“Yes, but Mama does not—does not understand,” she confessed, albeit a bit grudgingly. “She would say you are only a mill worker, and that you are not a proper person for me to know.”
“And what does Miss Drinkard say?”
She picked up the scissors and sliced through the cotton lint, then gave him a long and searching look. “I think you and I might understand one another very well, for we have something in common, do we not?”
“Do we?” he asked warily.
“Come, Mr. Tisdale, it must be obvious to the meanest intelligence that you are no ordinary mill worker! You are, or were, a gentleman, although you appear to have fallen on hard times. Deny it, if you can!”
Theo shrugged in resignation. “Very well, Miss Drinkard. There you have me. I have fallen on very hard times. Still, I have hopes of bringing myself about very soon.”
She gave him a look of sympathetic understanding. “It never entirely goes away, does it?”
“Does what?”
“Hope. No matter how impossible things seem, we can’t quite let it go. Mama, with her confidence that I may yet repair our fortunes by making a brilliant match even while living in a boardinghouse, your expectations of bringing yourself about by working in a cotton mill—” Her eyes grew round as a new thought occurred to her. “But wait! Perhaps there is a chance for you, after all!”
“Oh?”
“Perhaps Sir Valerian might be persuaded to engage you as his secretary!” Her eagerness gave way to mild indignation as Theo gave a shout of laughter. “What have I said that was so funny?”
“Nothing—pay me no heed,” he said, struggling to control his mirth. “It’s just that I am the last man on earth Sir Valerian would want as his secretary.”
“Are you, indeed?” she asked, somewhat deflated by this revelation. “Are you so well acquainted with him?”
“Never met the fellow in my life,” declared Theo.
“Well, then—!”
“Let us just say that there are reasons why I am unsuited to such a position,” Theo amended. “Still, it was very wrong of me to laugh at you. You are very kind to want to help me.”
“If you’re back to telling me how kind I am, I shall go.” She tied off her neat bandage with a tug just a bit harder than was strictly necessary, then piled her various accoutrements back on the tray, picked it up, and flounced across the room, reminding Theo of nothing so much as an outraged kitten. Having reached the door, she turned back to add, albeit grudgingly, “There is some beef left over from dinner. Cook has shredded it up for a pie, but if you would like a bit of it to take to the mill tomorrow for a noon meal, you may have it, along with some bread and cheese. And now, I shall bid you goodnight, before you can tell me again how kind I am!”
And with this parting shot, she closed the door with a snap. Theo sat grinning at the uncommunicative door for a long moment before remembering his interrupted mission. Alas, the meeting had apparently concluded, for no more sounds could be heard through the flue. He supposed he should be disappointed at not being able to discover more of exactly what Sir Valerian thought he was about, but he could not entirely regret it—and if the truth were known, his lack of repentance was not wholly due to the condition of his hands, although there was no denying that these did feel rather better as a result of Miss Drinkard’s ministrations.
It occurred to him that he might learn as much of Sir Valerian’s doings from Miss Drinkard as he did through the chimney flue. After all, Mrs. Drinkard would only encourage any interaction between her daughter and the Parliamentary candidate, certain that such an exchange could only end in the banns being posted. And if Miss Drinkard wished to confide the details of these conversations to her sympathetic “friend,” well, who was he to deny her? He might even ask her to put in a good word for him with Sir Valerian; the absurdity of his taking a position as secretary to his brother-in-law’s opponent appealed to him, whether or not he was ever offered the post Miss Drinkard had proposed.
He snuffed the candle and crawled back into bed, feeling lighter at heart than he had in many a long day—since, in fact, the night his father had died.
ALAS FOR THEO, HIS more cheerful frame of mind scarcely survived the night. Waking at dawn for his second day on the job proved to be no problem; in fact, his aching muscles jolted him from sleep every time he rolled over. This circumstance did at least guarantee that he had time to shave and even eat a bowl of porridge dipped from a kettle of this concoction kept on the hob, as Mrs. Drinkard’s more elderly “guests” kept to the late mornings they had enjoyed in more prosperous times.
“Thankee,” said the cook when Theo returned his bowl to the kitchen for washing. In truth, she was a bit taken aback by this show of consideration, as the dirty dishes were usually left on the table for Miss Daphne to fetch down later in the morning. She wondered if it was to ingratiate himself with the daughter of the house that he’d performed this small task for her. Well, he’d catch cold at that, as he’d learn before he was much older. The newest resident might be a pretty-behaved young man—aye, and a good-looking one too, she’d grant him that—but it wouldn’t do for Miss Daphne to go entertaining hopes in that direction. Still, she unbent sufficiently to look up from the dough she was kneading and jerk her head in the direction of a wicker basket covered with a gingham cloth. “Miss Daphne said you was to have that.”
“Oh?” Theo lifted a corner of the cloth and found the remains of the beef Miss Drinkard had mentioned, now shredded and stuffed between thick hunks of bread along with a paper-thin slice of cheddar.
“Aye, she thought you might get hungry, working at the mill all day,” Cook said, pounding one beefy fist into the ball of dough.
Theo, correctly deducing that she would be only too happy to perform a similar operation on any man who failed to show “Miss Daphne” the proper degree of respect, thought it politic not to betray any hint of the late-night exchange that had resulted in this show of generosity.
“She was right. Will you please convey my thanks to her? Tell her I said it was kind of her to think of me,” he added with a hint of a smile. He would convey his own thanks that evening, but in the meantime, it amused him to think of how she might receive a message once again referencing her kindness. He picked up the basket and set out, whistling, for the mill, his good humor quite restored.
Even had he not known of Sir Valerian’s meeting, he would have recognized within ten minutes of his arrival that something had changed, and not for the better. An air of tension hung over the mill that had not been there the previous day. Small knots of men engaged in hushed conversations or exchanged furtive looks from their posts at the power looms. Others, like Tom, seemed even more wary than before, regarding their co-workers with distrust if not outright suspicion.
“Tom,” Theo said at last, raising his voice only as much as necessary for the other man to hear him over the noise of the machines, “is something wrong?”
“Of course not!” Tom said a bit too quickly. “Why should there be anything wrong?”
“No particular reason,” Theo said, trying to match the other man’s attempt at nonchalance, and failing quite as miserably. “You just seem—distracted.”
“Distraction is dangerous.” As if to prove his point, Tom focused his gaze intently on the thread as he fed it into the loom. “The sooner you learn that, the safer you’ll be.”
Theo would have pressed him to elaborate, but was interrupted by the arrival of Wilkins. “What’s toward, Tom? Is Thee-o-dore here bothering you?” Again, he made a mockery of Theo’s given name.
“It’s all right, Abel.”
“What’s that, Tom?” asked the foreman, taking a menacing step forward.
“It’s all right, Mr. Wilkins,” amended Tom in placating accents. “Theo just had a question, and I was answering it.”
Wilkins turned his beady-eyed gaze on Theo. “You’ve got your answer, then. Now, get back to work, Tom. Not you,” he added to Theo. “You come with me.”
Theo did as he was told, following Wilkins back to the small room where he’d first had the dubious pleasure of making the man’s acquaintance. As they traversed the mill, he could not help noticing the expressions on the faces of his fellow workers, expressions ranging from malicious to apprehensive to sympathetic. He was surprised, upon first entering the makeshift office, to discover that the desk was now covered with a white tablecloth. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a length of the same cotton cloth that he was employed to produce.
“Aye, take a good look at it,” commanded Wilkins, noting the direction of his gaze. “What d’you see?”
Thus ordered, Theo bent for a more thorough inspection, and noticed that certain threads were streaked with a reddish-brown substance.
“The stains,” he said. “Are they—”
“Aye, they’re your own blood,” Wilkins said with malicious satisfaction. “Here’s a piece of otherwise good cloth two ells long that can’t be sold now, because someone’s lily-white hands bled all over it. What do you suggest we do with it?”
Theo would have liked very much to tell Wilkins exactly what he could do with it, but quite aside from the fact that this would do nothing to make his life at the mill any easier, he was afraid the man had a point.
“I’m very sorry,” he said at last. “As you noted, I’m not accustomed to the work, and rubbed blisters on my hands. I’ve come better prepared today, so it won’t happen again.” He lifted his hands, displaying the bandages on his fingers.
Wilkins gave a contemptuous grunt. “We’ll see, won’t we? In the meantime, you might as well take this.” He snatched the cloth off the desk, then bundled it up and shoved it at Theo. “It’s not like we can do anything else with it, and mayhap the sight of it’ll remind you of what your incompetence is costing his nibs.”
Privately, Theo doubted his brother-in-law would be overly burdened by the loss of two ells of cotton fabric. Still, he resisted the urge to regard Wilkins with the single lifted eyebrow which his late father had employed in dealing with impertinence, and instead took the bundle of cloth without a word. Far from being pleased with this display of restraint, however, Wilkins seemed almost disappointed not to have goaded Theo into some show of temper. “Now, get back to work,” the foreman growled, clearly for lack of anything better to say.
“Yes—sir,” Theo said, and suited the word to the deed.
Having nothing better to do with it, he stored the bundle of cloth with his basket of food, and when work was suspended at noon, he lost no time in seeking out Ben and taking a seat next to him at the long table.
“I see you’ve come prepared today,” Ben remarked as Theo unpacked his basket.
“Yes,” he admitted before continuing somewhat sheepishly, “I must thank you again for what you did for me yesterday. If you’d like to share my meal, you’re welcome. I’m sure I couldn’t eat the half of it,” he added with perhaps less than perfect truth, as his stomach had rumbled in anticipation at the sight of the thick roast beef sandwich.
“That’s all right. I’ve got my own.” In proof of this, he unpacked his own midday meal, a rather sparser repast comprising a scrawny chicken leg and a boiled potato.
“So,” Theo began in an offhand manner that, had he but known it, did not deceive the old man for a moment, “were you at the meeting last night?”
Ben’s sparse gray eyebrows lifted, pushing into sharp relief the wrinkles that lined his forehead. “Oh, so you know about that, do you?”
“I could hardly help it! It was held in Mrs. Drinkard’s dining room, which is situated directly below my bedchamber. Ben, what’s it all about?”
“What do you think?”
“I should say,” Theo said thoughtfully, recalling the snatches of conversation—if one could call it that—which had drifted up through the flue, “that Sir Valerian Wadsworth is trying to stir up unrest at the mill.”
Old Ben inclined his head in a manner that reminded Theo forcefully of his old tutor congratulating him on correctly performing some difficult sum. “I think you’re very likely right.”
“But—but to what purpose?”
“What do you think?” Ben asked again.
“I wish you would stop answering my questions by asking me what I think!” Theo grumbled. “I should guess he’s trying to stir up a riot, like those Luddites. But all that was years ago! Nothing like that happens now,” he insisted, with all the certainty of a young man to whom the events of four years earlier might be considered ancient history.
“Mayhap you’re right,” conceded Ben. “But there will always be envious and discontented men, and when they’re encouraged to band together and air their grievances—” he shrugged his stooped shoulders.
Time to take action . . . “If only airing grievances were all there was to it,” Theo said, recalling the ominous words spoken in anger, and the other voices that had joined in, echoing their support. He lowered his voice still further, and asked urgently, “Shouldn’t someone—I don’t know—do something?”
Ben glanced to the far side of the room, where a phalanx of men huddled at the opposite end of the long table, whispering together. Abel Wilkins had now joined their number and, far from breaking up the little group, appeared to be listening to their conversation with interest. “And what do you suggest we do?”
“E—er, that is, Sir Ethan should be told, at the very least.”
“He’s in London, getting ready to stand for Parliament.”
“Yes, but he needs to know, so he can put a stop to it,” Theo insisted.
“Aye, mayhap he does, but what would you? Anyone who squeaks beef would have to answer to Abel there”—a nod toward Wilkins at the opposite end of the table—“and how to get word to Ethan anyway? We can hardly walk up to his house and knock on the door.”
Perhaps you can’t, thought Theo, setting his jaw, but I can.
HIS MIND MADE UP, THEO did not set out for Mrs. Drinkard’s boardinghouse after his workday had ended, but turned off the main road as soon as possible—it would not do to be seen, by either the mill workers or the other residents of the boardinghouse, lest awkward questions be asked—and set out in the direction of his brother-in-law’s house. Upon reaching this familiar residence, he rapped sharply upon the door with the polished brass knocker. A moment later the door opened to reveal Evers, the butler, who goggled upon recognizing the visitor.
“My lord Tisdale! That is, your grace!” he exclaimed, taking in every detail of Theo’s changed appearance, from the sweat-soaked workman’s smock to the bundle of cloth under his arm. “What—?”
“Shhh!” commanded Theo, glancing about to make certain the butler’s involuntary exclamation had not been overheard. “Stubble it, will you?”
“Yes, your grace, er, sir,” he amended hastily.
“I lost a wager,” said Theo, seeking recourse to the explanation proposed by his brother-in-law. “Just keep it mum.”
“Wild horses shall not drag it from my lips,” promised Evers in failing accents. He had no very high opinion of the frequent demands of his mistress’s relations upon his master’s purse and, consequently, no desire to make known their latest misdeeds to the world—or, more specifically, to the household staffs of the neighboring gentry.
“The thing is, I’ve got to see Nell.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, your grace—er, sir,” Evers said with perhaps less than perfect truth. “But Lady Helen is not at home.”
“D’you mean she’s absent, or that she isn’t receiving visitors?” demanded Theo. “Because if it’s the latter—”
He made as if to push his way into the house by main force, but Evers, having long experience in repelling unwanted callers, deftly prevented this move by the simple expedient of blocking the opening with his own rather stout person. “I regret to inform you that Lady Helen left for London yesterday morning.”
“The devil she did! When does she plan to return?”
“She did not inform
me, sir.” Theo muttered an oath in response, and Evers, seeing his case was apparently urgent, decided to take pity on him. “I believe it is her intention to assist Sir Ethan in his Parliamentary bid. If I may take the liberty of speculating, I should think she will be absent for some weeks.”
“Yes, I daresay you’re right,” Theo conceded, albeit grudgingly. “Thank you for telling me. I suppose I shall have to write, then. Can you get me into Ethan’s study without anyone else seeing, do you think?”
“The rest of the staff is busy with dinner preparations,” Evers informed him loftily. “If you will follow me, your grace?”
“Good man!” said Theo, following with furtive steps as the butler led the way across the hall to the room that served as his brother-in-law’s study. Once inside, he closed the door against prying eyes and scrawled a hasty missive warning Ethan that something deuced havey-cavey was afoot at the mill, and urging him to come look into the matter. He signed it with a flourish, sealed it with a blob of wax dripped from the candle, and surrendered it to the butler, impressing upon Evers the need to post it to London by the next morning’s mail.
“Meanwhile,” he concluded, pausing on the front stoop to repeat these instructions as he took his leave, “not a word about my presence in the area!”
A sharp autumn breeze lifted the golden hair from his bare head, wafting in the butler’s direction the odor of industry that clung to Theo’s smock.
Evers shuddered. “I can assure you, your grace,” he said, puckering his nostrils, “I shouldn’t dream of it.”
9
I belong to that highly respectable tribe
Which is known as the Shabby Genteel.
ANONYMOUS, “The Shabby Genteel,” from A Poor Relation
AS THE FOLLOWING DAY was Sunday, Theo was granted a brief respite from the mill. The day brought its own challenges, however, as he was obliged to invent an excuse for not attending church with the other residents of the boardinghouse. Here he found an unexpected ally in Miss Drinkard, who urged him to take advantage of the opportunity to rest and recover from his unaccustomed labors, even going so far as to make his excuses to the rest of the party. In fact, this took no small degree of diplomacy, for Mr. Nutley was to give the sermon that day, as the vicar was ill, and the boardinghouse residents were loud in their expressions of eagerness to hear him undertake a responsibility which he was only rarely called upon to perform.
The Desperate Duke Page 8
