It had to be done that day, for the sun was out in force, and the washing team had sprung into action like an impromptu fire brigade. Thomas had rallied them all together, assigned the appropriate tasks, and then left urgently. He is always moving urgently, Mary-Anne thought, and the thought brought a slight smile to her lips. She found Thomas a rather amusing character about the house, despite his sternness and attention to detail.
Mary-Anne lugged the overflowing basket through one of the tight doorways and into the eastern mud room. There she exchanged hurried nods with a few other servant women and carried on out into the sunlight.
It was a brilliant day, Mary-Anne loved the early Autumn air. It was remarkable, the purity of it. She had lived in the metropolitan area of London for over a decade before this. The air there was clogged, heavy and stale. Laundry there had been near impossible since the manufactories never seemed to cease their bellows. Once the clothes had been hung up, the dusting of coal and ash would come falling down and ruin them for good. Of course, those that lived in the nicer parts of the city, removed from the smokestacks and chimneys, fared far better.
In the countryside, there was no ash cloud. There was no fog of burning coal. Instead, Mary-Anne basked in the crisp cool air and watched some of the falling leaves flutter across the field.
She was standing there on top of the stairs, holding the basket, and basking in the breeze. Taking one last survey of the picturesque hillscape, her attention was drawn to the glass-paned doors to her left. They were clicking open, and the Duke was stepping out from his office onto the balcony. He walked to the marble railing and rested his hands there. Mary-Anne looked him over again as he posed stoically on the porch.
The Duke turned his head about, looking over the vast laundry proceedings. As he turned to the right, his eyes met with Mary-Anne’s, still just watching him there out of curiosity.
For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. She could have averted her gaze, but the thought never occurred to her. Instead, she stood there, the basket of blankets growing heavy in her arms, her eyes glued to the Duke’s.
There was a look of surprise in his face - probably because he would not have expected a servant to look at him so directly, she reasoned. But then he kept looking back at her, with something that had to be more than confusion.
She didn’t know what it was, and it surprised her. He lifted one hand and gave a slight, tempered wave as if he were hesitant to do so. She smiled back at him and then felt the weight of the blankets in her arms. She shuffled to adjust the basket, and when she looked back, the Duke had gone again inside. She felt strange about the way she had stood there and stared, almost embarrassed. Yet there was something else, excitement, and Mary-Anne wondered where it came from.
Chapter 11
Much to the dismay of Kaitlin’s governess, Mary-Anne had struck up a joyous friendship with the Duke’s young daughter. It was not through her own volition; rather, it was Kaitlin who initiated nearly all of their social contact.
Often, Mary-Anne would be tending to Phyllis when Kaitlin ran into the room while being chased nervously by Betsey. Kaitlin would proceed to drag Mary-Anne out through the back door, and then run about the grounds with her new friend until Betsey finally caught up.
This occurred about once a day, and depending on Phyllis’ mood, would go over fine or cause a disaster.
On the good days, Phyllis thought that Mary-Anne was her old governess, whose name was Emily. On such occasions, Phyllis would laugh and clap, watching what she thought was her young son pull the governess outdoors. She did not worry, for she knew Arthur would intervene eventually, do some shouting, and little Henry would get back to his lessons before the neighboring ladies arrived for lunch.
On the bad days, Phyllis shouted after her granddaughter about manners, respect, and the need to behave as a lady would. Betsey would stop to catch her breath as Mary-Anne and Kaitlin disappeared out the door, and thus she would catch the brunt of Phyllis’ whining.
It was such a day, perhaps a week after the fire, that Kaitlin ran giggling about the hills beneath the house, Mary-Anne rushing after her. Finally, she caught the little girl, taking her up in her arms with a great swing, which only brought complete, joyous hysteria on the part of the five-year-old.
How can a thing so small be so heavy at the same moment? Mary-Anne thought, placing Kaitlin down upright, and brushing the loose blades of grass from her dress. After she had made it as clean as she could, Mary-Anne put her hands-on Kaitlin’s shoulders and gestured back towards the house with her head.
“I don’t want to,” Kaitlin said, rotating back and forth from the waist up.
Mary-Anne made the motion again, more forcibly this time, emphasizing her point. She adored little Kaitlin; the child displayed the most exuberant and curious qualities that Mary-Anne found so important.
“She wants me to read, and it is too hard,” Kaitlin said, her voice falling in embarrassment.
Oh, Kaitlin, Mary-Anne thought. You must learn to read. Mary-Anne crouched down and met Kaitlin’s wandering eyes with her own. We must all learn to read. It is the greatest weapon we can ever wield.
“I don’t think Betsey likes you very much,” Kaitlin said. “Why doesn’t she like you? I like you.”
I like you too, Mary-Anne thought, brushing back Kaitlin’s hair to straighten her bonnet.
“I wish you could talk to me,” Kaitlin said, crossing her little arms. “Why can’t you?”
Mary-Anne looked somberly at Kaitlin. Every time she went to speak, her mind traveled backward. She was running. The carriage door hung on its hinges, and the rain pelted down.
“Help!” she screamed at the height of her voice, watching it wash out silently into the storm.
He was coming for her now, climbing out of the carriage, yanking the lantern from the coachman.
Into the forest, she ran, and a pistol shot rang out behind her.
“Help me!” she wailed into the night, but the only answer that came was his dreaded lantern, plotting steadily forward through the rain.
“Lady Kaitlin!” Betsey said sternly, marching down the hill, holding her skirts above the grass. “You have dodged your lessons for the last time, young lady,” she said.
Mary-Anne gave Kaitlin another gesture. You have better go to her.
Kaitlin looked back at her, cocking her head and slanting her eyes. Fine. But only because you asked me to.
“Emily,” Betsey said, planting her hands firmly on Kaitlin’s shoulders. Since Phyllis had confused Mary-Anne for an old servant, and she had provided no other name for them to use, the entire house had begun calling her Emily. “You must not feed into this behavior. It is becoming just maddening.”
Mary-Anne nodded apologetically.
“Come on, Lady Kaitlin,” Betsey noticed Kaitlin regaining a semblance of her normally complacent attitude. “Back to the books. It is all for your own good, you know that don’t you?”
Mary-Anne watched them walk back up to the house, Betsey lecturing all the way. Mary-Anne loved the little lady, so full of life and spunk. She quite reminded her of herself, and she took great joy carting the child around the garden. What’s more, she had found herself watching Kaitlin’s father. The Duke was a quiet man for the most part but held about himself an aura of mysterious prestige, and all things considered was a fairly handsome man. Mary-Anne had caught herself staring at him from time to time, not realizing how long she would set her eyes upon him until she shook herself free with a blushing fit.
A noise behind her caused her to jump and spin around, only to see a young man’s curious face looking at her from the roof of the hen house.
“It’s alright,” he said, holding his hands up. He was thin, rugged, but cheery all the same. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just patching up the roof.”
Mary-Anne waved a casual hand, indicating that all was fine. Oliver watched her quizzically. Why won’t she say anything?
“Wait right there,” he sa
id. Oliver crouched for a moment and leapt cleanly from the roof the hen house. He approached Mary-Anne with curiosity, wiping his hands on a loose rag. “You’re that woman, aren’t you?” he asked, tipping his head. “The Mute. Nice of the Duke to give you a room, he’s a fine gentleman, isn’t he?”
Mary-Anne was cautious. She had done well to keep her presence limited to the manor, but it was inevitable that word would get out. Ironic enough, she thought, even if I can’t talk, everyone else will. Yet the mention of the Duke had betrayed her, for she had been thinking of him every now and again since the fire. The vigor he had channeled that night had struck her as bold and exciting, and the way he had opened his home to the farmers had touched her as compassionate. It didn’t help, of course, that he was a touch good looking.
Mary-Anne bowed her head a bit, answering yes, and concealing her slight blush
“I’m Oliver,” he said. “Oliver Hanson. It’s nice to meet you. What do I call you?”
She gave half a polite smile in return, moving to head back to the house.
“I suppose you couldn’t say,” Oliver chuckled, looking down to his feet. “Well, it’s nice to meet you anyways.”
Mary-Anne hurried back to the house, shaking her head at herself. Stupid, she cursed. You should have stayed in the house. She knew that she could not have hidden her presence forever; gossip was as sure a thing as the sunrise. Yet, the rumor of a mute had already spread to the cottages, and there was nothing to do about it. Nothing good can come of this, she thought. I hope he didn’t see me blush, either. Oh! What have I done? She continued to badger herself, hustling up the hill, but as hard as she tried, the more the Duke’s face floated around behind her eyelids.
Chapter 12
Lawrence Seton felt as if he were frothing at the mouth. On the surface, he seemed calm and collected, as was expected of him However, within he raged so fervently that he feared that his head would immediately set alight on its own accord.
“And you are sure,” his father was saying, “there is absolutely nothing we can do about this? You know I have my friends down in Africa who could...”
It was all meaningless to Lawrence. Their voices droned on around him, but he paid them no mind. He had stopped listening entirely when he had heard that awfully irritating name uttered: Mr. Bastable.
How did he beat us here? Lawrence lamented. Has he been to every sheep farmer on the whole island?
Julian Bastable, of course, had not been to every sheep farmer in all of England, but he had visited the large ones in proximity to London, and he had done, so it seems just before Lawrence and his father arrived.
Estate after estate they arrived to deliver the same answer: I’m dreadfully sorry, gentlemen, but I have already made a similar arrangement with one Mr. Bastable.
“I am afraid that is all there is to it, Morris,” the man across from them was saying. “I cannot go back on my word, let alone notarized documents.”
“No, of course not.” Morris Seton arranged his papers making ready to leave. “I am sorry we could not come to productive ends, Lord Talbot.”
“I am afraid the apology is mine, Mr. Seton,” Lord Talbot said. “I wish that I had known such a game was afoot before I began to play it.”
“Indeed,” Morris smiled falsely, although the Lord could not tell the difference. “I as well. Good day, My Lord.”
“My Lord,” Lawrence said, standing abruptly with his father.
“Mr. Lawrence,” Lord Talbot shook Morris’s hand, and his footman showed them out.
“I shall fetch the coach for you, gentlemen,” the footman said and left them steaming together on the marble steps.
“I hate him!” Lawrence seethed.
“Wait,” his father said. “Not right now.”
“Very well,” Lawrence withdrew into his own boiling hate for the fat merchant that haunted his every venture.
They stood in utter silence as the coach came around; the door opened, and they boarded, still without making a sound. Only when the carriage had begun to roll and had rolled for some while down from the Lord’s estate, did Lawrence let out his frustration.
“I hate him!” he snapped, crossing his arms and slinking back into his bumpy seat.
“As do I, my boy, as do I,” Morris said, brushing a small piece of lint from his hat.
“We will not defeat him, not at this pace. He will have contracted all the wool there is to be had within a hundred miles of the city.”
“It is a wretchedly good plan,” Morris remarked. “Creating a local monopoly on wool, by contracting routine purchases from all available estates; whatever he sells it for will come to be less expensive than product from Australia. I should have done it years ago, but alas it takes such a crisis to bring about quality action.”
Lawrence watched the countryside rattle past him, and it seemed everywhere he looked he saw sheep, taunting him endlessly through their mouthfuls of damp grass.
“We should not have provoked him with that merchantman from America.”
“The sloop? Dear boy, that was trivial. He has picked his fight, and I mean to see it through. He will not stop until he runs us out of business, or we of him. What we must do is find a way to expose him for what he truly is; an upstart charlatan with no respect for society or her laws.”
“But how, Father? He seems always a step ahead, no matter where we go.”
“With a man like Mr. Bastable, there is always something he is trying to hide. We must only discover what it is that he has left most revealing and use it to our advantage.”
“Yes, Father, I understand what you are saying,” Lawrence said. “But what I do not understand is where to begin.”
“What of that woman he had eyes for, you know the one I mean?”
“All too well, Father, for she is the reason I endeavoured to marry so quickly, on your advice I might add, so that I may beat him at something else, a more permanent victory I believe is what you called it.”
“Oh, come now, your bride has made you much richer, has she not? There is always time for another wife. Now, what of this woman he lusts for? She is only a poor seamstress, is she not?”
“A shop assistant at Holloway’s.” Lawrence said. “She tends both books and the wheels if I recall correctly.”
“What is her name?”
“Barnes,” Lawrence said. “Mary-Anne Barnes.”
“Barnes,” Morris chewed the name over in his head. There was something familiar about it, something beyond the common name association it was allotted. It was something of terrible significance, nagging at Morris’s brain. Just what was it?
Chapter 13
As the leaves began to fall in abundance, so did the rain, and the Southern English countryside settled in for another eight or so months of constant drizzle, frequent downpour, and the occasional shower of snow.
The reconstruction of the cottages was finished rather quickly under Mr. Marton’s diligent foreman-ship. Much of the stone and brick foundations remained, and only a cleaning of debris and placement of new timber was needed to put the village back together.
After three weeks, it was as if the fire had never occurred, and it was good timing too, for the Autumn had begun in earnest. However, with his tenant farmers working to restore their homes, the construction of his warehouse had ground practically to a halt. Construction is a fickle thing in the unpredictable weather, and the workdays grew only shorter as the late harvest time came closer.
This troubled Neil, as he had wanted it finished for the winter shearing, and he had already purchased many more sheep than he had the previous year in anticipation of entering the wool trade. Instead of sending it straight to local markets, as he normally would have and paid it no mind afterward, he would consolidate the wool supply in his warehouse and ship it downriver to Mr. Bastable at a wholesale price.
He knew Mr. Bastable would not be happy about not receiving the shipment, as the sheep were only sheared twice a year, and he would have to wait for
the Spring haul. No doubt this would cause Mr. Bastable a great financial fright, but to Neil, it was somewhat irrelevant. He would send him some sort of reimbursement, as per their contract, and that would be that, as far as he was concerned.
The wool business excited him greatly. It had been a long time since he had even considered doing anything besides sitting in his study and morosely watching the birds chase bugs. Now he felt as if he again had a purpose or at least a small one.
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