There was a cockfight going on. A full moon shone down on a ring scratched out in the dirt, glinting on scattered feathers and the gloss of blood. The noise was incredible—the cheers of the spectators outmatched only by the shrieking of the cockerels as they charged and struck at each other with the cruel spurs bound to their claws. I’m a country girl—I know what eventually becomes of most livestock. But goading two dumb animals into mortal combat, merely for sport? This was barbaric. Nauseated, I turned away.
But not fast enough. The moon shone bright on something else that night—a puff of white, bent over the rim of the ring—and I had to take another glance. Uncle Wheeler knelt at the edge of the pit, his glittering coat flung behind him in the dirt. He was shouting and crowing along with everyone else, banging his fist against the ground. I stared at him a long, long while, unable to credit the transformation—that my genteel uncle had somehow become this bloodthirsty, wildeyed creature.
When the match finally ended, the losing cockerel a shredded and broken heap in the center of the ring, Uncle Wheeler rose up from the earth and patted a strand of his wig back into place. A splash of something dark marred his shirtfront. A stout, squat country fellow leaned in menacingly, gesturing with a meaty hand. Uncle Wheeler slapped his hand away and flung something at his feet. I thought I saw the glint of silver, the flutter of a banknote. He stooped and grabbed his jacket from the ground, and stalked off into the night, the tapestry coat balled up in his hand.
The next morning I rose and dressed slowly, turning the scene in the yard over and over in my head. I knew that men of society gambled: tasteful games of cards played over glasses of port, wagers on carriage races, rolls of the dice. But bloodsports by moonlight at country inn yards, while their nieces slept upstairs? I did not know what to make of any of it.
When I finally arrived downstairs, it was to find Uncle Wheeler—somehow powder fresh as always—involved in a heated argument with the innkeeper. Stares from the staff and other guests followed me as I joined him.
“What’s the matter?” I said, and it took one sniff from Uncle Wheeler and the set jaw of the innkeeper for me to understand. Oh, mercy.
“How much is it?” I asked, opening up my reticule. The innkeeper looked sympathetic, and I realized he thought I must be well accustomed to this. Flushing hotly, I counted out the money, and the innkeeper actually patted me on the arm. I could hardly get out of there fast enough.
Uncle Wheeler was quick on my heels. “Charlotte, wait—it was a temporary misunderstanding. A mere miscalculation! I must have underestimated the expenses of the trip, and didn’t carry enough cash. I assure you, I would have worked it out.”
“Of course,” I said, very quietly. I pulled a few more notes from my purse and pressed them into his hand. He looked at them, the oddest expression on his face, before closing his fingers around them. Thankfully, the stage pulled up at just that moment, and I climbed in, grateful for the presence of a dour old woman in mourning black and the scowling pug dog on her lap.
Chapter Twelve
I was welcomed back to Stirwaters a hero. Rosie had encouraged premature speculation about my success, and when I swept in off the stage late that afternoon, a cheer went up in the mill rooms.
“That’s our Charlotte!” Janet Lamb fairly beamed as I passed by her workstation in the finishing rooms.
“Ah, lass,” Jack Townley said, “heard you gave Pinchfields the boot. Well done.”
I smiled back. “Yes, I don’t think we’ll be hearing from them again.” But I seized Rosie by the elbow and dragged her into the office. “What did you tell them?”
Rosie grinned and gave me a fierce hug. “How did it go?” she demanded upon releasing me.
“I sold the gold thread.”
She nodded. “Good. And?”
“And they’ll be sending a man for it this week.”
“And?”
“And I got a good price for it.”
Rosie made a moue of impatience. “But what happened at Pinchfields? And did you see that banker again?”
I untied my bonnet strings and related the details of my journey, from the awfulness of the Pinchfields workrooms, to the grandeur of Uplands Mercantile. Rosie listened raptly, all the way to my conclusion that the trip had been a grand success.
“Well, then, what’s the matter?”
I sighed. You cannot hide things from Rosie. Reluctantly, I told her what I had witnessed of Uncle Wheeler’s odd behavior, fearing she’d take it badly.
To my surprise, she merely nodded grimly. “We should have known Pinchfields would try a trick like that. They probably contacted Uncle Wheeler and arranged the whole thing, and when it didn’t work out, they sent the wool buyer to pressure him. That’s all.”
I bit my lip, seeing the sense in her words. “And the gambling?”
Rosie shrugged. “Men gamble. It isn’t pretty, but I don’t see what it has to do with us.”
“I don’t know. You didn’t see him—he was…changed.”
“Well, you’re a sight to behold yourself, before you’ve had a cup of tea in the morning, but there’s nothing sinister about it.” She squeezed my shoulder. “Come on, they want to celebrate. Jack Townley brought a bottle of port. It’s hideous stuff, but what can you do? By the way, they think you’ve found a buyer for the cloth, so you might get to work on that.”
I went to smack her on the back of the head, but she was too quick for me.
Despite Rosie’s reassurances, I was still uneasy. I had seen something in my uncle that troubled me, and I did not know what to think. In the days after our return, Uncle Wheeler’s absences grew more frequent. At least we knew the reason for those now: If he rode out north on a Friday morning, a peek at the latest broadside revealed a horse race in Trawney; an absence of an evening was likely to be a game of cards at Mrs. Laidlaw’s. Since he was as serene and gracious as ever at home, however, I had to agree with Rosie. What our uncle did with his leisure time was his own business. When he returned one evening and presented me with an enamel snuffbox in the shape of a swan, he was in such high spirits that I began to think all was forgotten from the incidents in Harrowgate.
Indeed, why should I let my uncle’s behavior cast a pall over the trip? Bolstered by my success with Parmenter’s and by Mr. Woodstone’s faith in me, I began to research in earnest a plan for the cloth. I thought I had not had such a bad idea, to consider contacting Captain Worthy and the shipping firm of Porter & Byrd; and though I knew my uncle was opposed to the idea, I wrote and sent them swatches of our fabric. I was barred by Guild regulations from selling the cloth wholesale anywhere in the country, but Porter & Byrd would have the export licenses to ship it overseas. And if that did not work out, there were other shipping agents, other small operations scattered about the countryside that I would contact. And if that did not work out, I would strap the cloth to my back and hawk it door-to-door like a peddler.
The morning the couriers arrived from Parmenter’s to fetch the gold thread, Stirwaters was in fine form, causing a scene that was almost comical—had it happened to someone else. I suppose we were due an incident; we had had nothing truly peculiar happen all summer (the obvious event with Mr. Spinner notwithstanding). Rosie and I had spent an afternoon boxing up the gold thread, exchanging it with the spools of wool thread that we’d had packed for market. Once the crates were stacked and sealed, no one would ever suspect they held anything but ordinary thread.
The courier came by boat, pulling alongside the mill in the low water. A tall man in a linen waistcoat and straw boating hat climbed ashore, followed by a sturdy lad of thirteen or fourteen. “Jim Threadgood, for the House of Parmenter,” he said, with a tip of his hat. “I’m here to pick up a shipment.”
Rosie was waiting in the attic with the key to Mr. Smith’s great lock, but when she fitted it into the keyhole, it would not turn. Her subsequent attempts likewise made no further headway.
“Are you sure that’s the right key?” I asked, th
ough there could hardly be any doubt.
But no amount of coaxing (or swearing) could release the lock. After the four of us made good effort, with that key and every other on my ring, Rosie stared at me in desperation, and I sent her after a rasp to file the lock away. Once the lock was freed, the door would still not budge, and Mr. Threadgood was starting to look distinctly put-upon.
“I say, what’s going on here?” he demanded.
“Oh, that’s just the spirit of the mill,” Rosie said, gritting her teeth as she pulled on the door, “playing a little joke on us.”
“She’s not serious,” the courier said.
“Of course not,” I said soothingly. “Mr. Threadgood, why don’t you and your boy head over to the bakehouse next door, on us. They’re bound to be serving lunch soon. We’ll get this straightened out in no time, I’m sure.”
When they had gone, I gave the door a mighty tug. “Open up, you great fool thing!”
Rosie squeaked in dismay. “Oh, don’t make it angry! We’ll never get it open.”
“This is absurd,” I said. “We’ve got six hundred pounds worth of gold thread behind there. Fetch Harte and have him bring up an axe. We’ll chop down that door if we have to.” I gave the latch one last frustrated yank, and to my surprise it sprang open under my hand.
“Ha,” Rosie said, staring at the open doorway. “I guess you just need to know how to talk to it.”
“Oh, shut up,” I said. “Get Mr. Threadgood back up here before it decides to close on us again.” And for good measure, I shoved a crate of thread hard against the door and planted myself in the threshold until the courier returned.
The little successes of those days were soon overshadowed by sadness in the village. One hot day in September, little Annie Penny fell into the river behind her father’s croft and drowned. It should have been impossible, in that heat with the Stowe so low, but she caught her foot in a tangle of reeds, and was lost by the time anyone missed her.
No great friends of anyone in the village, the Pennys were still “ours,” and no one would begrudge their respects to a child. We gathered in the churchyard under a lying sky—bright and cloudless as any May Day—and I thought how unfair it was that Annie’s death could go unnoticed by the heavens, which had mourned so over my father’s grave. I am certain I shall rot all eternity for it, but for once I was relieved that not all disasters came with Stirwaters looming behind them.
And then I saw Maire Penny staring at me. No one had stepped forward to loan Mrs. Penny any mourning clothes; she was dressed in the same stained frock she wore every day, her two youngest children hanging from her hands. She had wrapped her head and shoulders in a black shawl, but her eyes burned out accusingly. Mr. Penny stood beside her, clutching a bundle of rags I took for handkerchiefs. It was not until I had torn my gaze away from his red and swollen face that I realized the bundle was a limp, faceless doll.
The service was scarcely over, the handsful of earth barely tossed down upon the tiny coffin, before Maire snatched her hands from her children and clutched her gravid belly with a free hand. “You!” she cried at me, her voice hoarse and ragged. “No good has come to this family since my Bill took up with you Stirwaters folk! I begged him to stay away—everyone knows what goes on down there—but two shillings a week were more important than his family. Not that we saw the money—spent it all on drink, he did—”
Mrs. Hopewell slipped her arm around Mrs. Penny’s shoulders. “Hush, Maire,” she said, “not on Annie’s day…”
But Mrs. Penny would not be consoled. “No! I’ll say my piece. That mill is a blight on this village! It steals children, it breaks up families, and I’m gettin’ out of this accursed place afore I got no family left! I don’t need your Miller luck touching my lot!”
I stood rooted to my spot, my mouth fairly open with shock. Surely it is a bitter thing to lose one so young, and a little madness is understandable, but her words cut deeply. I could not find the will to quit the churchyard, and at last only I and Bill Penny still lingered.
Bill fell to his knees beside the grave. One hand was balled up at his mouth, as if he hoped to hold in his grief, the other clutched the ragged doll. With a great sobbing breath he dropped the doll into the grave. He mumbled something inaudible, and I finally pulled myself together to depart. This was a private grief, and none of my right to share. But as I started to leave, Bill rose to his feet.
“You stay there, Annie-girl, you hear me?” The words were slurred and anguished, but too impossible to mishear. “Don’t you pay us any visits. You bide with Hester and little Billy and don’t leave your rest, now. By cloth and bone, so mote it be.”
And as I watched, Bill Penny spit into the freshly dug grave of his daughter.
I spun on my heel and fled, a cold sweat down my back, and stumbled headlong into Jon Graves, the undertaker. He had been waiting at a discreet distance for the family to leave, that they should not witness his labors.
“Easy there,” he said, catching me gently as I turned my ankle in the dry road.
I mumbled something like “How clumsy of me” as I righted myself.
“It’s a sad business,” Mr. Graves said.
“It’s dreadful.” I could not quite pull myself back to the world—that image of Mr. Penny spitting…“People’s children oughtn’t die.” Even I was surprised at the bitterness in my voice.
“Ah, miss,” the undertaker said with a sigh, “we all of us die, and only the Reaper knows the appointed hour. ‘Tis odd, though—Shearing hasn’t had a drowning since Stirwaters were built.”
“What?” As unpredictable as the Stowe was, that seemed impossible. “Why not?”
Mr. Graves shrugged and leaned on his spade. “Can’t say. Some folks’ll tell you it’s the tribute the Friendlies pay every year at Shrovetide.”
Every village or tradesman’s group has a Friendly Society organized for just such a purpose—to pay funeral expenses or carry a hungry family through a lean season. I couldn’t see the Pennys among their numbers, though, and I could not stop my next thought: If they had paid the Friendlies, maybe the river would have spared Annie.
Mr. Graves continued. “Others’ll tell you it’s because of what happened the last time—you know, at Stirwaters.”
I glanced at him sharply. “I don’t know. What happened?”
“Ah, miss, it’s probably no more than just old village gossip—you know how tales spread. I don’t rightly know the details, meself—there weren’t a funeral, after all. But there were some kind of trouble during the building, somebody fell into the river, and were drowned. No more than that, miss—so you can stop looking at me like that.”
I pulled myself together. “I’m sorry—it’s just, I’ve never heard of this.”
“Ah, and you can pay it no mind, then. T’only reason it’s remembered at all is for being the last drowning in this village. Till now.” Mr. Graves glanced at the churchyard. Mr. Penny had finally left. “I’m sorry, miss. Sad duty calls. But if you’re wondering more about it, ‘twouldn’t surprise me if the mill had some record of it, somewhere. You look there.”
I didn’t look. I had had enough of drownings, and death, and grief. I wanted to turn to problems I knew and could solve, and let the long dead rest in peace.
We saw little of Bill after that; Stirwaters was all but idle until we could sell the cloth, and there was not much work for him, nor did he show up seeking any. Annie’s death had cast a shadow over the last days of summer, and those were grim and quiet days for us all.
When I did not hear back from Porter & Byrd, I wrote half a dozen other shipping agencies, drapers’ shops, and haberdashers, but (excepting one dressmaker who ordered two lengths of black cassimere in anticipation of a heavy season for funerals), one by one word came back: No, thank you. Or variations on the same: We bought our cloth at Worm Hill; was there some reason Stirwaters could not sell by normal channels? &c. It began to look hopeless, and though our next mortgage payment was not due unti
l the turning of the year, I should soon have to consider whether to buy any fall wool; and if I did not buy fall wool, my workers should all go hungry.
I was thus occupied in a miserable circuit of my thoughts one afternoon, and did not look up when Rosie slipped into the office, bearing the post. With a wave of my hand I let her sort through it, and she gave me the catalogue.
“The teasel people seem to think they’d like to be paid,” she said, casting one note onto the desk. “Dexter’s sent a new price list for dyestuffs, and Mr. Woodstone wants to know if we’ve lost any more fingers…?”
“What?” My head snapped up and I snatched the letter from Rosie.
“Oh, now you care.”
Mr. Woodstone’s note was brief but merry, asking after our progress and health and reminding us that he was at our service, should we need anything. There was no mention of our debt, but he did note that his father was particularly impressed by Stirwaters’s accomplishment, just above the words Yours faithfully, and a schoolboy-tidy signature I was becoming familiar with. I found myself flattening out the creases with my fingers, tracing the ink on the page as Rosie prattled on about the remaining post.
“Who do we know in Stowemouth?”
All at once Mr. Woodstone’s letter was forgotten. “That’s Porter and Byrd,” I said quietly, hardly daring to hope. It would surely be another excruciatingly polite refusal.
It was not, although neither was it such a stroke of fortune to turn our fates around in one breath. Mr. Byrd sent his regrets that he was unable to respond sooner, but if our cloth was still available, he was very much interested in pursuing an alliance of our firms.
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