Hugh Kenrick (21 page)

“Are they for you or Mr. Barret, sir?” asked the man.

“Mr. Barret—when I’m through with them.” Ramshaw looked up at Hugh with a caustic smile. “We’ll be bringing those papers aboard without customs clearance, Mr. Kenrick,” he said. “Or has the Customs Board decided to tax hand-me-down news?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir,” answered Hugh. He wondered why he was the object of the captain’s bitter sarcasm.

“I ask that because Mr. Wendel Barret, publisher of the
Caxton Courier
, will reprint much of that news on his press. I wouldn’t want to see him incur the wrath of the Crown by cheating it of so much lawful revenue.”

Hugh did not reply.

Ramshaw said, “Mr. Kenrick, these are my surgeon and bursar, Mr. Iverson and Mr. Haynie.”

The two men nodded to Hugh, who nodded back.

“Mr. Kenrick,” said Ramshaw, “how much is Mr. Worley paying his clerks these days?”

Hugh frowned, startled at the question. “The senior ones, between ten and fifteen pounds per annum, I believe.”

“You are wearing twenty, at least,” observed Ramshaw, “not including your fine sword.” He paused. “You are a clerk, are you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you a relative of Mr. Worley’s?”

“No, sir.”

“Ah! Then you must have a position at the Admiralty, or the Treasury, or some other such bloodsucking bureau, and your duties collect dust because you are never there to perform them, but for which you are paid nonetheless.” Ramshaw turned to the bursar. “Mr. Haynie, how much does a copying clerk make in government service?”

The bursar shrugged. “Oh, between fifty and a hundred and fifty a year, I should say, depending on the department and on his sponsor’s connections and his letters of reference. That is in salary only, of course, exclusive of the fees a clerk may charge merchants for doing what he is paid to do.” The bursar looked thoughtful. “Then a clerk could collect somewhere between five hundred and a thousand a year.”

“That would account for our visitor’s wardrobe,” said Ramshaw. He smiled wickedly at Hugh. “Are you larking at Mr. Worley’s, Mr. Kenrick?
Moonlighting for an expensive mistress? Paying off a debt? Subsidizing some amusing vice?”

“My father paid for my wardrobe, sir,” said Hugh, offended by the man’s insolent taunts, but somehow pleased with the frankness of the interrogation.

“Oh? And who is your father? The Duke of Richmond?”

Hugh did not want to answer, for he knew what effect his words would have on the three men. He answered reluctantly, “No, sir. My father is Garnet Kenrick, Baron of Danvers, and brother to the Earl of Danvers. Mr. Worley is his commercial agent.”

The bursar and surgeon shifted nervously in their chairs. Ramshaw did not move, but simply stared at him. “That would explain the sheen and cut of your cloth, sir,” he said. “Still, you must have a sumptuous salary.”

“Or at least a custom commissioner’s clerk’s,” mused the surgeon.

“No, sir,” said Hugh. “I work gratis for Mr. Worley, when I am not in school. I am learning the family business, so that someday I may manage my family’s affairs as well as does my father now.”

“And your father does know his business,” remarked Ramshaw. He gave Hugh a curious, almost shrewd look, then addressed the bursar. “It would account for our never having traded in a single Dorset lobster pot, would it not, Mr. Haynie?”

“It would, sir,” replied the bursar after some hesitation.

Hugh did not grasp the meaning of the cryptic exchange. Ramshaw saw the blank look on his face. “Please forgive my ribaldry, Mr. Kenrick—Oh, how would you prefer to be addressed?”

Hugh smiled for the first time. “Mr. Kenrick is quite satisfactory, Mr. Ramshaw,” he answered.

Ramshaw’s eyebrows went up and he grunted once in surprise. “Mr. Kenrick, then. You see, Mr. Kenrick, when I bring the
Sparrowhawk
up to the Keys, half my time is wasted on wrangling with customs men and other pompous supernumeraries, jockeying for the favors of the lightermen, and paying everyone to waste my time, to boot. This wastage leaves me in an immoderate temper.”

“Your temper is shared by many other captains, Mr. Ramshaw,” said Hugh. “It is an aspect of commerce with which I have become well acquainted.”

“And the abuse?”

“No other captain has equaled the tartness of your tongue, sir.”

The bursar and surgeon laughed. Ramshaw simply smiled. “I’m sure I’ve never been blessed with such a compliment.” He turned and said to his companions, “Will one of you offer Mr. Kenrick a chair?”

Iverson and Haynie began to rise, but Hugh waved them down with a hand. “Thank you, but, no. I must be getting back to the Key.”

Ramshaw gestured to a small cask on a stand near his desk. “Will you at least have a draught of punch, then? It will warm your insides for the ferry back.”

Hugh nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Ramshaw found another mug, filled it from the spigot himself, and presented it to Hugh. He picked up his own mug and touched it to his visitor’s. “To your health, sir.”

“And to yours, sir,” replied Hugh. They tilted their mugs and drank.

Ramshaw returned to his desk. “Before you go, Mr. Kenrick, I’ve heard talk in town of a new dictionary of the language that has come out. Put together by a Doctor Johnson, working alone. A singular accomplishment, if you’ll pardon the pun. Could you tell me where I might find some copies? I’d like to take a few with me to hawk in Virginia for my own pocket.”

“I believe it was published by Mr. Strahan, the principal book printer. I have seen it in some bookshops, and plan to purchase a copy of it myself. Grove’s on the Strand, near St. Martin’s Lane, carries it, as does Bigelow’s at Charing Cross, on Cockspur near the Mews Coffeehouse.”

“How much is being asked for it?”

“In guineas or in pounds, sir? It is more than the appraised value of my wardrobe, including my sword.”

Ramshaw grinned. “That’s Attic salt I deserved to have flung into my eyes. Thank you for the information on the dictionary, sir. Will you be attending the loading of the press on the morrow?”

Hugh set his mug down on the desk. “No, sir. I shall be at school.”

“Which one? Westminster?”

Hugh shook his head. “Dr. Comyn’s academy, in Westminster.”

“Never heard of it, though I’m sure it hasn’t dented your common sense.” Ramshaw rose and extended his hand. “Well, Mr. Kenrick, good evening to you. Convey my regards to Mr. Worley, and tell him I’ll be waiting on the Lion Key stairs at seven.” He shook Hugh’s hand. “Mr. Haynie, please see our visitor to the deck, would you?”

When the door closed on Hugh and the bursar, Ramshaw said to Iverson, “He doesn’t know.”

“About his father and the Lobster Pots?” queried the surgeon. “No, I don’t think he does.”

“Well, he’ll learn that end of his family’s affairs in time.”

“There’ll be nothing for him to learn, if this new war saps the smugglers.”

“No, I don’t think it will tame the business. Swell it, yes. Recall what we unshipped offshore to that new gang in Cornwall last week: redirected tea, tobacco, sugar, maize, and all sorts of French and Dutch spirits. When the French make it riskier to bring those things in regular-like, the prices will go up, and the taxes, too. But there won’t be any drop in want for those things. No, this war will fatten many a smuggler’s goose. Including mine.”

“That Trott chap in Gwynnford doesn’t need fattening,” chuckled the surgeon as he helped himself at the cask to another mug of punch. “He must be the largest gang leader I’ve laid eyes on, ever. I fully expected his galley to capsize when he stood up in it—or this ship to list when he stepped aboard.”

Ramshaw laughed. “True, sir. But he’s a good man, leading a gang of good men. Skelly’s successors. He was so overjoyed to hear that Jack had come out of that Braddock business near Duquesne alive that he gave me twenty pounds to buy him a gift. ‘He reads,’ he said to me. ‘Get him something to read.’ He couldn’t think what. So I’ve decided that Jack will acquaint himself with Dr. Johnson. I’ll make up the difference in price, if there is any. After you’ve picked up the newspapers, go around to those shops on the Strand and purchase that dictionary, three or four of them. I’ll give you the money tomorrow. Hire a ferryman to bring you back here, and we’ll fetch them up on the other side, out of sight of Customs. Damned if I’ll pay any more taxes on knowledge.”

The surgeon lit a pipe and settled back in his chair. “That Kenrick chap has a bit of Jack in him, don’t you think?”

“A bit,” agreed Ramshaw.

*  *  *

Hugh had wanted very much to ask Ramshaw about his copy of
Hyperborea
, but no opportunity had presented itself. So he had to satisfy himself with the thought that it was somehow right for Ramshaw to have it. He liked the man, and would have even had he not noticed the novel in the bookcase. He wondered for a moment about the mysterious exchange about “lobster pots” and his father, but this was a fleeting thought and he forgot
it as he climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting lighterman.

After Hugh was seated in the wherry, the lighterman maneuvered alongside and out of the way of a succession of ferries and barges wending their way through the still hulks of the merchantmen. The wherry tread water beneath the bowsprit and figurehead of the
Sparrowhawk
. Both Hugh and the lighterman looked up. A platform had been rigged under the figurehead, and was lit by several lanterns; two crewmen were renewing the blue, red, and yellow colors of the wooden bird, a stylized and very regal sparrowhawk. Its menacing yellow beak was less foreboding than the baleful, intent eyes. The head stared west, pointing to the future.

Hugh reported to Mr. Worley, then took a hackney back to Whitehall to pick up the essay he had copied for the Society of the Pippin, and rode the same hackney to Ranelagh Gardens. He paid the admission and hunted through the vast pleasure palace for Glorious Swain. Half an hour later he spotted him in a group of other liveried waiters, carrying a tray of steaming hot dishes. Swain broke off from the group. “No time to talk, my friend!” he said. “We’ve been assigned to some important guests. Is that your essay?” he asked, nodding to what Hugh held in his hands.

“Yes.” Hugh tucked the rolled sheaf beneath one of Swain’s arms.

“It’s the Duke of Cumberland and his party we’re serving. If you want to see him, there are vacant tables opposite his box.”

Hugh shook his head. “We met, many years ago.” He paused. “I’ll be going home for the holidays in two weeks, Mr. Swain. I hope to hear from you before then.”

“You will, sir.” Swain bowed slightly, and turned to catch up with the other waiters.

Hugh purchased a glass of claret from another waiter and wandered around the Rotunda, not wanting to leave so soon for the chilly hackney ride back to Windridge Court. He stood at the main entrance and observed the crowds. The orchestra was playing a lively Rameau rondeau, and some guests were actually dancing to it in front of the stand. The great cylindrical fireplace in the center blazed away, warming the whole vast space. A pleasant memory came to him when he noticed the table near it at which he and his family had suppered many years ago, and he had clutched the top in his pocket following his battle for it with John Hamlyn.

The Duke of Cumberland and his party occupied some boxes across from it. He could see the man, who seemed to have grown more portly. And he remembered the Duke’s visit to Danvers, and the
dull eyes, and the whipping, and that whole day.

But instead of a bitter memory, a realization dawned on him, like a theater curtain drawn open to reveal a magnificent opera setting. How far I have traveled! he thought to himself. The man caused me pain, and dissension in my family—but I was right! Right to fight for my top…right not to apologize…right to do everything that I have done… And that day in Danvers, and so many like it before and since, were recast in his mind to become the consecutive scenes of a great tapestry, and it seemed that he was an observer in some quiet chapel, strolling leisurely along its length, recounting the epic of his own life. I shall do splendid things, great things, he thought, and the fireworks of celebration beyond the chapel exploded and flashed through its windows and lit up each episode. Splendid and great—but to whom? he asked himself. To me, in my capacity as a man. I have been true to that day in the park… And Hugh, unconscious of the act, because his mind and body were electrified by this personal vision, smiled with contented pride and joy.

He saw the Duke lift a fork and wag it in the air to say something, then rise from his table and laugh merrily, and glance around with jerky nods to his companions, who in turn laughed as if on cue. The Duke sat down again, and plunged his fork into a golden partridge on the plate before him.

And who is the happiest man in this place—in this city? Hugh thought to himself. I am. For I have a self—or is it a soul?—and it is of my own making.

Two men, one slim, almost effeminate, and fashionably dressed, the other stocky, plainly dressed, and with a twitch in his hands and a tic in one eye, came from behind Hugh and stood beside him, waiting to be seated inside the Rotunda. “I don’t see why we should be subsidizing German princes and kissing Elizabeth’s ample Russian prat,” whined the slim gentleman in a high voice, “when we could be spending the money on shoring up the colonies, or relieving the poor, or improving our awful turnpikes!”

“Well, if you approve of thievery, sir,” said the older, plainly dressed man in a deeper, boisterous voice, “there’s little point to moralizing about what the rogues purchase with their plunder! Your outrage is misapplied!”

Galvanized by some law of fastidiousness that impatiently rejected the intrusion, Hugh abruptly turned to the older gentleman. “True enough, sir!” he said to the startled man, and handed him his claret glass, then turned and left. The exchange between the two men did nothing to diminish the glow he felt inside himself. He simply did not want anyone or anything else near it.

T
HIS VISION IS SELFISH, EXCLUSIVE, AN ISLAND UNTO ITSELF
. O
NCE REALIZED
, it cannot be regulated, debased, or mitigated to accommodate the churlish, the banal, or the commonplace. It occurs on but one scale—the magnificent—and is proof against all schemes to amend it or render it palatable to the mundane. No median is possible to it; it exists in its natural state, encompassing one’s whole being, or it does not exist. The light that illumines it, and reveals to a man the cathedral of his soul, can be of many strengths—from a candle to a sun—but it burns on one fuel only: his integrity. The vision contains an element of eternity that has nothing to do with time, but everything to do with the width and breadth of his life. It is measurable, but indivisible.

Betrayed, it will avenge itself. The action would contradict both it and a man’s ineradicable knowledge of it, leaving him, should he survive the cataclysm, a mechanical, insensate manqué, drained of all future capacity for sublime and earthly joy. Betrayed, it will become his worst nemesis, and he the impotent enemy of the implacable justice of its memory.

Animate, it can make him maddeningly intolerant and insufferably imperial, together contemptuous of lesser souls and indifferent to them. It could cause him to say to others, should he be provoked to speak to them in his thoughts: You think in terms of nooks and crannies, of niches and pigeonholes, of ruffles and fringes; I think in terms of vistas and frescoes, of oceans and continents, peopled by gods, heroes, and myself.

This vision is unassailable by others, whether they be foul-mouthed fishwives, glib-tongued wits, or icy earls; impregnable to blasts of malice, disdainful of attempts by humor to demean it, deaf to the silent salvos of others in whom the light does not burn or has been extinguished, one of ostensible boredom or regal ennui. They see in his features either a stressed courtesy, or a reproachful innocence of their own corruption or vices, and a knowledge of them.

Such a man is newly struck by the meanness of most men he encounters, and tired of it at the same time. Such a man is usually startled by evidence that others do not know him, or are wary of him, or are meekly tentative in their dealings with him. He is quietly astonished that they do not
cherish things as passionately as he cherishes things—or even themselves—or are ignorant of the fundamental laws of life he takes as given or self-evident. Such a man cannot be merely dismissed with a pat on the back. He can only be loved or hated: the love requiring a courage to know him by accepting the flashes of the vision that arc from him to other men and their affairs; the hatred requiring a rejection of that vision and a fear of him, a fear difficult to disguise. Such a man has for society few or no friends, an array of dedicated enemies, amidst an army of insensible strangers.

This vision is the most private possession a man can claim, not to be flaunted, or traded on, or spoken of lightly—and woe to the careless casuist who ascribes to this reticence the absurd orthodox virtue of modesty or humility! For then, in some hard, memorable way, he will learn never to accuse a hero of cowardice. This vision is the foundation of a man’s pride. It allows him to live and think and act in a universe wider and greater than the dim, minikin one of the solely scrupulous man; in one denied by, and so denied to, the man who permits the vision to sputter out; and in a universe invisible to the man in whom the vision had never dawned.

Hugh Kenrick could not now imagine living apart from it; indeed, could not imagine a life worth living if it were a mere disembodied abstraction. That unexpected, though inevitable moment in Ranelagh Gardens had revealed to him that, rather than being a pawn of fate, or a vessel of destiny, or a product of chance, his soul—or was it his self? He would never distinguish between the two—was the sum of all his own evaluations, decisions, and actions, and that the sum was ineluctably and inexorably noble.

Hugh Kenrick was learned enough to understand that the vision had another name—honor—and wise enough to know that it was both a cause and a consequence.

He also knew that the preservation of his honor was a sacred responsibility. It was one he gladly assumed, for among many less important reasons, it helped to make living among other men bearable.

*  *  *

When Hugh returned to Windridge Court after school the next day, he found an inn coach sitting in the courtyard and footmen and servants unloading trunks and other baggage. His uncle had arrived. He had resigned himself to his uncle’s stay, but dreaded it all the same.

The first person he met inside the house was Alden Curle, his uncle’s butler and major domo of the Earl’s half of the mansion in Danvers. Hugh had always disliked Curle, who was obsequious and servile to a fault, so much so that some species of arrogance and presumptuousness would bubble to the surface of his manners. Curle, tall, thin, impeccable in his livery, stopped in his hurry down a hallway when he saw Hugh. In both hands he gingerly held the Earl’s crimson velvet mantle with its miniver of ermine. He bowed. “Good afternoon, milord,” he said. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Hugh sighed. “Good afternoon, Curle.”

“We arrived not thirty minutes ago,” Curle rushed to say. “His lordship is preparing to nap after the journey, but asked me to instruct you, when you came in, to sup with him at nine of the clock.”

“Yes, of course. Where is Hulton? He was to escort me from the school.”

“I sent him out for some fresh fish and vegetables.”

Hugh studied the waiting butler. “I hope you thought to compliment him on the state of the house and the grounds,” he said.

Curle shrugged. “I haven’t seen enough of the house yet to compliment him, milord, but be assured that I will do so when I have taken stock.”

“How is my uncle, and how was the journey?”

“His lordship is fine, but tired, milord,” replied Curle gaily. “The journey was without incident, except at Portsmouth, where a press gang almost made off with poor Claybourne whilst he was on an errand! But his lordship intervened with the captain of the vessel Claybourne was taken to, and secured his release, and with a choice of words I did not know he could make, and which was as impressive as the captain’s! His lordship is especially attached to Claybourne, as you know. And, on the Dover Road from Canterbury, our coach was ambushed by highwaymen, but we were being followed by a troop of dragoons scouring the area of smugglers, and the ambush was foiled. We were treated to a fine chase over a neighboring field, and the dragoons shot two of the rogues on the gallop! His lordship, out of gratitude, presented their captain with five guineas! How generous of him!”

“Yes, he is capable of that, on occasion,” remarked Hugh. “How long does my uncle expect to stay?”

Curle’s face went blank and he shrugged lightly again. “As long as he may, milord,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”

Hugh frowned. “I ask such questions, Curle.”

The butler’s face shot red at the rebuke in a mixture of embarrassment and anger. “I beg your pardon, milord,” he said, moving back a step and bowing.

“What are you doing with that?” asked Hugh, nodding to the robe draped over the man’s hands.

“It needs brushing, and some repair to the lining, milord,” said Curle. “It is some time since his lordship has donned it.” He added, in a hushed tone, “His lordship will sit with his peers tomorrow, or the day after, milord.”

“All right,” said Hugh. “Get on with it.” He turned and mounted the great staircase to his room, two steps at a time.

The butler watched him ascend. Wrestling for control of his expression were surprise at his master’s words, regret for his own, and the sting of the curt dismissal.

Curle duly reported the essence of this exchange four hours later to Basil Kenrick, when the Earl had arisen from his nap, and as Claybourne and another valet flitted about the room dressing him. Curle did not actually report it, but slipped it into his chatter about the state of the house and grounds, without, however, allowing it to sound like a complaint.

But the Earl knew it was one, and his glance, with languid contempt, shifted to Curle, whom he could see standing behind him through the full-length mirror. Claybourne had been about to fit an immaculate white wig atop the sparse gray-brown hair on the Earl’s head, but stopped when the Earl held up a hand. “Is that what he said, Curle?” he asked. “‘I ask the questions’? Those were his exact words?”

“‘I ask such questions,’ your lordship,” said Curle, apology for the correction in his reply.

With some disappointment to Curle, Basil Kenrick’s eyes lit up in amusement and his mouth bent in what the butler knew was a smile. The Earl said nothing for a moment. He was pleasantly surprised. That was the proper response to a servant’s effrontery. Perhaps there was hope for his nephew after all. He wondered what accounted for the change. “What else did he say, Curle?”

“He enquired about your robe, your lordship,” said Curle with reluctance. “I happened to have it in hand, and was taking it to the tailor to be brushed and repaired. Then he bade me to continue on my errand, and went up to his room.”

“What did he say exactly?” demanded the Earl. He sensed that his nephew’s words had grated against the butler’s pride and would be humiliating for him to repeat, especially in front of other servants. And he knew that Curle would be truthful, because the man would be afraid that his employer could easily ask the nephew for the truth.

Curle knew the purpose, but managed to swallow a gulp, and said, “‘All right, get on with it,’ your lordship.” Too late, he threw a warning look at Claybourne and the other valet; they had already traded muted grins over his discomfiture.

The Earl gestured for Claybourne to continue. As the valet adjusted the wig on his master’s head, the Earl asked, “And the robe? It will be ready by tomorrow?”

“This evening, your lordship. I shall fetch it myself.”

“How are the house and grounds?”

“In a proper state, your lordship. The grounds have been swept clean, the coach has been dusted, and the coachman and footmen are this very moment making their livery presentable. The stablemaster reports that one of the team is sickly and has bare spots, and it happens to be the postilion’s mount. He does not think it is fit enough for duty, and requests that you view it yourself to decide whether or not to replace it.”

“I’ll see it before supper,” said the Earl. “And the house?”

“Again, your lordship, in a proper state. I could find nothing amiss—or missing.”

“Hulton is major domo here in your absence, is he not?”

“Yes, your lordship, ever since your brother the Baron raised him up.”

“A conscientious, honest chap, Hulton,” remarked the Earl. “My brother acquired him ages ago. Against my advice, as you know, but I suppose he was a good choice. My brother occasionally exhibits good judgment.” He snapped his fingers. “A guinea, Claybourne.”

The valet hurried to the dressing table and took a gold coin from a satin purse that bore the Kenrick coat-of-arms in silver thread. He came back and handed it to his master.

The Earl smiled and held it up. “Give this to Hulton, Curle, and also my thanks. My brother would approve.”

Curle stepped forward and took the coin. But the Earl’s eyes held his in the mirror, and he realized that the guinea was not to be given to Hulton, but was his own reward for his obedience.

And the Earl, aware that Curle detested Hulton, knew that Hulton
would never see the guinea, that all the other butler would receive was Curle’s condescending thanks, and that neither he nor Curle nor the valets would break the code of silence and ever mention the guinea again.

The Earl disliked Hulton because his brother had employed the man; the valets disliked him because the Earl did, that is, because they valued their positions more than they did justice; and Curle because Hulton was a reproach and a threat. It was a cabal of malice the four men established, into which they would draw others, and enjoyed by each according to his rank and sense of power. Each party to the cabal was a rock-solid Christian.

As Curle slipped the guinea into his pocket, there was a knock on the Earl’s chamber door, and another servant entered. “Your lordship,” said the man, “there are gentlemen downstairs come to see you, among them Mr. Hillier, who comes direct from the Commons in answer to your summons to see him most urgently, he says.”

As Claybourne helped Basil Kenrick into his frock coat, the Earl said, “I’ll see Hillier first. Put him in my study, and prepare a service of tea.”

“Yes, your lordship,” said the servant. “And the others?”

“They may wait, if they wish. Ascertain their business.”

“Yes, your lordship.” The servant bowed and left the room.

*  *  *

The first act Basil Kenrick performed, soon after he alighted from the inn coach, was to send a servant out to find Crispin Hillier and deliver to him a written summons for his presence. The Earl wanted fresh news of Parliament. He had returned to London for one of his infrequent immersions into politics, and wanted to waste no time. He disliked London, and wished he could exercise his influence from Danvers. London overawed him, and he derived no sense of importance in it or over it. His only power lay in the few alliances he made with other peers and commoners, men he otherwise did not like and preferred not to deal with.

He made Hillier wait another twenty minutes, until he was absolutely satisfied with his appearance, and then descended to his study.

Crispin Hillier, his man in the Commons, was registered as the member for Onyxcombe, Dorset, but it was understood by all in the Commons that he represented Danvers, a much larger and more prosperous town, though it had never been granted a seat in the assembly. Hillier was one of the few commoners with whom the Earl would actually speak on more or less equal
terms, sans ritual and distinction. He was older than the Earl, and in some ways wiser. It was the Earl’s father who had selected him for the seat decades ago, which seat he had retained without interval ever since. He owed his political career and affluence to the Earl, who guaranteed his return to the Commons every election year with a sack of shillings liberally distributed to his constituency. This was a common practice in those times, though not every member of the Commons had as a patron a member of Lords. There were worse inequities at large in the Commons than the custom of purchasing a yard or so of green cloth on the benches of St. Stephen’s Chapel. Hillier was spared the task of having to campaign for the seat, of having to advocate, oppose, or stand for anything; of having to make merry with those whose votes had been bought, and acting the buffoon to entertain men he despised; of having to answer to charges of venality by an opponent, for the Earl saw to it that he was spared the bother and worry of an opponent.