Nate narrowed his eyes at Rowlett. “Adequate safety inspections, a shorter workday, and a small pay raise don’t seem like unreasonable requests to me.”
Rowlett shook his head. “That’s exactly what I mean. You don’t understand. We operate with a very slim profit margin. If we shorten the men’s hours and raise their wages, we could put the company in a very dangerous financial position.”
“Really?” Nate locked gazes with Rowlett. “You have so little confidence in your management skills that you couldn’t make a few concessions to give the men decent wages and safer working conditions and still make a profit?”
Rowlett’s expression hardened. “Mr. Harcourt, this is your first board meeting. You’re not familiar with our policies and practices. Do you really think it’s appropriate to make these kinds of recommendations when you have very little knowledge of how we operate and no experience managing a large enterprise like Clifton Engineering?”
Nate stilled, stung by Rowlett’s sharp words. He might not like it, but Rowlett had a point. Nate had based his requests to the board on his conversations with Reverend Samuelson and a few workers. He hadn’t looked into the company’s financial records or spoken to the men overseeing daily operations. Perhaps he was overstepping or at least not coming at this in the wisest way.
He pulled in a deep breath. “It’s true I’m not familiar with the policies and procedures at Clifton, but I do have four years of experience in the Royal Navy. I fought in a war and rose to the rank of lieutenant. I learned to take orders and issue them. I organized and equipped men to perform with valor and do their duty to God, king, and country. Those experiences, along with my commitment to learn more about how Clifton operates, should give me a voice on this board.”
Mr. Waller met his gaze, and a glint of respect showed in his eyes. Rowlett, Judson, and the other men’s solemn expressions remained unchanged.
The truth was clear. Waller might appreciate what he’d said, but Nate wouldn’t win the rest of them over until he did a more thorough investigation and could show them facts and figures to back up his requests. But was there time for that? If tensions continued to rise, they might all regret delaying their response.
Nate looked around the table. “I must warn you, gentlemen, unrest is stirring among the workers. Some are talking about the possibility of a strike.”
Rowlett’s dark eyes flashed. “That is just senseless talk from a few hot-tempered men who are trying to cause trouble.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Rowlett glared across the table at Nate. “Mr. Harcourt, we have been dealing with issues like these for years. Talk of a strike comes from a few troublemakers who want to push their will on the others. I can assure you we have everything under control.”
“You may consider those men troublemakers, but I believe they’re strong leaders who have great influence over the others. If you want to see Clifton’s production and profits increase, then you’ll have to seriously consider the concessions the workers request.”
Deep lines slashed Geoffrey Rowlett’s ruddy face. “That is not a decision we will be making today.”
Nate’s intense focus remained on Rowlett. “Then we’re in for trouble, and you’ll have to prepare to deal with it.”
Maggie slipped down the upper hallway with Lilly. All was quiet, and no one seemed to be about, but Maggie couldn’t shake her uneasy feelings. Was someone watching, or was it only her guilty conscience giving her that impression?
Lilly stopped in front of the fifth door on the right. “This is Mrs. Harcourt’s sitting room. It connects to her bedroom.” She pushed open the door and stood back.
Maggie stopped on the threshold and looked in. It was a feminine room with peach satin wall coverings and ivory lace curtains. Two comfortable chairs and a settee were grouped around the marble fireplace. Above the mantel hung a large family portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt, Nate, and Clara. Nate looked to be about fifteen, the age he’d been when he and Maggie first met.
“I dust and tidy up in here on Tuesdays and Fridays,” Lilly said softly. “She usually keeps her diary on her desk.” She nodded toward the elegant desk and chair in the corner.
Maggie swallowed. Did she have the courage to enter Mrs. Harcourt’s sitting room and look through her private papers? And if she did find some kind of evidence that tied Mrs. Harcourt to the boating accident, what would she do then? Maggie pushed aside those questions and straightened her shoulders. She would do this for her parents and sister, and for her own peace of mind.
“I should get back to work.” Lilly glanced over her shoulder. “I don’t want Mrs. Burnell to come looking for me.”
Maggie nodded. “I’ll just take a quick look.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Lilly sent her a half smile, but apprehension flickered in her eyes.
“Thank you, Lilly.”
“Be careful and put everything back as you found it.”
“I will.” Maggie squeezed her friend’s hand.
Lilly returned the same, then hurried off down the hall.
Maggie slipped inside, but she didn’t want to make any extra noise by pulling the door shut, so she left it slightly ajar. She crossed the room and approached the desk. A few unopened letters and a fountain pen lay on the large blotter in the center. Other papers and letters were tucked into the compartments at the back of the desktop. A leather-bound book lay to the right of the blotter. Helen Harcourt’s name was embossed on the cover.
Maggie flipped it open and read the inscription on the first page:
This is the private diary of Helen Harcourt. Begun the first day of January 1901.
Maggie’s heart sank. That was more than a year after the boating accident. Could there be an earlier journal that would cover the dates she was looking for? She quietly closed the book and pulled open the top-left desk drawer. Envelopes, stationery, and a few letters tied with a blue ribbon were neatly stacked in the drawer, but there were no other diaries. She pushed it closed and opened the drawer below.
Four slim leather books stood together with their bindings face-up. They looked just like the diary on the desktop but were in various colors—blue, black, green, brown.
She reached in and pulled out the first book. Opening the cover, she read,
This is the private diary of Helen Harcourt. Begun the first day of January 1899.
Maggie’s breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to pound. Eighteen ninety-nine was the year her parents and sister drowned. What did Helen Harcourt write about that terrible day?
“Miss Lounsbury, can I help?”
Maggie gasped, dropped the journal in the drawer, and spun around. “Mrs. Burnell, you startled me.”
The housekeeper glanced at the open drawer. “May I ask what you’re doing, looking through Mrs. Harcourt’s desk?”
Maggie’s mind spun, and she swallowed. “I need to write some letters…about the fire…and make some inquiries.” That was true, but not the whole truth. “I thought I might borrow some stationery and a pen.”
Mrs. Burnell scanned Maggie’s face, doubt reflecting in her cool gray eyes. “If you need something, please ring for a member of the staff and allow us to bring it to you.”
Maggie forced a smile. “Oh, I didn’t want to bother anyone.”
“Mr. Harcourt left instructions that we’re to attend to your needs and those of your grandmother and sister.” She pursed her lips. “But I don’t think he would approve of you looking through Mrs. Harcourt’s desk.”
Maggie smoothed her hand down her dress. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
Mrs. Burnell crossed the room, the keys on her chatelaine jingling as she walked. She pulled open the top drawer and took out several sheets of stationery, a few envelopes, and a fountain pen. “You may use these and return the pen to me when you’re finished. We receive morning and afternoon posts. You can leave your letters with Mr. Jackson or one of the footmen, a
nd they’ll send them out.”
“Thank you.” Maggie accepted the ivory paper, envelopes, and fountain pen.
Mrs. Burnell lifted her chin and met Maggie’s gaze. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you. That’s all I need.” Maggie turned and walked out of the room, clutching the stationery to her chest. As soon as she reached the hall, she quickened her step and hurried toward her bedroom.
Did Mrs. Burnell suspect she’d been snooping or trying to steal something? Would the housekeeper tell Mrs. Harcourt she’d caught Maggie looking through her desk? Perhaps she should go back and ask Mrs. Burnell not to say anything to her mistress, but that would make Maggie’s guilt certain.
Closing her eyes, she blew out a breath. The nudge to pray and ask God for help rose from her heart…but it had been years since she’d uttered a prayer and believed it would be answered. That hope had died along with her parents and sister.
Still, she sensed this problem was bigger than she could handle alone. But what could she do? Who would believe her? Who cared enough to search for the truth and take up her cause to see that justice was done?
Nate rode around the side of the manor house and headed for the stable, all the while replaying the frustrating events of the board meeting.
Why were those men so opposed to his suggestions? The workers’ concerns made sense. Their leaders were not power-hungry agitators. Reverend Samuelson stood with them, giving credence to the men’s claims about the unsettling situation at Clifton.
Didn’t the board members realize a strike would hurt everyone, management and workers alike? The whole village and surrounding area would be impacted if these issues weren’t resolved in a timely and peaceful manner—to say nothing of his own situation. How would he maintain Morningside and pay his staff if there was a prolonged strike? Would he be forced to let some of the staff go or sell some of his property?
He’d never hear the last of it from his stepmother if that happened.
Nate shook his head. He must convince the board to listen to the workers’ grievances and make the necessary changes. And the only way to persuade the board would be to present facts and figures, and to give them those, he needed a better understanding of Clifton’s financial status and proof of dangerous working conditions.
Mr. Waller had called him aside after the meeting and offered his help and support. As lead engineer he understood the board’s point of view as well as the workers’ concerns. Nate had barely been able to contain his emotions when Waller offered to meet with him later in the week to help him gather the information needed for the next board meeting in May.
That was weeks away, but he would not be discouraged. Instead, he would use that time to learn all he could and build a case the board could not refuse. Too much depended on them coming to a peaceful and speedy resolution. He would not let them push these issues under the table or wait until another man was injured or killed.
A young groom hustled out to meet Nate as he approached the stable. “Shall I take your horse, sir?”
“Yes, give him a good rub down and something to eat.” Nate dismounted and handed the reins to the groom. Ginger curls poked out from beneath the groom’s cap, and freckles covered a good portion of his face. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Ethan, sir. Ethan Holloway.”
“Well, Ethan, take good care of him.” Nate patted Samson’s warm neck.
“I will, sir. He’s a fine horse.” His eyes shining, the boy looked Samson over.
“Yes, he is. Thank you for looking after him. I appreciate it, and I’m sure Samson does as well.”
Ethan smiled. “I’m glad to, sir. I always try to do my best for you and the family.”
“Good man. I’m sure you do.” Nate strode down the path toward the house, his thoughts returning to the troubling situation at Clifton. But feminine laughter from the other side of the hedge caught his attention. The low chuckle that followed definitely sounded masculine.
Nate frowned. Was it a harmless conversation between two members of his staff, or was there something else transpiring on the path to the gardens? He glanced toward the house and considered alerting Jackson or Mrs. Burnell, but he was master of Morningside now, and it was his duty to make sure his staff conducted themselves properly.
He rounded the corner and halted in his tracks. Clara stood very close to a young man dressed in brown tweed and a matching cap. Was he someone from the village or a member of the outdoor staff? Whoever he was, a private meeting with his sister behind the hedge was not an appropriate way to spend his time.
“Clara?”
She spun around, her eyes wide. “Nate!”
“Who is this?” He nodded to Clara’s companion.
The young man straightened. “I’m Owen Campbell, sir, Mr. McDougall’s nephew and the junior gamekeeper.”
Nate frowned and looked him over. His attire matched that worn by Morningside’s senior gamekeeper, Mr. John McDougall. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I am Clara’s brother, Nathaniel Harcourt, the new master of Morningside.”
Owen Campbell whipped off his cap. “I’m pleased to meet you, sir.” But the young man looked more startled than pleased.
“I’m curious to know, Mr. Campbell, what business does a junior gamekeeper have on the path to the gardens?”
The young man’s face turned ruddy. “I was just…looking for my uncle.”
Nate sent the boy a doubtful glance. “Then I suggest you check the gun room, the gamekeeper’s lodge, or the woods beyond. You won’t find him here.”
“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” Young Campbell shot a glance at Clara, then returned his cap to his head and hustled off down the path.
Clara watched Campbell disappear past the garden wall, then turned and glared at Nate. “How could you be so rude?”
Nate pulled back. “Rude?”
“Yes. We were only talking. We’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve no cause to scowl and treat Owen with disrespect.”
“I don’t believe I was disrespectful. I simply encouraged him to carry on with his duties, and I suggest you do the same.”
“What duties? Do you want me to go inside and practice my French? Or perhaps I should review my dance lessons or paint another landscape?” Her face flushed pink, and her voice grew more intense with each phrase.
Nate frowned. What were Clara’s duties? Did she actually have any?
“Did you know, now that we’re in mourning,” she continued, “I won’t be going to London for the season?”
“The season?” Surprise rolled through him. “Clara, you’re only seventeen. Surely your mother wasn’t planning to take you until next year.”
She lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. “We had discussed it, and she was almost convinced…until Father fell ill. Then all our plans had to be set aside.”
How had she managed to swing the conversation away from her meeting with Owen Campbell? And why did she consider showing proper respect for their father’s passing less important than an early debut? That thought irked him more than the meeting with young Campbell. “I’m sorry your plans for coming out have changed, but I’m more concerned that you’re sneaking off to meet some young man of questionable character.”
Clara lifted her chin. “There’s nothing questionable about Owen Campbell’s character!”
“Then he ought to call on you properly rather than meeting you behind the hedge.”
Hope filled Clara’s eyes. “Do you think Mother would allow it?”
Nate rubbed his hand down his face. Why had he suggested the boy call? He knew very well his stepmother would make them all miserable if he agreed to it. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“Why not? Owen is from a good family. He’s a fine, respectable man.”
“Man? That boy hardly looks old enough to be out of school.”
“He’s twenty, and he’s been working at Morningside for more than six months. But he has higher goals than that. He wants to be a v
eterinarian. He’s saving now to take his training.”
Nate crossed his arms. “It sounds as though you know quite a bit about Owen Campbell.”
She lifted her chin and looked away, making her long blond curls cross over her shoulder. “We have become friends.”
“And is sneaking out at night to see him part of that friendship?”
Her gaze darted back to meet his. “Who told you that? Miss Lounsbury?”
Nate frowned. What did Maggie have to do with it? “No, Helen was looking for you last night when we arrived around midnight. Apparently, she believed you’d gone out without her knowledge.”
Clara’s countenance fell. “Please don’t say anything to her about Owen.”
“I don’t think keeping secrets from your mother is a good idea.”
“But if she finds out, I’m afraid she’ll send Owen away.”
Nate’s frown deepened. Like everyone else, Clara seemed to think Helen had the final word concerning the hiring and firing of staff.
He faced her with a serious gaze. “Clara, Owen Campbell may be a fine young man with good plans for his future, but you know your mother would not approve a courtship with him, and as your brother, I believe I have some say in the matter as well.”
Clara glared up at him. “You don’t even know Owen. How can you be so set against him?”
“He is a member of our staff, and that makes him an unlikely suitor.”
“He is now, but he won’t always be!”
“That is beside the point.”
Fire burned in her eyes. “Oh, you’re just like Mother!”
Nate pulled back, stung by the insulting comparison.
“I’m not a child!” Her voice rose, and her face flushed again. “I should be allowed to make my own decisions about whom I will see and where I will go.”
“Clara, you’re only seventeen, and that’s not nearly old enough to have the final word about such important matters.”
Her face crumpled and she turned away, but not before he saw tears flood her eyes.
Shine Like the Dawn Page 14
