Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols
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to print that poster.’ He nodded to a large sheet of paper lying on another table. ‘I said I’d have to ask you. It could get us into trouble.’
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