Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols

was drawn to him when he stood up and took a step towards him, his hand outstretched. ‘My lord …’

      Miles pulled up. The man was in rags and painfully thin. ‘Byers, isn’t it?’ he queried, not sure the vision who confronted him could be the big strong man who had once been employed as a gardener at Ravens Park.

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      ‘What happened to you, man?’

      ‘I came back from the war and there was no work to be had and my wife and children had gone to live with her sister. Will you give a coin or two to tide me over and help feed my little ones, my lord?’

      Miles could tell how difficult it was for him to beg.

      ‘Why did you not go back to Ravens Park when you were discharged?’ he asked.

      ‘The Earl had given my place to someone else, the cottage, too. He would not take me on again.’

      ‘I am sorry to hear that.’

      ‘I was a good worker,’ Byers went on. ‘No one ever found fault with what I did; I served my time for king and country and that’s all the thanks I get for it.’

      ‘I can understand your bitterness,’ Miles said. ‘But the garden at Ravens Park could not wait on your return, you know. And gardeners expect to be housed.’ He paused. ‘Did you see the hunt come through just now?’

      ‘Yes, nigh on bowled me over, it did. Why do you ask?’

      ‘It ran over Mrs Watson’s garden and wrecked it. If you go and put it right for her, I’ll pay you. Better than begging, don’t you think?’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      ‘Off you go, then. When it’s done, come to the house and ask for me. I’ll have your wages for you.’

      The man touched his forelock and Miles trotted on towards Ravens Park. Jack Byers wasn’t the only one unemployed in the area. There were other ex-soldiers begging on the streets and they were adding to the agricultural labourers who were out of work on account of the dreadful weather ruining the crops. Times were bad for everyone, especially in a countryside that depended on farming for a living. He ought to try to do something to help, but what? Handing out money was not the answer.

      He shook the problem from him as he cantered up the drive towards the house. His father, who had been Viscount Cavenham at the time, had had it built just before he was born, to replace an older building that had fallen into disrepair. It was meant to celebrate his marriage and his earldom. Miles’s mother, Dorothea, only daughter of Earl Graine, was a catch for any man because of her ancient lineage, far superior to that of the Cavenhams. She was beautiful but frail and completely dominated by her husband. He was not physically violent towards her, but his tongue lashings often left her in tears. Miles loved his mother dearly and wished she would learn to stand up for herself. But he understood why she did not. She had been brought up in a culture in which the husband was head of the household and should be deferred to in all things and it distressed her when Miles argued with his father.

      Their disagreements were usually over the way the Earl treated his people. He was like a petty king whose subjects were expected to bend the knee and obey his commands under pain of destitution. That only worked so far; sooner or later the people would rise up and rebel. Miles had seen what had happened in the army if an officer ruled by fear. It did not make for a happy and willing force, whereas justice tempered with mercy and a willingness to share in the men’s hardship worked wonders for morale.

      The last straw had been when Miles had defended the boot boy from a beating on account of his lordship’s boots not being as shiny as he thought they should be. He had suffered the beating instead of the lad, which he did not regret, but as soon as he was old enough he had left home to join the army. He had come home to find his mother even more cowed than before and was shocked by how frail she seemed. Many a time he had bitten his tongue on a sharp retort for her sake. But it would be difficult to keep silent about the way Mrs Watson and Jack Byers had been treated.

      

      Helen was taking her leave of Mrs Watson when Jack arrived to say he had been bidden to set her garden to rights.

      ‘Who bade you do it?’ Mrs Watson asked.

      ‘The Viscount. He said he would pay me.’

      ‘Then he’s not as black as he’s painted.’

      ‘It’s no more than you’re due,’ Helen put in. ‘But it should have been the Earl who ordered it.’

      ‘Don’t matter who ordered it,’ Byers said. ‘I’m glad enough of the work, though it won’t get me my old job back.’

      ‘Why did you lose your job?’ Helen asked.

      ‘I went to war. It weren’t as if I wanted to go, but the Earl hinted that if his son went, then I should not lag behind. I’d be a coward if I did. And then when I come back, my job had gone to someone else and the cottage with it. My wife and family had been turned out and gone to live with her sister in Warburton. She’s only got a small house and they’re cramped for room. I’ve been sleeping out o’ doors.’

      ‘You put my garden to rights and you can sleep in my outhouse,’ Mrs Watson said. ‘It’s dry and there’s straw for a bed. I’ll give you a blanket.’

      ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am.’

      ‘I’ll come back tomorrow and see how you got on,’ Helen said as she bade them goodbye.

      She would ask Jack Byers to tell his story and she would talk to other ex-soldiers; she would have something to say about the Earl and his guests riding roughshod over other people’s gardens and their feelings. It would fill a page of the Warburton Record and perhaps she could stir up some influential consciences. She was already composing the article in her head as she walked the three miles back to Warburton.

      Warburton was a bustling little market town with two churches, a chapel, a mill, a public school for those who could afford to send their children there and a dame school for those who could not. It had two doctors: Dr Graham, who looked after the elite who could afford his fees, and Dr Benton, who treated everyone else. The town also had a blacksmith, a farrier, a harness maker who also made and mended shoes, a butcher and provisions shop, a small haberdasher and the Warburton printing press, home of the Warburton Record, which was where Helen was bound.

      The business occupied a building in the centre of the town. There was an office at the front and the printing press in a room at the back. Helen lived in an apartment above the shop with only Betty, her maid, for company. A sign hanging above the door proclaimed, ‘H. Wayland, publisher and printer. Proprietor of the Warburton Record. All printing tasks undertaken, large and small.’ The H. stood for Henry, of course, but it also served for Helen so she saw no reason to change it.

      A bell tinkled as she opened the door and let herself in. At a desk to one side young Edgar Harrington was busy writing. Helen went to look over his shoulder. He was composing a report on recent court hearings.

      ‘Committed to Warburton Bridewell for twelve months,’ she read. ‘John Taylor for stealing a pig from Joseph Boswell, farmer of Littleacre near Warburton.’ And again. ‘For stealing a peck of wheat from the barn at Home Farm, Ravensbrook, Daniel Cummings was sentenced to six months in gaol.’ There were several cases of poaching brought by the gamekeeper at Ravens Park. All had been found guilty and been sentenced to varying degrees of punishment, from prison to transportation, which Helen thought unduly harsh. No doubt the Earl, who controlled his fellow magistrates, had demanded they be made an example of. But if the poor men were hungry and had hungry families, who could blame them if they took a rabbit or two, or even a pig? It was different for the organised gangs, who came from the big cities to sell their ill-gotten gains to willing buyers. Those she condemned.

      She moved through to the back room where Tom Salter was typesetting. Tom was in his middle years and had been working for the Record ever since Helen’s father moved to Warburton eight years before. He was