. Long gone were the milky herds of Charolais. The few remaining horses had to be guarded night and day. Let it not be said that old O'Reilly didn't have a shrewd head on his shoulders, for while Patrick was busy at the mills, Jonathan made a quick trip to London and disposed of his Irish troubles swiftly. Upon his return he could not forgo the pleasure of bragging of his perspicacity to his son.
"You've done what?" demanded Patrick, thunder in his face.
"Signed a contract with the government to billet the militia at Castle Hill; and I've sold them the horses too," he added with satisfaction.
"Christ, don't you have a conscience, Father? How can you do this to your own people?" Patrick asked incredulously.
"My first loyalties are to England. I was born in Lancashire, not across the water, even though the name is O'Reilly. "
"All the people who work for us in Lancashire are Irish. If word gets out, you'll be getting a late-night visit from the Molly Maguires. Do you want the mills razed?"
"That would be cutting off their noses to spite their face.
Without the mills to employ 'em, they'll starve to death."
Patrick was appalled. "Your life won't be worth tuppence!
You'd better move up to the London house and let me handle things here. The first dark night, they'll slip a knife between your ribs, or a mob could corner you and put the clogs to you."
The old man licked lips suddenly gone dry. Patrick proceeded, "There's only one way out. Instead of abandoning our people in Ireland, ship them over here to work in the mills. If you get them out fast enough, they won't know what you've done with Castle Hill."
Jonathan nodded his agreement. "I'll go tomorrow." The door was flung open and a young woman of about eighteen swept in. She was very mature for her age, with a full bust and the same sensuous mouth as her older brother, Patrick.
"I'm not having the wedding in this godforsaken place, and that's absolutely my final word in the matter," she stormed.
"What bloody maggot have you got in your brain now?" the old man thundered.
"Patrick, do something with your sister before she gives me apoplexy!" Patrick smiled; he was very indulgent with his two sisters and in return both adored him. Julia was eighteen and her engagement was imminent, while Barbara, only twelve, still was in the schoolroom.
Patrick asked, "How would you like to be married from the London house? I've just been telling Father he should move up there for his health. It would be much more convenient for your fiancé’s people, too."
"Oh, Patrick, you're such a darling," cried Julia.
"Why in hell should we do what's convenient for them toffee-nosed buggers?" her father stormed. "I'll never understand you, Julia, if I live to be a thousand. You could have had Walker's Tannery or Whitlam Brewery, but oh, no, nothing but aristocracy for you. Viscount bloody Linton. What good is he? Neither use nor ornament!"
"Listen to him!" she almost screamed. "All that matters to him is money!"
"You think money isn't important to that long streak of piss you're marrying? I've bought him for you and well you know it, so don't go turning your nose up at my money."
"Oh, Patrick, he's the most vulgar man in the whole world," she cried.
"Me? Vulgar? Wait till Viscount bloody Linton gets you in bed; then you'll know what vulgar is!" he shouted.
"You dirty old Irishman!" she shrilled.
"Don't you ever forget your name is o' Reilly, my lass...."
Patrick was choking with laughter. "Father, your face is purple. Calm down. A minute ago you were near to a fit calling the Irish names, now you're near to a fit defending them. Julia, my love, you are magnificent when you're angry. I believe you provoke these quarrels on purpose just to flaunt your beauty before your menfolk." He steered her toward the door, and as he did so he whispered, "Start packing. It may take a couple of weeks, but I'll convince him to go to London." She threw her arms about him and kissed him.
"Father, you lose your temper too much. What's wrong with you these days? I think you're suffering from night starvation. What you need is a woman. Now, if you were in London I know this little place called The Divan. They bring you champagne while you make your choice from girls hanging from chandeliers."
"You think we don't have any whorehouses in Bolton? I don't have to go to London. I don't need to leave my own house. Anyone of the maids would jump into my bed if I crooked my finger."
Patrick was helpless with laughter. "There isn't one of them that doesn't have a face like a boiled boot."
"Aye, there's method in my madness. You'd have 'urn in your bed two at a time if they were pretty."
"And here was I thinking you always underestimated me," Patrick said with a chuckle.
Two days later Jonathan O'Reilly stood in the huge hall of Castle Hill amid all the people of the estate.
"Lock, stock and barrel; men, women and children. I own the mills where you will be given work, and the houses where you will live. I know some of you have relatives in Bolton and you will go to them. Get your belongings together today; no livestock whatsoever will be transported," he stated firmly. A great amount of conversation went up. People who had become hopeless now saw a way out. They were all willing to place their fate in his hands because the alternative was unthinkable. "Tim and Mick here will help you load your tackle on the wagons, just personal belongings now, no furniture. We'll start for Dublin first thing in the morning. You'll be on the boat to Liverpool overnight. Now then, Maggie" -he singled out Castle Hill's housekeeper about my dinner."
In the kitchen Maggie spotted Kitty slipping out the back door. "Not so fast, Miss Mischief. You can serve the squire his dinner. He'd have me running in and out like a dog at a fair, and your feet are younger than mine."
"I'll serve him if! can have something to eat," Kitty said impertinently.
"Faith, child, there's little enough, only a rabbit pie, but I'll share whatever is left of it with you."
Kitty washed her hands and face very carefully and put on a clean apron. In the dining room Jonathan O'Reilly looked askance at Kitty in her bedraggled skirt and bare feet, carrying in the big dish with her head bent over it.
"What's your name?" he asked. She lifted her head up and he thought, My God, she's got a face like a flower.
"Kitty, milord."
"I remember you. Don't think I don't. How old are you now?"
"Fifteen, Milord."
"The old Gypsy, your grandfather, has relatives in Lancashire, doesn't he?"
"I believe he does, milord."
O'Reilly's mind was trying to smooth a path for Kitty that led directly to his bed. "Mmm, the mill is a hard place for a little wench like you, so I think I'll make an exception in your case and find you a place in my household. You'll make a nice little maid-that is, of course, if you know how to do as you're told."
She seemed to hesitate.
"Well, what is it? Speak up!" he shouted.
"It's my brother, Terrance, milord. He's wonderful with horses, sir. You don't suppose you could find it in your heart to make room for him too, do you?" she asked imploringly.
He compressed his lips. "You drive a hard bargain, you little rogue."
She dimpled at him and he was surprised to hear himself say, "How would you like a piece of this rabbit pie?"
"Oh, yes, please, milord," Kitty said prettily.
She ate so heartily, yet with the daintiness of a kitten; he was fascinated just watching her.
"Have you no shoes?" he asked abruptly.
"No, milord."
"Mmm; well, all that will be changed when we get to Bolton. Here, have some more." He finished off the second bottle of claret he had had the foresight to bring with him. "With the proper food, we'll soon have you filled out."
She scraped her plate clean and arose from the table and bobbed him a curtsy. "Milord, I'm after packing up all our belongings. If you'll excuse me now, sir.”
"Run along, run along. You and your brother go with your grandf
ather to his relations, and I'll have the carriage sent round for you."
"Thank you, milord."
She took the empty pie plate back to Maggie, who said with dismay, "He's eaten the lot!"
"Yes, isn't he a glutton?" ventured Kitty before she slipped out the back door.
Patrick sat in the mill office with the foremen and overseers. He was patiently trying to explain why he was in favor of abolishing the Half-time Factory System in the three mills that the O'Reillys owned. These mills were known as the Falcon, the Egyptian and the Gibraltar. Jonathan O'Reilly had named them thus so they would not sound Irish.
"It's sheer exploitation of child labor. After working in this damp, dirty, noisy atmosphere from six in the morning until twelve noon, these exhausted children are expected to go into the classroom. They probably fall asleep over their books, instead of learning anything."
One of the men spoke up, "If we didn't employ children, there would be more work available for men and women, but Mr. O'Reilly, your father, would never pay the extra wages that would entail."
Patrick raised his hand and said, "I'll handle my father.
You tell the workers there will be no more children after the end of the month. Now, Saturday noon I want the machinery pulled down and cleaned properly. Workmen are coming in to install mechanical devices to the looms in the form of a warp-stop motion. It will up production considerably. I realize the workers always struggle to retain traditional methods of production against oncoming thrusts of technocracy and automation, but it will be your job to convince them of the wisdom of these changes. They will be immeasurably better off in the long run. Now, I'll be at the Falcon tomorrow and the Gibraltar the next day, if you need me."
He went into the millyard and unlocked the gates to let himself out. "Billy, why are these bloody gates always locked?" he asked the outside overseer.
"Orders, sir. I unlock the gates at five-thirty and lock 'em again at six sharp."
"But what if someone was late? They couldn't get in," Patrick pointed out.
"That's the idea. They don't work if they're late. That way they aren't late a second time. My orders are not to unlock them again until six o' clock at night."
"Well, here's some new orders for you, Billy. When you unlock these gates at five-thirty, don't lock them again until everyone has gone home. It's a mill, not a bloody prison!"
Later that evening Patrick let himself into the flat of Dolly Worthing; he had been paying for the flat the past six months. She was a pretty blond widow, well endowed with seductive curves.
"Why, Patrick, darling, I wasn't expecting you tonight." He looked at her breasts, barely concealed beneath the filmy material of her negligee. He cocked an eyebrow and said, "Who were you expecting?"
"Why, no one, of course. Patrick, you are a vexing creature. You haven't been here for over a week, and then you come in and accuse me of being unfaithful." She pouted prettily.
"The thought never entered my mind until you put it there."
He had no illusions about Dolly. She would be faithful only as long as it suited her purpose. If she could find someone richer she would move along without a backward glance, he thought. But in truth he didn't give enough credit where it was due, because Dolly was mad for him. He was easily the most accomplished lover she had ever known, even though he always kept a part of himself aloof so that never, even in their most intimate moments, did he give himself completely. He poured himself a brandy, then pulled three or four envelopes from his breast pocket and threw them down on the sofa beside her. "What the devil are these, Dolly?"
"My letters. When you didn't come I wrote asking you what was wrong."
"Do you realize how irritating it is to be pursued and questioned about my whereabouts continually?"
She moved close to him and put back her head so that her lips invited him. Instead of kissing her he sipped his brandy reflectively. She was piqued; determined to arouse him, she slipped her hand down his thigh until it came to rest on the bulge at his crotch. He was easily aroused, but not nearly so easily as she herself. "Finish your brandy and come to bed," she whispered. He didn't appear to be in any hurry, so she slipped out of her negligee and stood before him naked. If only he would be subservient as other men had been. She wanted him at her feet, declaring undying love for the favors she would grant him, but he was too arrogant, too sure of himself for his own good. He put down his glass and followed her into the bedroom. He undressed slowly. She couldn't wait and helped him with avid fingers. His arms went around her and he kissed her slowly, expertly. She was all over him, kissing, stroking, cupping him. He lay back with his hands under his head.
"What's the matter, Patrick?" she asked, breathing heavily.
"Nothing. When you're in this mood, I might as well lie back and let you do all the work; after all, that's what I'm paying you for."
It was like a slap in the face. Hurt and angry, she withdrew immediately.
"That's better," he said quietly, and set to work to win her back into a loving mood. "I enjoy the pursuit, Dolly."
Afterward, as her breasts began to soften in the aftermath of pleasure, he caressed her and murmured, "What kind of a present would you like?"
She hesitated for only a second, "What I would really like, Patrick, is to go to London with you next time you go."
He stiffened. "That's impossible! My sister is being married in a few weeks. It would be most improper."
"I see. Well, never mind; I have some dress bills that are outrageous."
"You always do, to say nothing of the ones you run up at the jewelers."
She knew he was tiring of her; there was nothing she could do about it.
Chapter 3
When the immigrants disembarked at the Liverpool docks they were a sorry sight. The women clutched pathetic children and the men carried their meager belongings with an air of dogged resignation. Their faces were blank with tired hunger, but in every breast was the hope that things would at last get better. They were herded like sheep onto wagons, which O'Reilly had hired especially for their transportation to Bolton. Kitty stared about her, taking in every detail of the new country she had come to. It wasn't anything like she had imagined. She had pictured big houses, beautifully dressed ladies in carriages, magnificent shops, and wealthy men with dozens of servants. Instead she saw a dark, damp country where the predominating color seemed to be black. With each successive town they passed through, the atmosphere seemed to get bleaker. The houses were little and poor, row after row of them. The people were clad in black clogs and shawls, their faces grim, their bodies small and stunted. The buildings were black, the factories were black and there was black smoke everywhere. Gone were the beautiful green fields of Ireland.
In her scarlet skirt and shawl, Kitty stood out as the Gypsy she was. Her grandfather saw the look of dismay upon her face and asked kindly, "What's the matter, my little wench?"
"Everything is so dirty and so-so drab."
"Never mind, lass. Where there's muck there's money." "Oh, Grandada, you have a saying for everything. But where are the big houses and the foine carriages?"
"Ah, now, you'll be meaning London. This is Lancashire, where all the manufacturing goes on. I expect this is where all the money is made and the people go to London to spend it. "
Terry squeezed Kitty's hand. "Never mind, we won't be staying in dirty little streets like these. We'll be living at the squire's and he's bound to have a grand place."
Kitty said, "I feel so sorry for everybody. How will they get used to factory work?" Swaddy patted her hand and said, "Ye get used to hanging if ye hang long enough."
It was late that night before everyone was settled with the Irish families who lived on "Spake Hazy." Swaddy and his two grandchildren were left at his niece's house. Ada Blakely, a little woman aged beyond her years, made them welcome with hot tea and potato pie. Her husband, Jack, was not in evidence, and she explained that he always spent his evenings at the Dog & Kennel, a pub at the top of
the street. She had five children, ranging from a girl of twelve to a new baby. All were in bed save the oldest girl, Doris, who couldn't take her eyes off the beautiful brother and sister who had been billeted on them.
"These little houses only have two up and two down. I don't know wherever you are going to sleep," Ada said, wringing her hands helplessly.
Kitty spoke up, "Terry and I can sleep down here, it will only be for tonight. Tomorrow, Squire O'Reilly is sending his carriage for us. We are to work at his house. Grandada is too old to go into the mill, but he will be a great help to you, I know. He's very good with children; he brought Terrance and me up from little babies."
"Maybe I could let you look after the little 'uns and I could get set on at the mill," Ada said hopefully to the old man.
After everyone had gone to bed, Terry lay down on the horsehair sofa, and Kitty sat curled before the fire reading her book, the only possession she had brought with her except for the family tarot cards. She read:
Never scratch your head, pick your teeth, clean your nails, or worse than all, pick your nose in company. Spit as little as possible, and never upon the floor.
Kitty put the book down and slipped into blessed sleep.
The carriage arrived early and Kitty was vastly relieved that the squire had kept his word. After a tearful good-bye the carriage took them away from the dark little streets and out toward the country. In the daylight Kitty could see that the town sat in a bowl and if you lifted your eyes to the horizon, it was surrounded by green moors.
"Oh, it's a town in a bowl, Terrance. That's why it's called 'Bolton'!"
The O'Reillys lived at Hey House. The carriage turned up a long drive bordered by huge rhododendron bushes, which were a mass of red bloom. Terry was let off at the stables and Kitty was led to the servants' entrance. The housekeeper looked her up and down and gave a loud sniff. "Irish Gypsy! I don't know whatever the master is thinking of."
Kitty thought, I'll have you eatin' out of my hand before this day is out, missus. Then she curtsied to the housekeeper and said prettily, "Pleased to meet you, ma' am. I can see I shall be happy here, you have created such a warm, welcoming atmosphere. No wonder the squire always speaks of you in such glowing terms when he comes to Ireland."
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