CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Jockey Club was having its quarterly meeting at its headquarters in Newmarket, the hallowed center of English thoroughbred racing. Eight men served as stewards, one of whom was the Earl of Preston.
After the business of the meeting had concluded, the members adjourned to a cozy room with old leather furniture and a well-stocked liquor cabinet. The room was redolent of horses and dogs, a familiar and pleasant smell for the members. Glasses were produced and wine and/or brandy were poured. The men made themselves comfortable and began to gossip.
“Did you hear about what happened to Merton?” Mr. Cruick asked. He was older than the rest of them and had been a mainstay of the Jockey Club for eons.
Two people had heard the story and four had not, so the tale had to be told. “Perhaps that will teach him to stay away from lightskirts who don’t know their place,” the old man concluded to general chuckles.
Sir Charles Bunbury, the Head Steward, turned to Lord Preston and said, “I say, Preston, I was speaking recently to a friend who has just returned from India. Did you know that bye-blow of yours was the darling of the Maharaja of Nawanger? Apparently, he started out working in the stable and ended up so close to the Maharaja that his eldest son was jealous and tried to have him killed. That’s why he came back to England, you know. Didn’t want to fall foul of the heir. Apparently, the Maharaja was so besotted he gave him a fortune in jewels to take with him.”
Lord Simon Lowry said, “That’s the fellow who married Grex’s girl, right?”
“That’s right,” Sir Charles replied. “I heard he gave Grex an inordinate amount of money for the place, as well as taking the girl off his hands.”
Sir John Barlow said, “This Dereham fellow came home spouting all kinds of reactionary ideas about ‘social reform’ and ‘working communities.’ I hear he’s building a factory near Manchester with new cottages for the workers - even a school for the children! And the men only work eight hours a day! That kind of thinking can be dangerous, you know. Can’t have the lower classes getting above themselves.”
Sir Charles said, “If the man wants to invest his own money in a scheme like that, then I say let him do it. It can’t hurt us.”
A few of the other men were adding their opinions when the Earl of Preston exploded, “That upstart is not my son! I will call any man out who says he is! No one of Montford blood would ever behave the way he has!”
The other seven men stared at the earl in surprise. His face was the color of puce, the veins in his neck were distended and his narrowed blue eyes were daggers.
“No need to get so touchy about it, Preston,” Sir John said. “Everyone says he’s your son. The eyes - a dead giveaway you know.”
“I will not have my name and my blood associated with that…revolutionary!”
The last word was said with such anger and disgust that old Mr. Criuck flinched.
The other seven men stared at their colleague, shocked at such a show of anger. A bastard son or daughter was nothing out of the ordinary among the English upper classes. It was certainly nothing to get upset about.
The earl stood up and warned, “I never want to hear that name spoken in this company again!” He picked up his hat and stalked out of the room; the seven remaining men watched in silence.
“Really,” Lord Beaufort said when Preston had slammed the door behind him. “Everyone who has encountered Daniel Dereham has seen the resemblance. The eyes, the eyebrows, the coloring, are identical.”
“I was afraid he’d have an apoplexy,” Sir Charles said.
There was a short silence, then Lord Simon Lowry changed the subject. “What do you think of Eigar’s chances in the fourth race tomorrow?”
The conversation shifted as the men refilled their glasses.
# # #
The wealthy men who owned mills near Manchester were members of a new class that was busily gathering riches and power into its hands, and they were not pleased with Daniel Dereham. They didn’t like the spacious new factory, they didn’t like the village built especially for the workers, they didn’t like the ban on women and children working, and they really didn’t like the eight-hour day.
“He’s coddling them, is what he’s doing,” Geoffrey Margat, the owner of one of the oldest cotton mills in Manchester, said angrily. I can hear my men talking about their ‘rights,’ and I tell you I don’t like it. Look at those damn ‘blanketeers’. They had the gall to try to march on London to protest to the King!”
Three of the most important mill owners in Manchester had gathered at Margat’s house to discuss the ‘Dereham problem.’ The second most important man in the room spoke next. “They’re het up already about the taxes on tea, sugar, beer, candles, paper, etc. etc.” Alfred Grimsly was very disturbed. “With that Hunt fellow traveling around the country stirring up the mob, God knows what thoughts our men might be harboring.”
“We could have a revolution like the Frenchies if we’re not careful,” Henry Brook declared. “Sidmouth has suspended the Habeas Corpus Act, so anyone under suspicion can be thrown into jail and kept there. Is there any hope Dereham might be vulnerable?”
“No chance,” Margat said gloomily. “On the surface, he’s doing nothing to stir up trouble. In fact, quite a few people think he’s doing something good. No, the only way he’ll be stopped is if we do it ourselves.”
The three men looked at each other and nodded in slow agreement.
“But how?” Brook asked practically.
“Now that is what we are here to discuss,” Geoffrey Margat said.