The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,108
Waking from this, lying wide-eyed in the dark with Nan breathing deeply beside him, he thought of the freedom of that life in Florida, taking the hours as they came, living in the open and the light of day, doing things because they needed doing, so that life could go on, not because you were summoned to do them, not because someone you never saw owned the labor of your body. He felt a deep sense of envy for that band of men and women, even for their toil, even for the dangers they must have faced.
Following upon the envy, softening it with a sort of consolation that he knew to have no basis in reason, there came thoughts of the plot of land by the streamside, in the Dene, the sheltered ground, the falling water, the fertile soil, two acres, perhaps a bit more … The apple trees, the green rows of vegetables, the laden pony following the path to the coast where he would set up his stall and sell his produce. Somehow, in a manner that defied logic, this wandering Irishman’s story had brought the possibility nearer.
28
It took Kemp forty-eight hours to reach the city of Durham, the journey broken by an overnight stay at an inn in Nottingham. Spenton was expecting the visit and would have sent a coach to bring his guest the twelve miles or so from the city, but Kemp had decided well in advance that he would hire a mount from the stables of the inn where his coach set him down. He was not carrying a great deal in the way of luggage; what he had would go into saddlebags. The thing of overriding importance to his mind was having independence of movement during his stay, being able to range freely; he had much to see, and wanted to choose his own time for the seeing. Spenton would have stables, but borrowing a horse would mean making arrangements, stating intentions and so limiting the freedom he felt to be essential. As always, he was single-minded, formidably so; all of his being was concentrated now on learning what he could, assessing the levels of investment that would be needed, striving to apply what he had learned from his study of the industry to the actual workings of the mine, which would be entirely new to him.
It was midafternoon when, after some questioning of people along the way, he reached the gates to the house and grounds, though as yet no house was visible. Stone pillars on either side were surmounted by reclining lions, bemused and emaciated by time and weather. A man emerged from a small lodge and opened the gate to him. The drive, broad enough for two coaches to pass, wound upward through rolling parkland, with copses of oak and ash cunningly laid out to give a sense of limitless vistas. The land fell away on his rig ht as he neared the house, and he caught a flat gleam of water in the distance from what he supposed was a lake.
The house was of gray stone, broad-fronted and imposing, with wings that looked more recent than the main body of the building. A footman in livery appeared instantly, descended the steps between the parterres and with much deference took charge of Kemp’s horse and led it away. As he began to mount the steps, a youngish man, plainly dressed in a dark twill suit, came down to meet him and held out his hand. “Welcome to Wingfield, sir,” he said. “My name is Bourne, Roland Bourne. I am a half cousin of Lord Spenton and I act here as his steward. His lordship asks me to apologize for his failure to be here in person to greet you on your arrival. There is a meet of the hunt today, and it is expected of him to be present at it.”
“I quite understand,” Kemp said, relieved at having time to gather himself before being required to encounter Spenton again and find the right face to put upon his host’s blend—remembered from their meeting at Vauxhall—of studied nonchalance and sudden fits of enthusiasm for what had seemed entirely marginal matters, tricks of water, clockwork toys, this handball match that was soon to take place. “Great possessions bring duties,” he said, summoning a smile. “That is a general rule.” This fellow seemed pleasant enough—probably a younger son and more or less penniless; otherwise he would hardly be at Spenton’s beck and call.