Chapter 5: Back to School

‘Coramandel’, Grantham, Lincolnshire. June 7th 1832.

Madam Julianna Hainaut, or Mrs Julianna Chamberlain to give her correct, new, title, was as good as her word. Even with the fuss and commotion of preparing for her wedding she had tutored John, Jean-Woodrow, six hours a day during the nine days before the ceremony. She would continue tutoring Jean-Woodrow at Blanchards when he arrived there in late July after completing his last term at the King’s School.
However, there was a problem. Julianna had been unable to adequately instruct Jean-Woodrow in French literature, as there were no texts in French of the books she wanted available in Grantham, or indeed in Lincoln or Nottingham.

“I had thought there would have been copies of Voltaire and Montaigne’s work, written in the original French, readily available in England, but have found only rather poor translations. However, I do have copies of the major works of those two luminaries, as well as some of Marivaux and Abbe Prevost’s books, in my library in Wallers.” Julianna said.
Other than Voltaire the names meant nothing to me, but I did not advertise my ignorance.

“Surely Jean-Woodrow could read up on those books when he returns to Blanchards in late July, prior to taking the Sorbonne entrance exam?” I suggested.

“I had hoped to have Jean-Woodrow well acquainted with many seminal French authors before he returns to Flanders.” Julianna bit her lip in vexation. “I should have realised that the insular English are reluctant to read any foreign writers in the language the works are written.”
She thought for a moment. “There is nothing for it but that Jean-Woodrow accompanies Josh and me when we leave for Blanchards next week.” She gave an impish grin. “I did not think to be accompanied on my honeymoon by the son of my employer, but Jean-Woodrow is a likeable lad, and I am sure he will keep his eyes averted and his ears closed when the newly married couple express their love for one another.”

“I will inform Mister Childs, Headmaster of The King’s School, of Jean-Woodrow’s need to leave school several weeks before the end of term.” I said.

The Headmaster of The King’s School lived in a well-proportioned residence across the road from the barn like structure that was the original King’s School, and adjacent to the newer building in which most of the teaching now took place.
After the fame of Sir Isaac Newton had spread across the country the school was besieged by fathers wishing to place their sons in the school that had nurtured his genius. A two storey building was erected in 1715 to take the influx, the top floor being dormitories for ‘boarders’.
There had been no boarders when Isaac Newton attended the school, and pupils travelled in from as far as ten miles away. Most of the scholars then, as now, were the sons of yeoman farmers, as had been my brother Isaac and I, and most had a waggon or cart to bring them in from the outlying farms.
It took Isaac and me only thirty minutes to walk the mile and a half from Greenaway’s Farm to the school

I gave the handsome lion head knocker on the oak door of the Headmaster’s house a good thumping. There was a bell pull to the left of the knocker, but it gave me some satisfaction to beat out a tattoo on the door.
The beetle browed, bent and gnarled, manservant who opened the door could have been in service at the school when Sir Isaac was a pupil, such was his antiquated appearence. Former and present pupils knew him as ‘Mr King’, the wags averring it was he who had actually founded the school.
It was a harmless jest, and ‘Mr King’ took it in good part; in fact, ‘King’ might well have been his name. In any event he had been at the school far longer than any of the teachers, and had served several headmasters prior to Walter Huggins, and now served Mr Childs in the capacity of butler, valet, manservant, and coachman. Mr King was a man of many parts, and must have been well past threescore and ten years.

I handed him my card. “Please inform the Headmaster that Sir Elijah Greenway would like a word, if he has the time to spare.”
He took the card, looked at it and then peered at me. “It’s Jack Greenaway, ain’t it? I niver fergits a face, especially a cheeky one like thine.”
He sniffed, whether in disdain or because he had a cold I could not be sure.
“Thee’s done well fer theesen, I’ll grant thee that.” He indicated a door in the corridor. “Bide in there while I see if the Master is available.”
He shuffled off further down the corridor, and I entered the room and sat in a high backed chair, the only furniture in the room. I had spent many hours in this room, as it was the antechamber before entering the Headmaster’s study to be beaten.

The former Headmaster, Walter Huggins, was a sadist and a bully, who enjoyed hearing young boys whimper as he thrashed their bare posteriors with a birch cane. He was the only master who was allowed to deliver corporal punishment, and every day during my time at the school there were some poor unfortunates being beaten. Huggins was Headmaster for almost twenty years, and that mounts up to a lot of pain. I was still thinking of those unhappy times when Mr King returned.

“The Master will see thee now.” He gave what could be described as a smile, if you had a good imagination. “Reckon I’ll not need showing thee the way to his study!”

Mr. Childs rose from his chair as I entered the room and held out his hand.

“Sir Elijah, it is a pleasure to reacquaint myself with you.”
We shook hands, and he motioned I sit in the chair across the desk from him.

“How can I be of assistance...” he paused. “But I neglect my manners. Shall you join me in a glass of Elderflower water?”
He lifted a decanter from the table and poured two full glasses of the liquid, one of which he handed to me.

Mr. Childs was a deacon of the local Methodist chapel, and a strictly abstemious one at that. He was a sharp featured, slightly built, man who possessed a quick wit and a cutting tongue, but exuded an air of pleasantness largely absent from other members of his congregation. I recalled Casper Shufflebottom’s former fiancée and her family, the Spurgeons, were member of the same chapel, and smiled to myself at the shock and horror they would express if they knew Casper now managed one of XTC’s Pleasure Domes, and was happily married to a former harlot.

I sipped my drink and found it remarkably refreshing.

Mr. Childs smiled when he saw the look of surprise on my face at the pleasant taste of the water.
“Many people imagine Methodists do not countenance pleasurable activities, but I can you assure we do.” He paused. “Well, most of us do, although there are some who believe that as we live in a vale of tears and woe they should reflect that in their character.” He emptied his glass. “But enough of religious discussion. What can I do for you?”
I explained that due to the lack of books written in French in the area, John Blanchard, as he was known at the school, would have to travel to Château Blanchard, where there was an extensive library devoted to the many great French writers, for intensive tuition in the subject. I asked that John be permitted to leave school at least a month before the end of the summer term, and thus be ready to sit the entrance exam to the Sorbonne in mid-August.

Mr. Childs readily gave his assent. “There is not much more we can teach the lad here, and he would be just kicking his heels waiting for the end of term.” He gave a sigh. “I know the school is lacking when it comes to teaching French, German, Italian, or Spanish literature. I have repeatedly asked the Trustees of the school to purchase foreign books so that our pupils can read them in their original language but the response is always the same. ‘Why do you need the works of foreign poets and writers to be taught at the King’s School when we have more, and better, poets and writers of our own?’” He shrugged. “The first time I received that reply I pointed out Latin and Greek was on the curriculum of the school, so why not French and German, but was told they were not required for a career in law or medicine, whereas Latin and Greek were.”
We arranged that John would leave school in a weeks’ time, allowing him plenty of study time at Blanchards to improve his spoken French, read up on the books supplied by Julianna Chamberlain, and continue to broaden his knowledge of French history and politics.

I started to rise from my chair thinking our meeting concluded, but Mr Childs had questions to ask me.
“So John Blanchard is the son of Woodrow Allen, Mister Allen the farrier’s eldest son, and you married his widow?”

“Yes, Woody and I enlisted in the army together. We fought through Portugal and Spain together, faced General Ney at Quatre Bras and Napoleon at Waterloo together. Woody was closer to me than my own brothers.”

“Even so, it is a particular sort of man who takes on the son of another.”

“I also happen to love the boy’s beautiful mother with all my heart.”

“John Blanchard is one of the brightest young men it has been my privilege to teach.” Mr. Childs said, and then gave a sudden smile. “You are not as simple as you pretend to be, and although I never taught the boy I suspect Woodrow Allen also had a quick wit. However, John’s intellect comes from neither you nor Woodrow, so I suppose John’s mother is both beautiful and intelligent?”