Darby's Angel

by Marcy Stewart

  Chapter Ten

  Pride beamed in Alexander’s eyes. “Well, here it is. What do you think?”

  Darby edged beside her brother, who displayed a plate at arm’s length. She took the dish in her own hands, holding it by its outer edge, and walked closer to a window to study it. After a quick glance, she looked up. The clatter of activity surrounding her was as comforting and familiar as her own heartbeat. The only distraction was the steady gaze of Alexander and the two men behind him. At her stare, the three of them busied themselves by shuffling their feet, clearing their throats, and looking unconcerned.

  Lowering her eyes a second time, she viewed the plate with deeper concentration. Drawn in blue ink on a cream-coloured background, a boy and girl walked up a hill. A bucket dangled from their clasped hands. At the top of the hill stood a picturesque well.

  “It’s utterly charming, Alex,” she pronounced. “Much better than before. We all know Jack and Jill will eventually fall, but what child wants to eat upon their terrorized faces?”

  Alex grunted. “To say truth, Darby, I would have.”

  “Yes, but that is you. Most children are not so bloodthirsty.”

  “Har,” one of the men, Bull Thornton, laughed. “You don’t know chillrun much, does you, Miss Brightings?”

  “My boys wud druther ‘ave ‘em drippin’ blood from their cracked noggins,” added the other, Joe Rasher.

  “That may be true, but mothers will be buying these sets for their little ones,” Darby said. “Or so I hope.” More to Alexander than the others, she appealed, “Tell me again that I’ve not made a mistake. The middle class is growing, and a separate set of dinnerware for their nurseries will become necessary. True?”

  Alexander lifted one brow. ‘I have to reassure you? You’re the one who told me no one could resist my Mother Goose sketches.”

  “And no one will,” she said with conviction. “I cannot wait to see Little Jack Horner with the plum on his thumb.” A lofty look entered her eyes. “Have you shown this to Uncle?”

  An answering expression crossed Alexander’s face. “Not yet. He should be deep in his morning nap by now.” He began to smile. “But not for long.”

  “Alex, what have you done?”

  “Oh, nothing much.” His eyes began to twinkle. “You know how Uncle always props his feet on his desk when he sleeps? Naturally, he puts a great deal of weight on the back legs of his chair when he does so. A very great deal. Well, no chair can endure that kind of abuse forever.” Alex lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Especially not after its legs have been sawed halfway through.”

  “Oh, Alex.” Despite wanting to maintain her dignity in front of the men, she began to laugh. Behind her brother, Bull scratched his nose and grinned while Joe pretended not to hear. “I hope I’m in the building when he awakens,” she added. A sudden rush of guilt stilled her smile. Their uncle had caused them many uncomfortable moments, but perhaps laughing at such a prank was unworthy of her. “Has anyone seen Simon?”

  “No, I’m pleased to say,” said Alexander, the humor dying from his face.

  Joe stepped forward. “You mean that gennulmen wot was with you, miss? Last time I saw ‘im, ‘ee was ‘eaded for yer office.”

  She began to move toward the stairs. “Thanks, Joe. I want to show this to him.”

  “Must you?” Alexander called after her. “You’re spoiling my moment of triumph.”

  Darby paid him no mind but strode eagerly across the large room to the stairs. She was anxious not only for Simon to see the first of their new line of nursery ware, but to receive his impressions of the pottery. This work was her life’s blood, bred into her bones and tied to her heart. Hopefully he would understand that and approve.

  During their tour, he had reacted with less pleasure than she expected, but perhaps that was because of the awful revelation of the night before. He was undoubtedly ashamed of his feelings, just as she was. Surely it was this which caused his aloofness and not some heavenly disapproval for her working in a man’s world. It would be hard to bear if her brother and her dear, departed father were more forward-thinking than her angel. In truth, it would be alarming.

  Darby reached the top stair, crossed the wooden balcony to the second room, and placed her hand on the doorknob. After taking a swift breath, she twisted it and entered.

  Simon was standing before the window looking out, his tall frame a dark shadow against the bright daylight. At the sound of her entrance, he looked around briefly, then returned to his former stance.

  This was an ominous beginning. What could be holding his attention so long outside that window? Nothing. There was only scrubby countryside and a smithy down the road. She stared at the taut form of her angel and knew fear.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively.

  “Hello, Darby,” he responded in a voice so low it sounded miles away. He did not turn this time.

  She walked behind her desk, placed Alex’s dish upon a stack of papers, and sat in the large oak chair that had once been her father’s. There was comfort to be gleaned in the familiar clutter of her office—the desk scattered with orders to be filled, bills to be sent; the cabinets of files next to the door; the black leather chair on the other side of the desk; the portrait of Alexander and herself, painted last year by one of her brother’s friends, on the far wall—and just now, she needed comfort.

  “Won’t you sit down?” She cleared her throat to remove the wobble from her voice. “Would you care for something to eat? Our cook always packs us a cold collation for our luncheon.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh. Since you did not have breakfast, I thought perhaps you might be.” Darby’s fear began to sharpen into vexation. “Please sit, Simon. I want to show you Alex’s latest work.”

  He turned slowly. Moving like a stiff old man, he walked to the leather chair opposite her desk, contemplated it as if it might bite him, then sat. He was behaving most strangely, would not even lift his eyes to look at her. Well, she was bound if she’d ask him what was the matter. He could tell her if he wished.

  “This is the plate,” she said, and was pleased to hear strength returning to her speech. Her hand trembled only slightly when she stretched the dish toward him.

  Although he looked, Simon did not move to take it. She fought against growing annoyance. Now that he was away from the window, she noted an unusual pallor to his skin. Perhaps he was ill. But that was silly; angels did not become sick.

  “Well?” she asked impatiently. “What do you think?”

  He regarded the plate a while longer. When he spoke, his lips scarcely moved.

  “It’s lovely. Someday collectors will pay a fortune for a complete set.”

  Her ire vanished instantly. “Do you think so? Dishware for children is a risk, I know; Uncle Richard nearly gave himself an attack of apoplexy when I suggested it. Well, I cannot take credit for the idea entirely; had Alex not sketched a woman inside a pumpkin for one of our younger workers, I would never have thought—”

  “How many children would you guess burned themselves for that plate?”

  “—of it ... myself ... I beg pardon?”

  “How many babies were sacrificed in the making of that plate?”

  “What?”

  For the first time he looked at her directly. With a flash of shock, she saw his eyes were bloodshot and desolate. Never, never had she seen him appear so sad, not even at their first meeting. What could be wrong? Why was he talking about sacrificing children? Had last night caused his mind to slip away entirely?

  “Oh, yes, look innocent, Darby, like you don’t know what you’ve been doing.” He clenched his fists on the arms of the chair, then pushed himself upward. Whirling around, he paced the few feet between the chair and the wall. For an instant he stared at the portrait of Alexander and herself; it seemed to ignite him further, and he twisted back to face her. “You may look innocent, but it is the innocent you prey upon. How can you sleep at night? And stop pretendi
ng you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t know, Simon,” she said, agonized. “Have you come to believe I’m some sort of pagan devil-worshiper? Let me assure you that is not the case; I have never sacrificed a child, nor an animal for that matter. Should I—would you like me to order the carriage so you may go home and rest for awhile?”

  “I’m not talking about literal sacrifice and you know it. I’m talking about those little children you have down there working in dangerous conditions when they should be playing, or in school. That tiny boy with the burned arm—he’s no bigger than—than a mite! A breeze could blow him away, Darby!”

  “Oh,” she said, comprehension dawning. “I have heard these notions before. You hold the view of the reformers, don’t you?”

  “And you don’t, obviously.” He began to pace back and forth in front of her desk. “How could I have been such a fool?”

  “Children work in every factory in this country.” Her voice sounded weak again.

  “Even I know enough history to realize that. But you, Darby?”

  He was trying to make her feel ashamed. She burned with the injustice of it. Standing, she propped her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “I’m not certain what history has to do with anything, but these children work because their families need the income.”

  “Oh, do they? And what does little Clemmy earn for his day-long labours, may I ask?”

  She hesitated before answering. “The smallest children are paid a penny a day.”

  “A penny! Dear God, Darby, what can you be thinking?”

  She was growing hot. “A penny often makes the difference between bread and want at supper. Perhaps you don’t realize it, Simon, but children are not efficient workers. It takes several of them to do the job of one adult. I employ them as a kindness to their families. If I did not, many of them would be left alone at home unattended. Here at least they are supervised, and here they receive valuable training for their future vocations.”

  “Future vocations,” he derided. “More of the same drudgery for the rest of their lives, when school could train them for a better existence.”

  “Could it?” Reminding herself she spoke to an angel, she breathed deeply and tried to make her voice sound more placating. “Saying Clemmy’s mother would allow him to attend school, which I doubt, and saying such a school existed for worker’s children; what would he gain there? Would he learn to read about homes he can never own, foods he will never be able to eat, clothes he cannot afford? What you are suggesting will breed only dissatisfaction.”

  At this, tears filled Simon’s eyes, and he turned his gaze ceilingward as if to prevent their falling. Darby’s stomach tightened like a fist; her eyes began to fill, too. His anger, his disappointment, were incomprehensible to her.

  When Simon collected himself enough to speak, he no longer shouted, but his voice throbbed with emotion. “And what you are suggesting is that he remain in blind ignorance, without hope.” He briefly pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes, then walked closer to the desk. Lowering his fists to its surface, he said, “You, Darby, are a fake.”

  She straightened and stepped backward as if he had slapped her. Her lips moved, but no words came out. She had been struck dumb.

  He had not quite finished. “A self-righteous, sanctimonious fake.”

  Words began returning to her now; she felt a cauldron of them boiling inside her throat. “How—how dare you? I know you are an angel, but surely that doesn’t give you the right to insult me. Or to be my judge.”

  He nodded shortly, lifted his chin and viewed her through his lashes. “You can forget about the angel thing right now. Let’s just talk, you and me, one being to another.

  “All this time, you’ve been judging me, haven’t you, Miss Sunday School? Oh, yes, you worried about me, didn’t you? Plagued me over my little sins. I spin a story to explain my presence at Brightings, I sit with a beautiful woman and let her kiss me, and you fall all over yourself rubbing my nose in it and acting like Saint Virgin of—of our Church of the Hypocrites. And I, of course—bumbling fool that I am—I fall for this line of phony palaver and wallow in guilt. When all the time you, you have been fostering this monstrous exploitation of children and smiling about it!”

  His eyes were firebrands blazing into hers. She reacted in kind, pulses of heat radiating from her body. Simon’s form began to waver before her eyes. Perhaps he was going to disappear now; or perhaps it was only her tears that made him shimmer.

  “You have said to speak with you as one being to another, and I shall,” she said between clenched teeth, her voice sounding more grief-clogged than she liked. “You have accused me of horrendous crimes and forced me to defend myself. If I have been doing wrong, and I still am not convinced I have, it was not intentional. Work has always been the lot of poor children, even in Biblical times. At least the ones downstairs are not slaves as they would have been in olden days.”

  “They’re hardly better off.”

  “Simon, I would never willingly harm anyone. If you believe such about me, you have been an even less observant guardian than I thought. I ask you now in all fairness: If I have been guilty of cruelty by following the practices of every businessman in England, how was I to know?”

  “You should have known.” He spoke almost in a whisper, clutching his fists to his chest. “In here.”

  “But I didn’t,” she responded in correspondingly quiet tones. “I thought I served these families well by employing their offspring.”

  “If you paid the adults a decent wage, they wouldn’t need their children’s pitiful offerings. A penny a day, Darby. You’re buying their youth and health disgracefully cheap.”

  “What do you want me to do, Simon? Walk from my office and announce that henceforth no children will work in this pottery? What do you think would happen to them then? Even if I added their wages to their parents’, nine out of ten children would be forced to seek employment in another factory or be apprenticed into service.”

  “They could go to school.”

  “School? Where? Shall I fetch our carriages and send them off to Eton?”

  He scowled at her sarcasm. “If there aren’t any schools nearby, you could start one.”

  She paused, torn between incredulity and distaste. “I? Start a school?”

  “Why not?” The fury faded from his face as excitement grew. “To make things easier for the parents, it could be here on the premises. There’s space enough for a couple of classrooms in that warehouse next door, the one you store things in.”

  “A school at my pottery? In my warehouse?” She heard herself parroting him but could not help it; the idea was too nonsensical to assimilate. In a faint voice she added, “Someday I had hopes of filling that building with surplus wares.”

  “Fine. When that happens, you can build a little school-house out back.”

  Her eyes narrowed at this. “And who will pay for this little schoolhouse? Do you think the Brightings’ funds limitless? I fear you mean to put the pottery in danger.”

  “The expense would be very little. If you can’t sacrifice next year’s carriage or a few dresses for the well-being of others, then it’s your soul that’s in danger, not your pottery!”

  His words fanned her wrath into an inferno. “You speak to me as if I am frivolous. We don’t buy a new carriage every year, and if the truth be known, I have very few gowns. Alex and I are not luxury-mongers; rather, we channel our profits into the business to expand it.”

  “Then you’re saying this factory is more important than the people in it. Now I understand everything. You should’ve told me, Darby. I’d never have come, if I’d known this pottery was your god!”

  She pressed her hands to the sides of her head, clenching handfuls of hair between her fingers. “It—is—not—my—god!” she shrieked.

  At that instant, the door to her office was flung wide, and Alexander charged into the room. “What goes on here?” he demanded, lookin
g from one to the other with a combative expression. “Has he troubled you, Darby?”

  There was an extended silence as Darby and Simon, cheeks flushed and chests heaving, continued to glare at one another. Finally, Darby lowered her gaze. Simon had said a great deal of hurtful things to her in the past few minutes. She might never be able to forgive him, but he was her angel and she loved him despite everything, God help her.

  “It’s all right, Alex. We were just ... discussing matters of business.”

  Alexander looked at her in disbelief. “Matters of business with him? Next you will tell me you’ve been consulting Clemmy as to his preference for Chinese or French rococo on porcelain.”

  Not liking to hear little Clemmy’s name just now, she pressed her lips into a tight line. With a furtive, still smoldering glance at her angel, she said, “Simon has given me something to think about.”

  “I daresay,” retorted Alexander. “He has given me a great deal to think about, too.”

  Simon directed a tired look at Alexander and might have responded further; but at that moment, a horrific sound of cracking wood and startled screams reached their ears, followed by a heavy, rattling thump against the wall behind Darby’s desk.

  “Uncle Richard!” exclaimed Alexander. “He has awakened!”

  Darby felt a kernel of amusement, but her heart was too heavy to appreciate the prank as she normally would—-especially when she saw Simon’s eyes remained dismal. Alexander, grinning hugely, made an unnecessary motion demanding silence. Within seconds, further noises began filtering through the wall.

  “Cover your ears, sister,” he mouthed. “It might be best if you didn’t hear our uncle’s words just now. I’m sure he will come to regret them.”

  More sounds ensued. Wood scraping against wood. Another thump, then something heavy clattering to the floor. Silence for an instant, followed by weighty footsteps and a door opening. Footsteps resuming, approaching.

  Gleefully, Alexander leaped to perch on the corner of Darby’s desk. “And you believe we should go on with the children’s dinnerware,” he declared as the doorknob began to turn. “I think you’re right. We need not press too many at one time, and—oh, hello, Uncle. And how are you? Are you ready for luncheon?”