In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  From a distance, the four-storied red brick building’s jutting towers and visible eaves appeared undamaged. This did not particularly surprise Darcy, as he figured the bulk of the damage would be internal. The note had been written hastily by the surviving foreman, giving no specific details other than the loss of life and that the blaze was quenched. Nonetheless, it takes a massive amount of heat to mar brick.

  Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam were greeted by a group of several men knotted by the front entrance to the mill. Two of the gentlemen were his partners, Mr. Kinnison and Mr. Shultz, while the others were a mixture of workers, foremen, and, undoubtedly, city officials sent to investigate the incident.

  “Ah! Darcy!” Mr. Kinnison boomed. “We figured you would be here soon. I wish I could say it was good to see you but…” He spread his hands and shrugged.

  Darcy dismounted, Richard doing the same but hanging back while his cousin shook hands brusquely with his partners.

  “Kinnison. Shultz.” He nodded to the stocky German who had stepped forward. “I came as quickly as I could manage. It was quite late when I received the message. How did you make it here so speedily, Kinnison?”

  Mr. Kinnison shrugged again. “I was in Spondon for Christmas. My wife’s family dwells there. Shultz and I had lunch three days ago, so he knew I was in the area; otherwise, the messenger would probably still be riding from Claycross. We just arrived here, having spent the past hour with the injured men.”

  Kinnison was the youngest of the three men, only four and twenty. It was actually his father who had partnered with Darcy and Mr. Shultz eight years ago to buy the decrepit old mill. Always a man fascinated by technology and gadgets, Darcy was also an evolving, wise businessman. He immediately saw the advantage to embracing the wave of manufacturing sweeping through England and was especially proud of the acquisition, as it was the first independent venture he had entered into after assuming the mantle of Master of Pemberley. Twice he had discussed the prospect with his father, the first when he was twenty-one and home for the summer.

  Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine at the time that in just over a year he would be Master of Pemberley. His father was in excellent health by all appearances, the ravages of his unrelenting grief visible in the haggard lines around his eyes and hollowed cheeks, but otherwise, James Darcy was robust. Father and son had developed an easy relationship, one that was of mutual respect and affection if a trifle distant due to James’s tendency toward moroseness and Darcy’s reticence. Their times together were invariably centered on discussing Pemberley affairs rather than personal issues, although as Darcy matured, he found it was as if the gap in their ages dwindled. In later years, on those rare occasions when he allowed himself to reminisce and muse on could-have-beens, he firmly believed that in time, he and his father would have become great friends. But at twenty-one those tragic events were future and unthinkable. Rather, both Darcy men imagined and openly planned for a future similar to what James had developed with his father: co-management of Pemberley. Only in this instance, James desired to relinquish the horse breeding and training aspects to his vastly competent son while he continued to manage the farming and livestock ventures. It was an arrangement that appealed to both of them. Darcy’s obsession for all matters horse related was legendary, the only other niggle in his brain that of modern inventions. Hence, he approached his father about milling cotton.

  James sat at the desk that Darcy would inherit, smiling in true pleasure and pride as he watched his tall son pace before him with caged energy, talking vociferously and gesturing wildly.

  “It is truly a marvel, Father. Just think! We could double, probably triple, our income by entering into the cotton trade and milling it. Of course, depending on the initial layout, it may take a few years to recoup, but eventually. And what is to stop us from delving further and milling our own wool as well? The process is a bit more expensive, but you see the figures?” He stopped abruptly, tapping one long index finger on the parchment page lying on the desktop.

  James opened his mouth to speak, but Darcy resumed pacing and speaking, “I confess I need to do a bit more research to be absolutely sure, but I am fairly confident we could handle it. In fact, I spoke with Mr. Castledon of London Textile just last month. His company owns several mills of all varieties and he gave me excellent advice. My thought had been to build our own mill here, starting from scratch. He suggested looking into buying an existing mill, preferably one a bit rundown or mismanaged that could be attained at a lowered price. I took the liberty of asking Mr. Daniels to nose around a bit, drop a few hints discreetly. He says there are a couple of possibilities near Stavely on the Rother or Buxton on the Wye and in Derby. Any location would do nicely. Perhaps I could have him send you the specifications, Father, and you could look into it?”

  “Perhaps—”

  “Of course with steam engines,” Darcy interrupted, hardly aware his father had spoken, “we do not have to look along rivers. They make the need for a water source unnecessary! Although it is still wise, I am convinced, for shipping and safety reasons. We could, possibly, build one from the ground up near Pemberley, or expand the existing facilities where we sheer and scour our wool. Although I do believe that might still be more expensive than obtaining an already existing structure designed for the task. I need to obtain further figures on that, but you can see that we have numerous options.”

  “I do not think I would want a loud manufacturing monstrosity so near the manor, Son.”

  “Yes, yes, you are correct, Father! That would not be wise, I agree.” He paused momentarily, fingers fidgeting by his sides as he stared into space sightlessly. James observed him silently, the turning wheels of his son’s brain practically visible to the naked eye. “With a steam engine we could fully prepare the cotton. Clean it, card it, comb it, everything. Then spin it and weave it as well. Maybe in time expand further and develop rooms for dyeing and finishing the cloth. Yes, Derby would be best, as the population is higher and it is on the main thoroughfare to London and beyond. Think of all the people we could employ! Profits and community benefit!”

  James was laughing and shaking his head slowly. “Hold on a minute, my boy! You know I appreciate your enthusiasm, but are you not supposed to be carousing with your friends, engaging in endless fox hunts and billiard tournaments and other frivolous pursuits of youth? You are on vacation and have one more year of leisurely studies at University, not that you ever study leisurely, but you get the idea. Enjoy yourself for a change and we can deal with this in a year.”

  “I do not carouse, Father, but trust me, I partake in plenty of extracurricular activities. Did I tell you I won the fencing tournament for my House? Plaque on the wall next to Grandfather’s!”

  James laughed at Darcy’s sudden youthful boasting. “Yes, you told me, lad. I am quite proud of you and delighted to know your nose is not always pressed between the pages of a book. So do me a favor: Relax, gather information if you wish, but complete your education and enjoy life for a while before you immerse yourself in work.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, William! You know I personally have no interest in the endeavor. That is not to say I disagree with your research and concept, so do not frown at me! I merely insist it wait for now. Take your time, enjoy the summer, and finish your education. Next summer, we can discuss it at length and I will trust you to pursue to your heart’s content.”

  So Darcy had grudgingly agreed, not really having much choice in the matter. A year later, he was home and barely unpacked ere broaching the topic with his father yet again. He had not relented in his desire, had only increased his enthusiasm with further study and discussion with professors, businessmen, and even the average working man during his haunts at the mills near Cambridge. James was agreeable if not newly inspired, permitting his son to look seriously into the matter at the mills to be found locally and promising to allow him to proceed once the particulars were known. It was a short conversation, Darcy wasti
ng no time in riding to Alfreton where a potential mill had been unearthed by Mr. Wickham. It ended up not being the best candidate, but before Darcy could pursue other options, his father suffered a massive heart attack and, a week later, died.

  It was over six months before Darcy could begin even to think about starting an entirely new project, yet despite the overwhelming chaos, tremendous grief, and burdens suddenly thrust upon his shoulders, the tiny flame of desire had kept burning deep inside. Nonetheless, it was a coincidence that brought the cotton mill in Derby to his attention. Mr. Kinnison the elder was good friends with Mr. Henry Vernor and rather casually mentioned to him that the old mill was for sale and he was contemplating buying. Mr. Vernor knew of Darcy’s interest via his son, Gerald. One thing led to another, as the old saying goes, and within a month, Darcy, Kinnison, and Mr. Shultz, an associate of Kinnison’s, formed a partnership and bought the dilapidated mill. DKS Midlands, Inc., was born.

  Mr. Shultz was a German immigrant of some fifty years, a self-made man who had begun his employment history as a youth working at every job in a cotton mill in Yorkshire before rising to the rank of foreman. Thrifty by nature, he saved and eventually invested in the very mill he had worked in since the tender age of nine. A few more years went by, a total of ten mills invested in at the pinnacle of his career, and Mr. Shultz was counted among the comfortably rich. He liquefied it all, moved to Derby, and started over where no one would know he had once been a lowly mill drudge. Darcy would know none of this history until five years into their partnership, trusting to the man’s obvious knowledge of the business and to Mr. Kinnison’s recommendation and personal reputation.

  The project was a success from the beginning. The partnership allowed for the financial resources to purchase a number of machines that Darcy had not imagined in his early figuring. In the end, revenue was made in two years time. It was a small profit for the first three years and the money was reinvested, which substantially benefited the company. For two years now, the proceeds were significant. The elder Mr. Kinnison had died not quite two years prior, his son proving to be as excellent a businessman, and trustworthy partner, as had his father. All three men were abundantly content with the project.

  The milling process utilized by DKS Midlands was typical of all cotton mills of that day. Raw cotton fibers were imported in vast quantities, primarily via British East India Trading vessels that acquired the product from India and other Far East nations, as well as the former American colonies. Certain areas of England, Yorkshire, and Manchester, for instance, became synonymous with the cotton trade. Other towns followed suit to varying degrees, cashing in on the wealth to be found. English inventors by the dozens devoted their lives to improving the machinery necessary to enhance the process. American inventor Eli Whitney’s cotton gin was one of the prime revolutionary devices ever invented. Every worker of cotton in England owned a cotton gin by the early 1800s, speeding the initial process unbelievably. Raw, baled cotton was transported to the large and complete mill in Derby, just one of hundreds throughout the country.

  The massive four-story building was laid out with each floor devoted to the sequential procedures necessary to take the raw product and render it into useable cloth, from opening the five-hundred-pound bales of crude cotton to begin the ginning and cleaning process, to the finer tasks of separating the fibers, spinning the slivered threads into yarns, weaving the yarns into cloth, and finishing the fabric with various chemicals, from bleaching to dyeing. All of this was accomplished through complicated and innovative machinery operated by human hands. It was a lengthy practice requiring hundreds of employees even in such a relatively modest mill.

  Mr. Shultz lived in Derby and personally handled difficulties as they arose, Darcy and Kinnison rarely needing to get involved with the day-to-day functioning. Rather, they dealt with the business side of affairs. Mr. Kinnison managed the storage warehouses, distribution, and transport to local markets and London. Darcy arranged the exchange with markets beyond London and abroad as well as the political issues, dealing extensively with the East India Company and, to a lesser degree, his own ships. These contacts contributed to their rapid success.

  Thus far, the mishaps had been nominal; a few minor injuries and broken down machines all that had upset the flow. This positive record was highly irregular in the danger fraught machinations of a mill and all the persons involved recognized their good fortune. “Darcy.” Mr. Shultz shook his hand, jerking his head toward the smoldering mill. “We were just discussing the details of what occurred. Kinnison and I were here until late last night, but it was not safe to inspect and far too disordered. And we were busily dealing with the injuries and fatalities, and assuring the fire was out.” He shrugged, pausing briefly before continuing. “We lost the foreman Hendle and two workers, Spreckle and Trillis. Good workers.”

  Darcy nodded solemnly. His personal knowledge of most of the personnel was nonexistent. However, this did not mean he did not care. “Any family? Widows?”

  “The men chosen for the Christmas holiday were unmarried per protocol. Hendle was the foreman who drew lots this year and he has… had a family. It will be dealt with according to our policy, Darcy.” Shultz answered wearily but matter-of-factly. “She works in the weaving room and knows her position will be held for two weeks with compensation for Hendle until she decides what to do. They have four children, two who work as spinners, so I do not know what to expect.”

  Kinnison spoke up then, “The two men injured are Haggar and Merran. They suffered minor burns and breathing difficulties from the smoke. The surgeon says they will be fine.”

  They began walking toward the large front doors, Richard joining the other men to follow behind while Shultz resumed his narrative. “We were not able to speak with either man until an hour ago, so it was unclear what had occurred. The other watchmen were not at the scene until after the fire was well ablaze, making their rounds and checking equipment as expected, so they were little help. One fellow, Stevenson, let it slip that alcohol was present.” He paused for an angry glower. Shultz was a staunch Methodist and abstainer from all alcoholic beverages, even to the point of actively participating in a thus far unpopular temperance society in Derby.

  Kinnison shared a sideways grin with Darcy, who nodded and smiled faintly. Darcy was not a heavy drinker by any means, a few youthful overindulgences having taught him severe lessons in moderation; but he did not fully ascribe to the near satanic, sinful qualities attributed to alcohol by some. Nonetheless, having been witness to the tragic results of drunkenness in terms of domestic violence and financial ruin—especially amongst the lower classes, although on occasion in his own peer group—he did sympathize with the temperance movement. Frankly, as a man of superior self-control, Darcy had little patience for men who chronically over imbibed and considered it a hideous character flaw.

  As a company policy, alcohol of any kind was prohibited on the mill grounds. Its possession was grounds for immediate dismissal. The idea that employees would jeopardize their livelihood and lives for a drink filled him with a simmering rage. “Do we know the finer details?”

  Kinnison spoke up, Shultz still glowering and muttering under his breath. “It took a bit of time. A few threats, intimidation, and cajoling, but they finally gave us enough.”

  They were inside now, the aroma of smoke and burnt cotton heavy in the air in spite of the widely open windows. Unconsciously, each man retrieved a handkerchief to place over his nose. They walked down the seemingly endless rows of liquid-filled vats and gigantic tables where the bleaching, scouring, dyeing, and other finishing procedures were carried out. Darcy was relieved to note that they were heading away from the separated rooms where the two steam engines were located, those machines being by far the most expensive, not to mention necessary for all other operations to take place. They walked up a curved stairway to the second floor where they traversed long aisles between the weaving looms. Now standing idle with the threads in various stages of co
mpletion, the powerful machines were undamaged. They mounted the sooty stairs leading to the third floor spinning room while Kinnison continued, voice muffled behind cloth.

  “Not too original, Darcy. A bit of holiday cheer, as it were, to accompany a lively faro game. They holed up by the stacks of rovings where it is warmer. It was early afternoon, but yesterday was cloudy, so apparently they brought in extra oil lamps; the better to see the cards, you understand?” He finished with heavy sarcasm and a shake of his head. “Plain stupidity!”

  “The lamps are to be kept mounted and well away from the cotton; they all know that.” Shultz mumbled, faint German accent notable as it always was when distressed or angry.

  “Apparently, Hendle happened upon their entertainment, demanded they clear out, but the four were well into their cups and a fight ensued. Somehow a lamp was overturned.” He paused to rub his eyes, continuing in a thick voice, “Hendle ran to the water pumps they tell me, but it gets confused from there on out. The others joined the scene and quenched the fire eventually, but not before Hendle and the others had died. What a waste!”

  They halted before a bank of spinning mules, blackened with ash and soot but otherwise intact. Beyond was a scorched, smoking, wet mess of destroyed machinery and piles of burned fiber bundles extending thirty feet to the southern brick wall. Jagged, blackened gaps were visible in the floor and the ceiling, the fire having obviously risen to encompass the fourth level. The ceiling was essentially gone, with thick crossbeams in varying degrees of charred thickness the only support for the ruined carding machines above. The massive contraptions were scorched and twisted with melted metal pieces jutting, the entire row of mangled devices perched precariously.