You must take the travelling coach, and I will find someone to look after them. Apart from anything else, you are a stranger to them. Can you imagine how frightened they would be? Would you want Joshua to be in that situation?
After his recent journey home, Tom admitted that Jane’s assessment of the situation was right. The Linmore coach was eminently more comfortable for travelling, and with a female along, he could relinquish care of the children to her.
“Miss Jane says we’re taking Jack Kilcot’s sister as nursemaid, so he’d better come along as an extra pair of hands,” Dan Salter, the coachman said.
“He can come if he is prepared to look after her.” Tom knew the lad was reliable from his training as a groom, and hoped the girl would be suitably adept.
In discussing the best route to take, Salter gave his opinion.
“Chester’s the best place to head for, sir. From there, we can go to Liverpool, or take the mail coach route west to Bangor, and by ferry to Anglesey. The packet sails from Holyhead, when the weather allows.”
Irrespective of the route, that would be the deciding factor.
“Which is the shortest distance?”
“I reckon we’d make better time to Liverpool,” the coachman said. “We’ll need to change horses, but if you are agreeable, sir, we can stop at a livery stable I know of just out of Chester, and collect the Linmore team on the return journey.”
The following day they headed north in a travelling coach, drawn by a team of four, Linmore-bred chestnut horses. Three figures sat on the box; Dan Salter took the reins, with Hanwood the groom by his side and Jack Kilcot, in his newly appointed role as overseer to his sister’s care of the children.
Mary Kilcot was already sitting in the coach when Tom climbed inside. Her brother introduced her as he closed the door.
“This is our Mary, sir. She’s a good lass, and will do whatever you tell her.”
Tom acknowledged the girl with a nod, and received a shy smile in response. Sensing that she might stand up to bob her knees, he waved her back to her seat.
“Now, just you remember, our wench,” said her brother. “Don’t you go chattering and being a nuisance to Squire Norbery, or I’ll send you home again.”
The girl’s willingness was not in doubt. The unknown factor was her ability to travel any distance. If she could not do that, she would be a liability.
For the first few miles, Mary Kilcot huddled in the opposite corner of the coach to where Tom sat, too nervous to speak. Gradually, she relaxed and looked out of the windows, her face lit by a beatific smile. Eventually, her cheery nature got the better of her, and she could not resist exclaiming, “Ooh, this be lovely and comfy. I ain’t ever been in one of these coaches before. I’m not surprised you likes travelling so much, sir. Our Jack tells me all about his travels to London.”
The girl’s simple assessment made Tom feel humble. She was overawed by her surroundings, whereas he was a jaded traveller who, until recently, had forgotten the simple pleasures derived from sitting in comfort. It was a salutary lesson.
In his position, he expected such things, but rarely gave it a thought. The trouble with political life was that he met too few ordinary people. Instead of being bored, this could be an interesting journey.
He lapsed into his thoughts and let the girl chatter away to herself. It was clear everything she saw fascinated her. He knew excitement could turn an inexperienced traveller’s stomach. Apprehension was even worse, particularly when aggravated by the swaying of a coach and four at full gallop.
The coachman followed his normal practice when travelling, and made regular breaks to water the horses. After three hours, the party stopped for refreshments.
Mary sat down to enjoy her plate of crusty bread, cheese and pickles. “This travelling is thirsty work,” the girl exclaimed, as she drained a tankard of ale.
Tom heard her comment, and smiled. He had cause to remember it again when she returned to her seat. He expected her to settle down to sleep, but instead, she started to moan. Recognising the portent, he hammered on the roof of the coach with his cane. The groom peered inside almost before the vehicle stopped.
“Kilcot,” he said. “Your sister needs fresh air. Take her outside.”
Hardly had the girl left the coach when he heard sounds outside as she gained relief. It was not a minute too soon.
When they returned, Kilcot said, “I’m sorry about that, sir. I’ll take our Mary up on the box for a while.”
Tom felt sorry for the girl, but knew she would learn more from her dietary indiscretion than any amount of telling in advance. It was better it happened now, and with any luck, she would be all right for the rest of the journey.
At the next stop to water the horses, Mary Kilcot returned to the coach looking windswept and flushed. “Oh, that was nice, sir. I felt better once I could see where we was going.” Then she confided, “It wasn’t the cheese what upset me, sir, it was the pickled onions. I parted company with them, so my innards will be all right now.”
“Splendid,” he said, cutting short any other confidences about the inner workings of her system, and signalled to the coachman to resume the journey.
They stayed the first night at a hostelry called the Cheshire Arms, and set off the following day with fresh horses, heading for Liverpool, intending to collect the Linmore team on their return.
When they resumed the journey, Mary Kilcot said, “An ordinary bed would have done for me and Jack, sir. I came here to work, sir, not sleep in luxury. Do you know, the chambermaid told me they changed the sheets only last week?”
Tom hoped the landlady had replaced his bed linen more recently.
He closed his eyes, and thought about the differences between the two half-sisters who occupied his home. Each had a different mother and father. The merest chance made them related, when James Littlemore married a widow with a young daughter. Jane’s mother was the man’s second wife.
Even as a young man, Tom had known his own mind. Jane was the only woman he had ever loved. He had never wished to marry a bad-tempered woman five years older than he, but circumstances at the time forced him to comply.
Later, his father claimed not to know of the bad blood in the Strettons of Norcott Abbey, but he should have. It was something for which Tom never forgave him – not even on his deathbed.
Tom knew that the next phase of the journey depended on whether fortune and a prevailing wind were with them. If all went well, and the sea crossings were favourable, he might complete his business within five days. They were lucky. On reaching Liverpool, he learned the squally weather in the Irish Sea had moderated sufficiently to enable the packet to Dublin to sail on the morning tide.
To his relief, sufficient berths were available and there were few delays with embarkation. Soon, he was standing on deck, with his entourage by his side, all suitably clad against the elements. The long hooded cloak was the latest thing to meet with Mary Kilcot’s approval.
A brisk wind filled the sails as the craft slipped its moorings and moved out into the main shipping lane. Tom felt the swell of the waves beneath the boat, and braced himself to steady his balance.
For a time, he watched the wake of the boat as the port of Liverpool receded into the mist. He revelled in the smell of seawater in the wind as he drew the collar of his greatcoat under his chin, and lowered his hat against the lash of the freshening breeze. He hoped Mary Kilcot would not suffer mal de mer, but there was no alternative now. She would have to be capable of looking after the children when the time came.
Feeling the need to rest, Tom retired to his berth. Having taken an early breakfast, he needed little sustenance during the crossing. He was glad he had reserved two cabins. The young woman’s presence complicated the matter, but she was happy to share with her brother, while Dan Salter, the coachman acted as valet, and rested in a chair in the corner of his room. Hanwood, the groom, was left in Liverpool with the Linmore coach to await their return.
His first view of the Irish coast was marred by a thick bank of fog, which slowed their approaches to land. By the time, the clouds cleared, and the quay at Poolbeg came into sight, they were standing on deck waiting to disembark.
From there, Tom and his servants travelled to the lodgings in Great George’s Street, where Philip Penn his secretary had reserved rooms with a private parlour. Normally, he would have stayed at Gresham’s Hotel, but considered a smaller establishment more discreet for the family business he wished to conduct. Fewer people would see him.
It was too late in the day to set out for the Cobarne household, so he sent word of his arrival, announcing his intention to visit Blackrock the following morning. Then he requested a bath be prepared, changed his travelling clothes and dined alone with his servants waiting at table. After which, he retired to bed.
Morning could not come soon enough. He wanted to collect the children and be on his way again. He was not looking forward to the forthcoming meeting with the adults.
The following day was quiet, with little traffic on the roads. The fresh winds had eased and left a dry spell with an almost cloudless sky.
As they left Dublin behind, Tom sat back against the worn squabs of the hired coach and surveyed the surrounding landscape. It was a pretty land, yet the contrasts were stark. When he looked out towards the Dublin Mountains, he saw several fine mansions built on the hillsides for the Protestant landowners, but poverty was all too apparent in the dreary villages through which he passed.
The road to the coast was surprisingly good, an indication of the rise in Blackrock’s seaside popularity, but the surrounding countryside belonged to another era. It was evident from the strips of common land that the agricultural changes prevalent in England had not reached these parts. There was not an enclosure in sight.
By half-past eleven, Tom was within sight of his destination. His mood should have been benign, but it was not, any more than the directions he obtained in the hotel were foolproof. They might have been to someone familiar with the locality, but not to a stranger.
He did not blame Salter for taking a wrong turning, which led to an isolated farm. By the time they realised the error, there was nowhere to turn the coach until they reached the farmyard.
Then they had difficulty communicating with a farmer’s boy who spoke an unfamiliar language. Neither one understood the other until the coachman mentioned the lawyer’s name. From the boy’s willing demeanour, Tom deduced that Lucius Cobarne was well known in the district, and made sure the lad knew he would be rewarded for his help.
Probably a shilling would have sufficed, but half-a-crown got a better response and a ready smile when the boy walked back along the farm track to show them the road they should take – a hundred yards further on towards Blackrock. It was worth it to be on his way again.
In truth, he would have paid twice the amount for the extra knowledge he gained. For the first time, he realised travelling might not be the greatest problem the children would have to overcome. He had never considered the possibility they might not speak the same language.
At the outskirts to Blackrock village, Jack Kilcot came to the window, and pointed down the road. “Mr Salter said he thought the house up ahead set back from the road should be the one, sir.”
When Tom stepped down from the coach, he looked beyond the house to where the road stopped and the seashore began. He saw the crests of the waves, a hint of aquamarine stretching out to the horizon, and could smell salt in the wind.
He took a deep breath in, and slowly exhaled. It was wonderful. Joshua would have loved to be here. Why, oh why, was Cobarne sending two children away from this place? Did they go down to the sea to paddle? It could not be more than half a mile at most.
“Thank you, Daniel, I enjoyed that,” Tom said as he returned to his seat “Now we had better go on our way.”
Within minutes, the coach passed through a pair of black-painted ornamental gates, along a sweeping gravelled driveway towards a three-storey, stone-built house, with white-painted sash windows, and came to a halt before a black-panelled door with curved fanlight over.
Kilcot let down the steps, and Tom approached the door to beat a tattoo on the highly polished brass doorknocker. Several minutes passed before he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps. Then the door opened a few inches, and a reedy male voice quavered, “Yes, what d’you want?”
Tom stepped forward, expecting the door to open further, but it refused to yield.
“My name is Norbery,” he said, proffering his calling card through the crack in the door. “I have an appointment to see Mr Lucius Cobarne.”
It was difficult to communicate with a person hidden behind a block of wood. Apart from the wheezy breath, there was little to indicate the age of the servant. The man’s voice sounded old, much as the wizened brown hand appeared to be.
“The master’s not here now,” the owner of the rasping voice said as he started to close the door.
Anticipating the move, Tom leaned on the door, forcing it to remain ajar. The surly reception did not augur well for the meeting ahead if the servants looked askance when a gentleman presented on the doorstep.
“I would be obliged if you would tell Mrs Cobarne that Squire Norbery of Linmore has come from England to see her husband, in response to his letter to Miss Jane Littlemore,” Tom said in his crispest tone. It was not his habit to puff off his position, but if there was a time, this was it.