Proud Mary

by Lucinda Brant

  “Charles Fitzstuart recruited Audley to the American cause?”

  Shrewsbury shook his head at Christopher’s astonishment, but it was Evelyn who answered the question.

  “The other way round, Silvanus.”

  Christopher was more confused than ever. “Audley’s a revolutionary?”

  “No. He’s a greedy opportunist,” Lord Shrewsbury spat out. “He no more cares for the rebels than he does the King’s men. What he cares about is filling his coffers with French livres.”

  “Charlie’s motives are rather more sound,” said Evelyn. “He has ideals. Audley, as his lordship rightly pointed out, is a snot-nosed, arrogant opportunist and he managed to deceive us all, not least his friend and fellow traitor Charles Fitzstuart, his employer in ermine the Duke, and dear old gullible Gerry.”

  “The blackguard will soon have his comeuppance,” Shrewsbury said, grinding his teeth with satisfaction. “For the moment we must break our bread with the scoundrel, avoid getting indigestion, and pretend all’s right with the world. And tomorrow it will be!”

  He turned on a heel and went out into the corridor to the great hall, Evelyn and Christopher following up behind.

  Christopher wasn’t as confident as the Spymaster. In fact he had a deep foreboding that the picnic and the visit to his cloth mill was just a ruse to hide a more sinister intent on the part of the Earl and his willing sidekick Lord Vallentine. If Lord Vallentine was interested in the workings of a cloth mill, Christopher would swallow his tricorne whole!

  But as the next day proved crisp and bright without a hint of rain, Christopher pushed any misgivings away as he welcomed the picnic party from Abbeywood Farm to the Brycecomb cloth mill. Everyone, from the Spymaster to the servants accompanying the wagon carrying carpets, furniture, and food stuffs for the picnic, were in high spirits to have this autumn day out in the sunshine. But what made Christopher forget Audley was that one of the party was the Lady Mary. As soon as she was helped to dismount from her mare, she broke from the group and came straight up to him, emerald-green velvet riding skirts caught up over one arm. Her smile was radiant, and it was all for him.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘ISN’T THE WEATHER glorious for our picnic?” Mary announced, tilting her chin to look up at Christopher from under the poke of her straw bonnet. “I’m so pleased to find you here, Mr. Bryce.”

  “And I am pleased you found me, my lady.” Christopher made her a formal bow, but was unable to hide his grin; her smile was infectious. He was standing forward of a select group of his mill workers, all neatly turned out to greet the noble visitors come to inspect their place of work, a first for the mill. He frowned, pretending puzzlement. “Where else did you expect to find me?”

  “When you did not arrive at Abbeywood this morning, I wondered if perhaps you’d been kept away—that your aunt might be unwell?” she replied without a second’s hesitation and unaware he was teasing her. “But I should’ve realized you would meet us here. Today you are Squire Bryce, are you not?”

  “Today and every day I am Squire Bryce. It’s just that there are some days in the fortnight when I take on the role of your steward.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Of course,” Lady Mary responded, disconcerted by his smile and the twinkle in his eye, and her own inane responses. What a singularly stupid remark to make: Today you are Squire Bryce!? Of course he was!

  She quickly dropped her chin before looking out beyond the mill workers to the imposing edifice behind them, mentally chastising herself for her inability to tell him what she was truly thinking. Perhaps she was flustered because here she was, for the first time, out of her milieu and firmly in his? That could account for it…

  What she should have said, what she ought to have said, was that today he was dressed, not as Abbeywood’s steward in disheveled coat and neckcloth, but as the proud owner of a mill and as a man of consequence. She could see he had made an effort with his appearance and attire, and he was all the more handsome for the endeavor. The dark suit of fine wool, the polished boots, hair tamed under a black felt tricorne, and with his white neckcloth neatly tied in a fashionable knot under his shaved square chin, he was the epitome of the prosperous gentleman. And if his clothes by their cut and color showed a restraint in proclaiming this prosperity, his magnificent home, this mill and its environs, and the surrounding farmland were all beacons to Squire Bryce’s industry and innovation as the largest employer in the vale, and so Lord Shrewsbury had proclaimed not twenty minutes earlier, when the picnic party had emerged out of the darkness of the Puzzlewood forest into the sunshine of the valley floor, and found themselves in a picturesque vale.

  Teddy pointed out the sprawling Jacobean mansion of golden yellow stone set in parkland to her mother, and said this was where Uncle Bryce, Kate, Carlo, and Sylvia lived, and wasn’t it just like a home in a fairy story with its coiled chimney stacks and glistening windows? Mary had nodded her agreement, speechless, thinking the mansion had to be the finest house in the Cotswolds, if not in all of Gloucestershire.

  Lord Shrewsbury announced that such a magnificent stone building, and the evidence of industry that dotted the landscape surrounding it, were tangible testament to the prosperity and entrepreneurial spirit of the ordinary man, and what could be achieved in an economy unfettered by tyrannical kings, ending his declaration with his remark about the squire’s industry and innovation.

  The Duke’s secretary had responded, with no disrespect intended toward his lordship, by declaring the mill, the tall gabled weavers’ cottages, and the rows of tenter racks littering the slope behind the mill—the evidence of the industry and innovation of which his lordship spoke—as a blight on an otherwise agrarian landscape worth painting in oils. That had the land belonged to his noble employer the Duke, such ugliness as factories and workers’ cottages would never see the light of day. Evelyn had countered by saying Audley was an intellectual hypocrite, jealous of his fellow common man who had the motivation to get his hands dirty with industry, something a secretary with more brains than ballocks would never do out of principle.

  Audley had started to stutter a refute, and Evelyn had taunted the secretary further. A debate broke out between the three men on the merits, or lack thereof, of allowing the lower orders to accumulate more wealth than their betters, a debate Teddy did not understand, and one that upset her because she saw it as an attack on her Uncle Bryce. Mary was quick to reassure her the gentlemen meant no offense and diverted her by asking if she knew the purpose of the peculiar frames—the tenter racks—hanging with cloth that covered the hill behind the mill.

  And when her grandfather did not take the hint to desist with his monologue on the necessary evil of merchant princes to ensure the prosperity of the kingdom, Rory interrupted him with an observation about the hot houses visible over the wall in the garden of the main house. That perhaps Mr. Bryce might permit her to speak to his head gardener about his techniques to grow fruit in a valley that was sure to see low-hanging cloud and thus frost most mornings of the year. What did Grand think…?

  And so the picnic party—the horses with their riders and the wagon loaded with assorted picnic paraphernalia—continued on to the cloth mill in subdued silence, crossing a delightful stone bridge to a bridle path that followed the fast-flowing river, and which took them right up to the entrance gates of the mill.

  WITH LADY MARY by his side, Christopher stepped forward to welcome the rest of the picnic party, who had dismounted and were making their way towards him. The wagon continued along the bridle path, directed by one of Christopher’s workers to a picturesque spot by the river that afforded shade and easy access to water to boil for tea.

  While the Abbeywood servants went about the business of organizing the picnic, Christopher’s guests assembled by the mill’s double front doors, eager to have the mysteries of cloth manufacturing explained to them. Those workers given the privilege of meeting the noble visitors doffed their caps and bobbed curtsies of welcome when introd
uced. Before entering the building, Christopher pointed out the features in the mill’s landscape, so that his guests would have some understanding of its layout, and how harnessing the power of the river was vital in operating the mill’s machinery.

  The building which housed the machinery was itself almost as magnificent as its owner’s mansion. Less than a year old and box-like in construction, it too was of local yellow stone. Five stories high, it had rows of large windows on each floor, to allow in as much light as possible, with even larger windows set into the gabled roof. It was set back from the river and connected to it via a canal that diverted the water from a curved weir. Some three hundred yards in length, the canal was fitted with sluice gates to control the flow of water that went directly under the mill, where, unseen from outside, the fast-flowing water dropped onto a giant waterwheel. The turn of this mighty wheel generated the power necessary to move the gears, line shafting, and belt drives throughout each floor to run the mill’s machinery.

  Teddy asked where the water went after turning the wheel. And Christopher praised her for such a thoughtful question, telling everyone that after powering the waterwheel, the water was discharged into another canal to rejoin the river. He then pointed downstream, and all heads turned in that direction, where some five hundred yards away, steep-gabled weavers’ cottages lined the right bank. The river then continued on its way, disappearing behind a wide bend to meander through the undulating patchwork of tilled fields, pastures of grazing sheep, and herds of dairy cows, all belonging to Squire Bryce.

  Christopher had then followed up with a short précis of the specialist processes involved in the manufacture of wool into yarn and then cloth. He explained how these steps were all interconnected, with no one process more important than another. It was the same with those who worked for him. They relied on each other, and ultimately they relied on him, so that by all of them working together, they were able to achieve commercial success and share in the prosperity of their manufacturing endeavors.

  With the workers gravely nodding, and the guests even more eager to inspect the mill, Christopher first apologized if his over-enthusiasm for his manufacturing endeavors caught his guests unawares, but he assured them that they would not be bored by anything they saw inside the factory. Everyone agreed, and then he turned to offer his crooked arm to Lady Mary to escort her indoors. But she balked, and not because she did not want to give him her arm, but because protocol demanded otherwise.

  “Mr. Bryce, Lady Fitzstuart, as my brother’s wife, has precedence,” she said quietly, leaning into him so that only he would hear. “I am the daughter of an earl, but she is the wife of the heir to that earldom. It is she who has the privilege of your arm upon this occasion.”

  “Thank-you, my lady,” he replied. “I would not wish to cause offense.” And before turning to seek Rory out, said at her ear, “I mean no disrespect to her, but I wish it were otherwise, for surely you know—you must—that I want to offer my arm to you alone.”

  Mary looked up into his brown eyes and saw that he was sincere. She swallowed and smiled. “Yes. Yes, I do know that now, and—and nothing would please me more.”

  He smiled and winked. “Oh, I do believe I could please you more, if you would let me—Lady Fitzstuart!” he announced audibly, turning away and taking a stride toward Rory, crooked arm at the ready. “If you would do me the great honor of allowing me to be your escort…”

  Mary was left reeling by the underlying insinuation of that wink and accompanying comment. So it took her a few moments to react when he turned away from her, to realize her cousin Evelyn was beside her. She had no idea for how long, she had been so caught up in the moment with the Squire, and hoped he had not heard their exchange.

  But Evelyn did not need to hear the words spoken to understand the meaning behind their conversation. The couple’s closeness, their whispered conversation, and Christopher’s wink all combined to give Evelyn a fair idea of how matters stood between them. It reinforced what he had surmised the night he had appeared before them and they thought him a ghost. But whereas he was confident of knowing Christopher’s feelings for his cousin, he was not, until that moment, convinced that those feelings were reciprocated. He needed no further persuasion, and when he offered his arm to Mary without comment, he smiled to himself to see that she was still distracted enough to allow her gaze to follow the Squire as he took Rory through into the mill, the two of them in easy conversation.

  No sooner was the picnic party inside the mill than Evelyn disengaged from the group. He kept Mary back near the stairwell that went down one flight to where the waterwheel was housed, and where the sound of rushing water could be heard just below their feet.

  Everyone else had moved forward to gather around Christopher, who, with the aid of the master of the factory, explained the inner workings of the machinery that filled this and the two floors above. Called a waterframe and invented by a Mr. Arkwright, this technological marvel was far superior at spinning thread than a man or woman could do with a single spindle, and was capable of spinning 96 strands of yarn at once. At this, the guests oohed and aahed at the stationary machinery and the silent operators who stood to attention down the center aisle of the floor.

  Christopher explained that to allow the factory’s master to be heard over the clatter of the machinery, and to save the hearing of his visitors, all the waterframes on this level had been stopped. He encouraged everyone to walk freely about the factory floor to inspect the machinery, and when they were satisfied and ready to move on he would take them to the floors above to see the waterframes and their operators in action.

  With the visitors suitably occupied, Evelyn spoke with Mary without fear of being overheard, and without drawing attention to their inattentiveness. Yet, he still chose to converse with her in French, lest there were any ears wide open to their conversation. He came straight to the point because he could see she was not pleased with him for removing her from the group, and was still distracted, but he needed for her to listen to him for what he had to say affected both their futures.

  “MA CHÉRIE, I’m going away. Mary? Mary, are you listening? I am leaving here today.”

  Mary tore her gaze from the picnic party. He had gained her undivided attention. “Leaving? But you’ve only just arrived, Eve. Why?”

  “State business—”

  “—as an agent of the crown? I thought you were no longer a spy.”

  He did not confirm or deny her presumption.

  “I must carry out this last action before I can cast off my irredeemable past and move into my future.”

  “Very well. Then you must. But when will you return?”

  “Here? I won’t—”

  “Not return?” Mary’s violet eyes widened with anxiousness. “You’re not returning to Abbeywood?”

  Evelyn smiled, more attuned to her feelings than even she realized. He tested his assumption by saying rudely, “To Abbeywood? Why would I want to return to this Godforsaken part of the Kingdom, peopled by ignorant yokels—”

  “It’s not Godforsaken! And he is not—they are not ignorant,” Mary said hotly, and was suddenly flustered by her slip of the tongue. She lowered her voice. “Don’t you see the beauty that surrounds us here in the vale? There is a peace and a-a—harmony that exists nowhere else. And even if you cannot appreciate being in nature, this mill is surely testament to the willingness of those who live here to want to better their lives by embracing such manufacturing marvels. How then can you call them ignorant yokels?”

  Evelyn ignored her slip, though he was not surprised by it. And though he wore a neutral if slightly skeptical expression, he teased her mercilessly.

  “Oh how quickly you forget, mon cousine! But I have not. When Gerry was alive you couldn’t wait to turn your back on this rural idyll, and flee to London at every opportunity. There was no talk of beauty or harmony in this place then. And yet I return after five years in the wilderness abroad to find you fallen in love with a pictures
que pocket you could not wait to escape! Ah! But I think perhaps that has less to do with the scenery and more to do with the company.”

  “Yes! Yes you are right,” Mary agreed, so outraged she completely misconstrued to whom he was alluding. “It was the company, and you know, you know what my—what my—marriage—was like, if you can call such servitude that! Is it any wonder I wished to flee, to get away.”

  “Ah! But it was not odious Gerry I was talking about, chérie.”

  Mary faltered and blinked. “Not Gerald? I don’t understand…”

  Eve’s eyes lit up and he grinned. “Don’t you? I’m sure he—Squire Backwater—does.”

  “Don’t call him that!” she retorted, too annoyed to be embarrassed by his insinuation.

  Evelyn leaned a silken shoulder against the white-washed brick wall, tongue firmly in cheek and eyebrows raised. “So what would you have me call your squire, ma chérie?”

  “He’s not my Squire. He’s Teddy’s guardian, and has only ever had her best interests at heart. And he gives generously of his time to Abbeywood as its steward, when it is now obvious to me, coming here, that his time would be better spent at his mills, and on his own lands amongst his own people. Yet he finds the time to balance Gerald’s account books, which are in such a deplorable state it is a wonder Teddy and I haven’t been forced to sell the clothes off our backs to feed ourselves.”

  “Have you ever wondered why that is?”

  “What? Why we still have clothing?”

  “Yes. You told me you refused the generous allowance Roxton offered you when you were made a widow. So where does your pin money and your clothing allowance come from if not from your relatives?”

  “I don’t require an allowance. I am an excellent seamstress, and altered and remade my clothing several times over. Besides, it is rare that I go into society these days to need a new gown—”

  “Every beautiful woman needs a new gown… Squire Back—Bryce would agree with me. I’m certain if you ask him he’d supply you with any number of gowns, if he isn’t doing so already.”