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The Big House: The Story of a Country House and its Family
Christopher Simon Sykes
Please note that some images were unavailable for the electronic edition.The highly praised biography of an archetypal great house and the family who lived there for over 250 years.‘The Big House’ is the biography of a great country house and the lives of the Sykes family who lived there, with varying fates, for the next two hundred and fifty years. It is a fascinating social history set against the backdrop of a changing England, with a highly individual, pugnacious and self-determining cast, including: ‘Old Tat’ Sykes, said to be one of the great sights of Yorkshire (the author’s great-great-great-grandfather), who wore 18th-century dress to the day of his death at ninety-one in 1861. His son was similarly eccentric, wearing eight coats that he discarded gradually throughout the day in order to keep his body temperature at a constant. He was forced to marry, aged forty-eight, eighteen-year-old Jessica Cavendish-Bentick – a lively and highly intelligent woman who relieved the boredom of her marriage by acquiring a string of lovers, writing novels and throwing extravagant parties (her nickname became ‘Lady Satin Tights’), all the while accumulating debts that ended in a scandalous court case. Their son, Mark, died suddenly whilst brokering the peace settlement at the Paris Peace Conference at the end of World War I; Sledmere was destroyed by fire shortly afterwards.But the rebuilt Sledmere rose from the flames to resound again with colourful, brilliant characters in the 1920s and 1930s including the author’s grandmother, Lily, who had been a celebrated bohemian in Paris.‘The Big House’ is vividly written and meticulously researched using the Sykes’ own family’s papers and photographs. In this splendid biography of place and time, Christopher Simon Sykes has resuscitated the lives of his ancestors and their glorious home from the 18th- through to the 20th-century.
THE
BIG
HOUSE
The Story of a Country House
and its Family
Christopher Simon Sykes
DEDICATION (#ue0de378f-9614-57ec-bbf6-d8abd908dba5)
To the memory of my grandfather, Mark Sykes, and
for the new generation, my children, Lily and Joby.
EPIGRAPH (#ulink_0e320b01-4e08-51e6-ae44-c8fe59ee2555)
‘When I come back here, all the time I have been away seems like a dream. Everything is exactly the same here; the same conversation, the same jokes, the books in the same place on the same tables. My rooms just as I left them. One cannot believe that five months of incident and excitement have passed away. Home seems very calm and comfortable; a refuge quite inaccessible to any of the vexations and troubles of the world.’
Christopher Sykes, March, 1854.
CONTENTS
Cover (#uee190cb6-79f1-5c3d-adf1-b5cc9747a0dd)
Title Page (#u00ccc3f1-e11d-5a85-8e41-6947ddc0d763)
Dedication (#ue0de378f-9614-57ec-bbf6-d8abd908dba5)
Epigraph (#u87f34f8c-99fa-58d8-8480-bc1d9d9851a5)
Sykes of Sledmere Family Tree (#uc19988db-abaa-5ae4-b765-28ac05679dd0)
Prologue (#uba466990-6a57-5abc-99b3-347659ba7981)
I The Merchant (#u636a0808-4402-5952-9395-f6de64f16d1c)
II The Parson (#ua66df217-a648-5496-a31f-d2fa0d6df5bd)
III The Architect (#u2ed4b793-99e0-57f6-aff1-d98cc496b235)
IV The Collector (#u951b1b59-345e-5e21-baad-259db393b636)
V The Squire (#litres_trial_promo)
VI The Eccentric (#litres_trial_promo)
VII Jessie (#litres_trial_promo)
VIII Sykey (#litres_trial_promo)
IX Lady Satin Tights (#litres_trial_promo)
X Mark (#litres_trial_promo)
XI The Traveller (#litres_trial_promo)
XII A Restless Spirit (#litres_trial_promo)
XIII A New House (#litres_trial_promo)
XIV Richard (#litres_trial_promo)
XV Sledmere Reborn (#litres_trial_promo)
P.S. Ideas, Interviews & Features… (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
A Slightly Rebellious Spirit (#litres_trial_promo)
Life at a Glance (#litres_trial_promo)
Top Ten Favourite Books (#litres_trial_promo)
A Writing Life (#litres_trial_promo)
A Photographer’s Diary (#litres_trial_promo)
Read On (#litres_trial_promo)
If You Loved This, You Might Like… (#litres_trial_promo)
Find Out More (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue: My Unexpected Uncle (#litres_trial_promo)
Select Bibliography (#litres_trial_promo)
Index (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Notes (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
SYKES OF SLEDMERE FAMILY TREE (#ulink_53ee843c-4401-5916-8155-c69141c9242f)
PROLOGUE (#ulink_340915f6-8b4c-5609-a788-e21af3e9ae42)
In the afternoon of Tuesday, 23 May, 1911, in the village of Sledmere, high up on the East Yorkshire Wolds, a passer-by would have been confronted with a shocking and terrifying sight. The large grey stone Georgian house, dominating the village and clearly visible from the main road, was ablaze, thick black smoke and flames pouring from its roof. Had they been there around three o’clock, they would have met with the heavy horses and wooden wagons of the Malton Fire Brigade, at the end of an arduous journey of twelve miles, which had included the navigation of two long steep hills, come to join their fellow-firemen from the other local town of Driffield, and the entire population of the village as they fought to save whatever they could of the contents of a house that had been at the centre of their lives for over 150 years.
The fire had started because a roof-beam protruded into the chimney above the kitchen in the north-east wing. It had probably smouldered for days before igniting, and even then the progress of the flames was slow, inching their way forward until they made contact with other beams supporting the roof. So it was that by the time the first suspicious wisps of smoke were seen oozing out of the brickwork of a chimney, the fire had really begun to take hold. The alarm was raised at about noon, just as the elderly owner of the house, Sir Tatton Sykes, was sitting down to his lunch. The great bell of the hall was rung, and all the men employed on the estate, farmhands, grooms, coachmen, foresters, bricklayers and carpenters, were summoned to help. Even the children were called out from the village school. The agent, Mr Henry Cholmondeley, burst into the Dining-Room to tell Sir Tatton that the house was on fire and that he must leave at once. His warnings went unheeded, for at that moment the old man was interested in nothing but his food. ‘I must finish my pudding,’ he said, ‘finish my pudding.’
There were two fire brigades in the district, the nearest at Driffield, eight miles away, and the other four miles further still, at Malton. Both were summoned. In the meantime, Henry Cholmondeley, who had no illusions about how long they would take to arrive, organised all present into a human chain and began a bucket service from the reservoir which supplied the house. Just as this was beginning to prove useless, since it was impossible to get access to the seat of the fire, a neighbour from Malton, Mr Freddy Strickland, arrived by motor car, bringing with him Captain Jackson of the Fire Brigade and a quantity of hose. This was attached to fire hydrants near the house and ultimately unsuccessful attempts were made to play water on to the flames now issuing from the roof at the north-east corner.
Henry Cholmondeley then took a vital decision. Seeing that the fire was still burning fairly slowly, he ordered his human chain to concentrate all efforts on salvaging as much of the contents of the house as possible, many of which were great treasures. Starting on the upper bedroom floors, with the men at the head, then the women and finally, spilling out on to the lawn, the children at the far end, they began by rescuing anything that was easily movable, such as china, glass, pictures, carpets and smaller pieces of furniture. In the vast Library another group was engaged in throwing the thousands of books out of the windows into sheets and blankets held by those below. Others were unscrewing fine mahogany doors, prising out marble chimneypieces and carefully taking down the collection of family portraits.
‘The servants behaved with wonderful pluck and coolness,’ observed a reporter from the local paper, ‘in removing furniture from the burning rooms, the maidservants acting as coolly and bravely as the men. The fire, however, was now gaining rapid hold and was fanned by a slight breeze, which caused all the upper rooms of the east wing to blaze fiercely.’
(#litres_trial_promo) At half-past two, the Driffield brigade finally arrived, but, in spite of the fact that there was no shortage of water, their manual pumps proved quite inadequate to the task, the pressure from the reservoir, used solely for household purposes, being far too low. Shortly after three, the Malton Brigade were on the scene, but even their powerful steam-driven pump, which was able to send streams of water on to the roof and into the blazing upper storeys, did no good, the fire being now quite out of control. The best they could do was to keep the walls of the rooms sufficiently cool while the salvage work continued.
The roof of the east wing was the first to go, falling in with a ‘great crash’, but this seemed merely to strengthen the determination of the workers. ‘Notwithstanding the menacing nature of their task,’ commented the local paper, ‘the rescue parties worked most splendidly, and the way in which the rooms were emptied of their principal contents without confusion or disorder was really wonderful.’ A new hazard was caused by the large quantities of molten lead from the roof, which poured down the walls and threatened to splash anyone who came too close to it. The men worked on undeterred. As one huge painting was carried precariously down a burning staircase, supervised by the under-gamekeeper, he was heard to mutter, ‘Now lads, don’t damage t’frame.’
(#litres_trial_promo) There were many narrow escapes. ‘A long ladder was placed against an upper window, from which a large wardrobe was being lowered, two men standing on the ladder to steady it. An ominous swaying of the ladder was followed by a crack, and a moment later the ladder snapped, carrying the two men with it. Fortunately they were unhurt beyond a shaking, though the wardrobe was smashed.’
(#litres_trial_promo) In the Library, the roof above crashed in and pierced the ceiling, sending burning debris raining down on the group working there, a heavy beam narrowly missing one of their number as it fell thirty feet to the floor. They made their escape down ladders from the open windows, and helped to load the huge quantity of books on to wagons which carted them away to be stored in the church.
The scene on the lawn was extraordinary, if piteous, with furniture and fittings, china, bed linen and mattresses, statues, gold and silver plate, paintings and books strewn around as far as the eye could see. In the midst of it all the melancholy figure of Sir Tatton paced up and down, his hands held firmly behind his back. He had one last request. In the Hall there stood a very fine piece of sculpture, a copy in marble of the famous Apollo Belvedere which had originally been part of the Duke of Devonshire’s collection at Londesborough. It had been left till last since it was thought it might escape the flames. However, since the centre of the house was by now blazing and roaring as through a gigantic chimney with temperatures that must have been close to 1,000°C, it was obvious that the statue had no chance of survival. Sir Tatton asked if it might be saved, a difficult task as it was reckoned to weigh close to a ton, and though the ceiling of the Hall was still intact, the back and east sides were fiercely blazing. ‘Scores of hands volunteered to remove the statue,’ recorded the correspondent of the Yorkshire Post. ‘Jets of water were poured on the ceiling, and the hall flooded. Water was also poured on the walls behind the statue, which was itself drenched, to render it cool enough to handle. The front door was removed, and the jambs wrenched down to admit the passage of the large life-size figure. With admirable skill it was lowered from its pedestal into the arms of the stalwart farm labourers and helpers, and finally carried out, with barely a break or scratch to the lawn.’ It was the last act of salvage possible.
Throughout the night the fire brigades worked to keep down the flames, but it was not until noon of the following day that the fire was finally extinguished. Little was left at the end beyond the four outer walls. Looking into the roofless building, one of the more curious sights was a fire-place on the first floor which had miraculously escaped the flames and which remained ready for lighting, complete with paper, sticks and coals. ‘Although I did not see the fire,’ wrote one of Sir Tatton’s grandchildren in later years, ‘the shock and horror among the household, and the blackened ruin with the pungent smell, filled me with fear for a long time.’
(#litres_trial_promo) Sir Tatton himself showed stoicism in the face of such disaster. ‘All he said when a word of sympathy was offered,’ commented the Yorkshire Post, ‘was, “These things will happen, these things will happen”, repeating the words with resigned fortitude and recognising the utter hopelessness of it all.’
(#litres_trial_promo) But the correspondent of the Yorkshire Post had not reckoned with the absolute determination of the family who had built and loved this house that it would live again.
CHAPTER I The Merchant (#ulink_e6256d02-f3d2-5120-af29-763d11742082)
A house is more than bricks and mortar. To those who inhabit it, it lives and breathes. It has moods. It has a smell, an indefinable scent that is as peculiar to it as a genetic code is to a human being. It is made from the peculiar mixture of paint, polish, carpets, dogs, leather, wood-smoke, dust, fabrics, plaster, wood, cooking, flowers and numerous other aromas that exist in a home. Pluck me from my bed, blindfold me, drop me anywhere in the world and I could pick out the smell of Sledmere from a thousand others. This is the house in which my family have lived for 250 years. It is where I was brought up and spent my adolescence. Though I left it when I was eighteen, I still feel attached to it as if by some invisible umbilical cord. I do not live there yet my roots are there. For good or for bad, it inhabits my soul.
From the outside, Sledmere is a plain building, built of grey stone, with a lack of embellishment that makes it seem a little austere. This suits its setting, high up on the Yorkshire Wolds. It is a large country house, always known in the village as ‘the big house’, but it is not a palace like its neighbour, Castle Howard. I know every nook and cranny of it and, sometimes, if I am lying in bed at night trying to sleep, I play a game in which I return home and take a journey round the rooms.
I walk through the back door, the way in which everyone enters the house, and on the left is the Lift Room, depository for all coats, hats and boots. A large cupboard which faces me is filled with bric-à-brac – discarded shoes, old kites, tennis rackets, dog leads etc. – its drawers overflowing with objects that remain there year after year. In one corner there is a rack full of walking sticks, which immediately remind me of my late father. When my brother’s bull terrier, Lambchop, occupied the room for years, it became known as the Dog’s Lobby. To the right is the lift, to which the room owes its name. Built by Pickerings of Hull, it has steel folding doors with a small viewing window. As a child I was terrified of getting stuck in it between floors: something that did occasionally happen and, even today, my brother, Tatton, who now inhabits the house, won’t travel in it alone at night.
Beyond the lift, a stone passage runs the width of the house, leading on the left to the Staff Cloak Room, the Brush Room and the Servants’ Hall, and on the right to the Kitchen, the Small Dining Room and the Pantry. It is a hive of activity, particularly in the mornings, with Sue, the housekeeper, and her ladies arriving at eight to clean and dust, Maureen, the cook, soon afterwards, to prepare breakfast, and from then on a succession of callers – the postman, the gardeners, the works department – coming to conduct their business. This is where I spent much of my childhood, in and out of the Kitchen, the Servants’ Hall and what was then my father’s secretary, Mouzelle’s room, now the Small Dining Room.
I pass through a heavy swing door, halfway up the passage, which leads into the main part of the house, the first space being the stairwell of the back staircase, known as the Blue Stairs. It is dominated by a vast marble Roman statue of Caesar Augustus, which throws eerie shadows on the wall at night. Opposite the stairs, a door leads into the Turkish Room, decorated from floor to ceiling with twentieth-century copies of ancient Iznik tiles. This was my grandfather, Mark Sykes’s folly, a monument to his love of the Middle East, and if his ghost walks anywhere in the house, then it is in here. In the nineteen-sixties, I used to set up my music in the Turkish Room, fill it with candles, and come and smoke and chill out in it. Below it, down a flight of stone steps, are the Gentleman’s Cloakroom and the Gun Room.
Walking past the Turkish Room and turning left, I reach the Entrance Hall, which is the main entrance into the house. It is dominated by a huge statue of Laocoon and his sons being devoured by serpents, another object which generated fear when I was little. There are muskets on the walls that were used by a regiment raised by my Great, Great, Great Grandfather, Christopher Sykes, during the Napoleonic Wars. Walking out of the left-hand door, I find myself in the Stone Hall, which occupies the central space on the ground floor, and whose tall windows look south across the park. Looking down towards the windows, the first room on the left is the Horse Room, formerly my father’s study, the walls covered with paintings of horses. Next comes the Music Room, painted in shades of grey and pink, which is the comfortable family sitting room containing the drinks tray and the newspapers. The room opposite is the formal Drawing Room, with its highly decorative ceiling. It is dominated by a great equestrian portrait of my Great, Great Grandfather, Tatton Sykes, mounted on his favourite hack and carrying a walking stick, which sits on the side table below it. If I turn left out of here, I find myself first in the Boudoir which, though now changed beyond recognition, fills me with memories of my mother, since it was once her sitting room, and then in the Dining Room, with its beautiful portrait by Romney of Christopher Sykes and his wife.
At the north end of the Hall, I ascend the grand stone staircase leading up to the most unexpected room in the house, the Library. Nobody entering this room for the first time, through its plain mahogany door, could help but catch their breath at the sheer audacity of its monumental scale. Two storeys high, with a vaulted ceiling inspired by the Baths of Caracalla and Diocletian in Rome, and running the entire width of the house, with nine windows overlooking the landscape, the 120-foot long polished oak and mahogany floor was a paradise to slide about on as a child. The other three sides of the staircase have a balcony running round them, overlooking the Hall, behind which runs a bedroom passage. There are six bedrooms and a pantry on the first floor, including the last bedroom I slept in before leaving home, the Orange Room, which includes a charming portrait of my Great Grandmother, Jessica Sykes, as a child. There are a further nine bedrooms, another pantry and the linen cupboard on the top floor, which once upon a time was the nursery floor where we spent the first few years of our lives.
Turning left at the top of the Blue Stairs and immediately right through tall, double, glass-fronted doors, I push open a grey door on the left and climb a narrow metal staircase which winds up into the attics, a rabbit warren of passages, long-abandoned servants’ bedrooms, spacious galleries lit by glass domes and dark, ghostly areas of roof space. I then take the lift down five floors to the cellars, and walk down dark passages to the very back, beyond the wine cellar, where there are remnants of ancient walls dug from the local Garton Shale, which makes up the ground beneath the house. In the seventeenth century the builders would have carved their cellars straight out of this material, which forms the foundations of the house. The vaulted arches are extremely well built, as good as anything you will see. I walk past the wine cellar, through the first arch, turn left and through the next arch, and look at the wall on the left leading up to the door. Garton Shale and an immensely thick opening make me believe that this is probably where the house was born.
Sledmere is one of those houses in which very little has ever been thrown away. Every drawer in every desk or cabinet seems to be stuffed with an eclectic mix of papers, photographs, letters and objects, which spill out when you open them. I was always fascinated by these as a child and spent many happy hours rifling through seemingly endless repositories of treasures. In the attics there were wooden chests filled with minerals, cupboards full of old glass bottles, huge leather trunks overflowing with old clothes, and ancient suitcases containing loose negatives and faded photographs. I particularly loved the large partners’ desk in the middle of the Library, whose multitude of drawers revealed, when opened, all kinds of curiosities: old coins, medals, bills, pieces of chandelier, seals, bits of broken china, etchings, ancient letters and the charred foot of an early Sykes martyr.
These early explorations awoke in me a passion for the history of the house, which was further fuelled by the discovery of a remarkable collection of photographs, some loose and scattered about in various chests, others in photograph albums. Most of these were kept in a cupboard in the Music Room, and chronicled the comings and goings of the family since the early 1850s. I became fascinated by these images of my ancestors, the earliest of which is a splendid portrait of my Great, Great Grandfather, Sir Tatton Sykes, who was born in 1772. It was taken in 1853 and he is sitting in a high-backed chair, his left arm resting on a table. His thick white hair is swept back from his forehead, and his strong features bear the ghost of a smile. His clothes are curious, for he is not dressed in the fashion of the time, but wears a long-skirted high-collared frock coat with a white neck-cloth and frilled shirt, together with breeches and mahogany-topped boots, the manner of dress of an eighteenth-century squire. He is undoubtedly a ‘character’ and I find it impossible not to like him.
But what of the first builder of Sledmere, my Great, Great, Great, Great, Great Uncle Richard Sykes, a man who died ninety years earlier, in an age when there were no photographers to record his image? The house is crammed with family portraits. They line the reception rooms, the passages, the back stairs and the bedrooms; full-lengths, half-lengths, heads and shoulders in oils, pastels and watercolour, of relatives both close and obscure. They are objects of such familiarity that until now I had never really looked at them properly. Richard Sykes hangs in the best bedroom in the house, the Red Room, at the top of the stone staircase on the right. He is just to the left of the door, and his portrait shows him to have been a well-fed looking gentleman. He is wearing a long black velvet jacket with a frilly lace shirt and cuffs and breeches with diamond buckles, and is seated at a desk surrounded by books. He has a prominent down-pointed nose, a pinkish complexion and he looks … well, thoroughly pleased with himself.
He had every reason to be. The eldest of six children, he was rich from the success of his family’s various mercantile ventures in Hull. He had status, having been appointed High Sheriff of Yorkshire in 1752. Best of all, however, was the fact that he had succeeded, on the death of his uncle in 1748, to substantial estates on the East Yorkshire Wolds, an area of undulating chalky hills, not unlike the Sussex Downs, that run from east of York nearly all the way to the North Sea. His uncle, Mark Kirkby, had been the richest and most important merchant in Hull. He had used part of the great fortune he had amassed to buy Sledmere and the surrounding estates, and went to live in the Tudor manor house which then stood there and was used mostly as a hunting lodge. He loved it, and the memory of him still survived in my Grandfather’s time.
Sometime in the middle of October, 1748, a year in which the first excavations were made at Pompeii, Samuel Richardson published Clarissa, and the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle ended the War of the Austrian Succession, Richard set out on a journey to look at his uncle’s land. Leaving his house in Hull, he rode north, first to the nearby market town of Beverley, made prosperous during the days of the medieval cloth trade and dominated by its cathedral-size Minster, then followed the course of the River Hull through flat wetlands to Great Driffield. Here he began a slow laborious climb uphill, passing the tower of St Michael’s Church at Garton, pushing his horse on until he reached the summit of Driffield Wold. This is where the Kirkby land began, thirty miles north-east of Hull.
The Yorkshire Wolds were then a Godforsaken place, being little more than a tract of barren wasteland, much of it one vast open field destitute of hedges and ditches, with stones here and there to mark where one property ended and another began. There were no roads as such, only grass tracks, most goods being carried to market on the backs of horses rather than by cart. Though the hills had once been covered with woodland, these had been cleared by the end of the eleventh century, leaving scarcely any trees, and thin and stony soil. There were the occasional scrappy fields of oats or barley and whatever grassland was not in use for grazing sheep was fenced off into rabbit warrens. Less than a century before, wolves had roamed the area freely. Daniel Defoe, writing in 1720, described it as being ‘very thin of towns, and consequently of people’,
(#litres_trial_promo) most of the villages having been depopulated in the sixteenth century to make way for sheep. It cannot have appeared to Richard as the most congenial of environments.
After a few miles’ ride across the top, from where, if the day was a clear one, he would have caught a glimpse of the North Sea glinting to the east, where the source of his wealth, a fleet of ships, plied their trade out of Hull with the Baltic, he came to a dip in the land. Pausing to give his horse a rest, he looked down upon what he had come to see. The village of Sledmere, which lay at the heart of the Kirkby estate, stood in the bottom of the valley straddling a Roman road, which ran from York in the west to Bridlington on the east coast. It had a church and a large mere, a pond used for the common watering of livestock and from which the village got its name, translating literally as ‘pool in the valley’. Little had changed there since 1572 when it was described as consisting of ‘thirty messuages, ten cottages, ten tofts, five dovecots, forty gardens, forty orchards, 1,000 acres of land, 100 acres of meadow, 1,000 acres of pasture, forty acres of wood, 100 acres of heath and furze and … Free Warren.’
(#litres_trial_promo) According to Nicholas Manners, a Methodist missionary who had been born there in 1732, its inhabitants were ‘extremely ignorant of religion, wild and wicked’.
(#litres_trial_promo) As Richard surveyed the scene below him, his eyes were drawn to a building which stood to the north-west of the village, on rising ground overlooking the mere. This was ‘the manor house of Sledmer upon the Woulds’,
(#litres_trial_promo) the home of his recently deceased uncle.
As Richard rode his horse slowly down the hill, memories of his Uncle Mark came flooding back. Daniel Defoe had written of ‘that glorious Head of Commerce, called the Merchant’, and in Hull, they had called Mark Kirkby ‘the Merchant Prince’, for at a time when trade with the Baltic was booming and merchant families were amassing great fortunes, he was the richest of them all. He had bought the land at Sledmere in order to pursue his favourite sport of hunting, and during the season would move into the manor house where he liked to surround himself with his sporting cronies. He was known to be fond of the bottle, a trait which he shared in common with all the squires of the day, and Richard smiled as he recalled the agreement that his uncle had once made with his Coachman, that they should never get drunk the same evening. Instead each should have the privilege on alternate nights. It had not been a success, for on the very first occasion that it had fallen to the Coachman’s turn to be sober and Uncle Mark was indulging himself without restraint at some friend’s house, early in the evening his enjoyment had been disturbed by the entry of his Coachman into the room crying ‘Tak care o’yesell Master, I’se going fast.’
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Richard also remembered an occasion when he had attended a supper given by his uncle for all his tenants and other dependants, at which, owing to the bottle having circulated the table one too many times, the general tenor of the evening had deteriorated and the mirth had become too uproarious. At this point, ‘Old Mark Kirkby’, as he was known in the neighbourhood, had risen somewhat unsteadily to his feet, his florid face beneath its flowing periwig contrasting vividly with his favourite blue velvet coat, and loudly rapped the table crying ‘Mark Kirkby is at home!’ It was evident that to all those gathered round the table this was a well-known signal at which all merriment was to be hushed and the proper decorum restored. However much of a good fellow the Merchant Prince may have been, he did not like his guests to forget their place.
Like Kirkby, the Sykeses were successful merchants. Originally yeoman farmers, they had come from a place called Sykes Dyke, near Carlisle. One of their descendants, William Sykes, had left Cumberland in about 1550 and settled in Leeds where he had set up as a clothier. He could not have timed his arrival better. The town, which is conveniently situated on the borders of the industrial West Riding and the predominantly agricultural North-East, was on the move. The textile industry was expanding rapidly, spreading wealth through the valleys and uplands west and south of the town. Cloth woven in the outlying villages was brought into Leeds to undergo all the various finishing processes and was then marketed by local merchants whose fortunes snowballed. As industry developed the population doubled and by the middle of the seventeenth century Leeds was the epicentre of woollen manufacture. Clothiers and merchants thronged the huge cloth market held on and around Leeds bridge. The town’s inhabitants, wrote Macaulay, ‘boasted loudly of their increasing wealth, and of the immense sales of cloth which took place in the open air on the Bridge. Hundreds, nay thousands of pounds had been paid down in the course of one busy market day.’
(#litres_trial_promo) Within two generations the family had accumulated so much money that William’s grandson, Richard, who had risen to being Alderman of Leeds and was the first ‘private gentleman’ in the city to own a carriage,
(#litres_trial_promo) was able to leave each of his three daughters the sum of £10,000, a staggering sum for those days, as well as vast estates to his five sons.
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While this branch of the family continued to prosper in Leeds, one of Richard’s grandchildren, Daniel, set up in business as a merchant in Hull, seeing the great opportunities that were opening up in the city from its burgeoning trade with the Baltic. Hull, whose port arose around the confluence of the Rivers Hull and Humber, had risen to greatness in medieval times when her proximity to the vast sheep runs of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire had stood her in good stead in the important wool trade. When cloth eventually replaced wool as the major English export, her fortunes had temporarily waned, the London merchants having a virtual monopoly in everything except raw wool, but they had risen rapidly again in the latter half of the seventeenth century with the opening up of direct trade to the Baltic. ‘There is more business done in Hull’, Daniel Defoe had observed in 1724, ‘than in any town of its bigness in Europe … They drive a great trade here to Norway, and to the Baltick, and an important trade to Dantzick, Riga, Narva and Petersburgh; from whence they make large returns in iron, copper, flax, canvas, pot-ashes, Muscovy Linnen and yarn, and other things; all which they get vent for in the country to an exceeding quantity.’
(#litres_trial_promo) By the time of his death in 1697, Daniel Sykes’s firm was part of an oligarchy of two or three dozen great merchant houses, which handled most of the goods passing through the port. He had been twice elected Mayor of Hull and had built up a fortune to leave to his son Richard, an equally successful merchant, who in 1704 further consolidated the family’s position by marrying Mary Kirkby, the sister of the Merchant Prince and co-heiress to Sledmere. It was a classic case of trade marrying into land, a formula which was to be behind the building of many of the most important houses in Britain.
Though Richard must have visited Sledmere there is no record of him ever having lived there. It was his eldest son and namesake, born in 1706, who was destined to be the first Sykes to move out of Hull to the country, though not until, like his father and grandfather before him, he had made his name in his native city. The family had recently built a new house in Hull High Street on a site which they had acquired in 1725 and which extended to the river. It is described as having been ‘a fine strong structure, built a little way back, with iron palings in the front. You ascended to the street door by a flight of marble steps.’ It also had a ‘coach house and stables belonging to it with substantial cut stone doorways … reached by a short passage on the opposite side of the street’.
