Maddie tried to collect herself. Of course her father might never wish to see her. After all, he had washed his hands of her decades ago and here she pops up like a bad apple.
“Don’t start blubbering. I may be right off. Let me gets to asking him, like, before I make any promises.”
“May I see you again?”
She frowned. “Aye. Don’t know how much I can look on you. It’s not like I ever expected it, you see? And you the spitting image of me Ma. Our Ma.”
“So are you, then. We share the same features.”
“Nothing like. It’s like looking at a ghost. Only Ma never looked so rested and plump, begging your pardon.” Kitty shook her head. “I’ll have to warn Da about that, too. A ghost risen, he’d call ye. Holy hell.”
“Can you go to him now?”
“He’d slap me silly. He’s trying to get the last load of weaving done before the meeting. I best be off. My lunch hour is far gone. Ain’t you going to be missed?”
Maddie looked at the church tower. One o’clock already. Mrs. Willis would be missing her, indeed.
“How may I reach you? Where might I send a note?”
“None of that. You’re Quinn, of the warehouse? I’ll come round, when he’s ready.”
Maddie couldn’t help it. One more time, she grasped Kitty’s calloused hand in her soft one. “Sister. I am so blessed.”
“Don’t know about that.” Kitty pulled her hand away, but a smile tipped her lips. “Seems to me you was a right ornery baby.”
{ 22 }
In the nine days between her banishment from the warehouse and the Heywoods’ monthly supper, Maddie and Nash exchanged barely an hour’s conversation. He stayed away from home, running between the warehouse, his consortium partners, and the recalcitrant magistrates’ committee. When he was home for supper or before bed, his lips were pressed tight, the dimples at their corners crevasses. She could watch the sharp line of his cheek muscle snapping as he chewed—and as he sat silent, thinking.
Maddie herself had never been so frustrated. Knowing she shouldn’t try to contact Kitty but wanting to, so much, she haunted the graveyard in the mornings and early evenings, but her sister did not return. Maddie felt if she could just stretch her arms a little further, she might touch upon her father, but her arms stubbornly remained too short.
She had nothing to do. She was dull company during afternoon calls, and her attempts at charity work were met by angry stares and the advice that the poor would prefer wages return to normal than a hand-me-down shawl or lessons in their letters from the likes of her.
Even in church, she felt divisions growing. Women with plain bonnets did not step aside for those in decorated bonnets, but glared at their owners, who had done nothing but dress up to seek salvation. On the streets and in the market, Maddie saw jostling, muttering, and just plain rudeness. Mancunians already were a busy, brusque people. Now they seemed ready to come to blows.
If this was the face the people showed in front of their wives and mothers and daughters, what must Nash be facing? His big order was due to the ship next week, and from what she could tell from his single-word answers and grunts, it would be a close thing. Even Mrs. Willis tiptoed around him lately.
That was the excuse Maddie gave herself for not telling him about Kitty and her father. He didn’t need more to fret on, and wasn’t she fretting on it enough for the both of them? But while she was used to keeping her own counsel, this time she thought she might burst with its telling. But what did she have to tell? It had come to nothing, hadn’t it. So far.
The trees swayed in the heat-edged breeze as they walked through Mosley Street to the Heywoods’ residence. The great houses stood solemn in the cooling dusk. Nash stopped at the base of the stair, waiting for her to catch up.
“I’m sorry I set such a breakneck pace. I’m not looking forward to this tonight.” He took her hand. She covered her surprise by pretending she was merely catching her breath. He set his foot on the first step, but then paused and turned back to her.
“I’m sorry our house isn’t fit for proper company.”
His sable eyes were windows tonight. She could read his care-worn heart, ever striving to make things right for his warehouse, for his workers, for her. Her heart unfolded in response.
“I found my sister,” she blurted out.
He brought his foot back down to the cobbled street. He blinked, his brows knitting, the two vertical lines between them angry welts. “You have family? I thought your mother was killed.”
“An older sister. At the graveyard. We met.”
“You met. And was she delighted to see you?”
“Suspicious. We agreed to meet again, but she has not returned. I don’t think she trusts me.” Maddie’s stomach heaved, and she put a hand over her belly in protection.
Nash squeezed her hand. Even his grip seemed tired. “Maybe it’s for the best.”
“No. She was going to speak with my father, and I was going to see him.”
“How can you know she is your sister, in truth? People see what they want to see.”
“I shouldn’t have told you. She said you would be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” He blew out a breath, puffing his hollowed cheeks. “I just don’t want you hurt. The man sold you, Maddie.”
“Perhaps he had no choice.”
“Don’t be a fool. Why can’t you be content with the love of the people in your life now?”
She cast about for a better argument, but her hurt feelings distracted her. Why did he call her names? “Do you love me?”
“How can you doubt it?”
“It wasn’t part of the negotiations for marriage. I am not so sure I love you.”
As she watched, his eyes shuttered, breaking their connection. The loss was a blade in her chest. She was, indeed, a fool.
He rolled back on his heels, away from her, dropping her hand. Then he looked up and down the street, as if to see if any passers-by had observed them.
Light splashed across them. The Heywoods’ door had opened.
“Come in, come in, don’t stand there.” Mrs. Heywood herself manned the door. They must have been seen, arguing. Maddie wilted inside from the shame of it.
Nash turned and raised a hand in greeting. “We’ll talk about this later.”
She knew they never would.
* * * *
“Lancashire? Never.” The words burned down at her as Maddie and Nash entered the hall.
“You’re late. The swords are already out.” The cheer in Mrs. Heywood’s voice rang false.
“Malbanks intends to win by force of volume, I hear.” Nash’s voice rang equally jovial, and equally false.
“Mr. Clayton has his match. My poor Heywood suffers from a summer cold.” As Nash took the stairs two by two, perhaps thinking to rescue his mentor, she smiled at Maddie. “You look lovely, dear.” Maddie almost burst into tears, gulping air to keep her equilibrium.
“That bad? You’re not with child already?”
Maddie, startled, shook her head. She might have been with child, but no. “It’s that time.”
“We all take things too much to heart then. A woman’s weakness, one of our many. Shall we see if we can use our beauty to distract these beasts?” She took Maddie’s arm, and they ascended the stairs together.
The men were not distracted, and they drew the women in after them. Even quiet Mrs. Clayton, so often preferring to affect a supreme indifference, watched the men as if she were watching tennis.
Mr. Clayton sat beside her on a gaily decorated seat for two, a jolly old soul beside his Jack Sprat wife. But tonight his ruddy cheeks sagged a little more, and his horn-rimmed eyes looked as stern and dangerous as even Mr. Malbanks’s did. That man stood in front of the closed fireplace, as if conducting an orchestra. Mrs. Heywood motioned for Maddie to sit beside her on the fainting couch opposite the Claytons. Heywood moved across the room to stand behind his wife, and Nash followed suit. Mrs. Heywood raised her han
d to her shoulder, and her husband touched it with an absentminded fondness. Maddie didn’t dare raise her hand, fearing Nash would not mirror that movement.
“Oldham, Salford, with their bloody habeas corpus, they’ll march into Manchester next.” Clayton threw up his hands.
Nash jumped in. “The workers can do just as we do.” She wondered if the others could hear the spent string in his voice.
“They demand franchise.” Clayton shook his head, dislodging his spectacles. “We don’t even have that to speak of, and do you hear us caterwauling about?”
Malbanks barked a laugh. “I hear you wailing, Clayton. Laws made at a distance, meddlers wrecking our plans and profits.”
“These chaps, they demand what they’re owed when they haven’t earned the right to be owed anything at all.” Clayton’s face flushed dangerously. Mrs. Clayton reached into her husband’s pocket and pulled out his rather large handkerchief. He took it from her in exchange for his near-empty tumbler of spirits, and wiped at his ruddy forehead. “The right to air their grievances should be enough to satisfy them.”
Nash cleared his throat. “Up to a point. Airing one’s grievances is hard enough, for people so proud. If no one listens, how does that ease their minds?”
“What can you mean?” Heywood turned to him.
“To speak, there needs must be a listener. Who is listening to the people?”
“Why should we listen?” Heywood shrugged. “We know what they are going to say.”
“Do you?” Nash countered.
“And even if we did listen, what then?” Malbanks slapped a hand on the mantle. “They might expect us to do something about it.”
The men laughed. The women sat silent.
Clayton’s color had subsided. “So, Malbanks, how do we put an end to this frenzy of meetings?”
Heywood stepped in. “They can’t be stopped, if they are in good order.”
Malbanks nodded. “So we put them on notice to follow every rule, with our yeomanry ready when they don’t. A show of force will always frighten a coward.”
Heywood snorted. “The yeomanry? Merchants, shopkeepers, the chandler—a fearful lot, indeed.”
“You forget the pawnbrokers and publicans. And the fact they sit on stomping horses. Quite menacing, I should think.”
“Manchester’s workers don’t need menacing. We beat them down plenty enough already.” Nash’s words carried the weariness of constant repetition. This time, though, it had a singular effect. Malbanks stood rigid, anger vibrating from his limbs.
“This from the man who ran into my house in the dead of night panting that the chaff were nigh upon revolt. I’ve slept at the manufactory all week—and nothing. Now they’re a docile bunch?”
“Not docile. Downtrodden.” Nash nearly spat.
“Balderdash.”
Maddie found her voice. “I spoke with a woman who said her wage was half what it had been a decade ago. When she was a child.”
Malbanks voice could cut glass. “We don’t hire children any longer.”
“Now they’ve grown, you mean.” All heads turned to Mrs. Clayton, who raised her hand to her mouth, equally surprised that she had spoken.
Mrs. Heywood cleared her throat. “I see children younger than our own come out our manufactory every day. They are not workers?”
“Of course they are. But there are fewer now. Ever fewer. No one needs Parliament to tell him that grown men and women are better workers.”
“Now that we’ve trained them up, you mean.” Heywood let go of his wife’s hand. She smiled sadly at Maddie.
Clayton looked at Heywood. “Nonetheless, what they’re contemplating is sedition, isn’t it?”
“As a lawyer, I tell you they’ve skirted to the side of it. Marching and meeting and airing perceived grievances is not against the law. We have nothing to fear. The magistrates have this well in hand. Did they not force that Orator Hunt to behave this past winter? He’ll rouse no rabbles here.”
Nash tried again. “The reformers who are local men, we might listen to them.”
“Cut them off first, you mean?”
“No, I mean hear them out, and tell them what we mean to do.”
Malbanks spit into the fireplace. “Tell them our business?”
Nash looked at the man. She hoped he held less tension in his eyes than in the hand gripping the couch behind her. “If they knew about the contest for the Netherlands trade, would they not willingly cut their rates to secure themselves continuing work? As it is, they see us earning riches from last year’s good season and turning around and cutting their wages.”
“Tell them our trade? These clods wouldn’t understand the business behind it.”
Heywood pursed his lips. “They might tell others who might, and would undercut our bid.”
“Who would that be? Plymouth? Bath? They know already, and already lost their bids. We keep secrets unnecessarily and to our detriment.” Nash looked to Clayton, who was again rubbing his overheated face.
Clayton failed him. “I have to agree with Malbanks. These workers wouldn’t understand.”
Mrs. Heywood leaned into Maddie, bumping her shoulder gently. “I heard there are some women reformers, as well.” Though she spoke softly, Malbanks snorted.
“See how far this has gone?”
Maddie heard a low growl, and realized it was coming from her. Neither Malbanks nor Mrs. Heywood seemed to notice, but Nash put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, a warning.
She ignored him. “I fail to see why, if women can work, they cannot comment upon their work, just as men do.”
Malbanks turned the flash of his gaze toward her. “If the men are idiots, what does that make the women?”
Before he could say more, Nash laughed, its honeyed ring carrying a brittle edge. “This woman managed to get you to argue with her. What does that make you?”
Malbanks locked stiff gazes with Nash as if dueling, but Clayton’s face grew animated. “Suffrage for women, as well. Wouldn’t that be interesting.”
“You have no representation yourself, Clayton,” Malbanks said. “You’d hand power to the landless masses? First thing they’d do is take your land. Then perhaps your property, if not your life.”
“No need to exaggerate, my man. No one wishes death on anyone.” He made an abridged sign of the cross on his chest. Maddie was surprised he practiced that faith.
Malbanks turned to Nash. “Nash Quinn of Shaftsbury castle. Do you believe your great brother represents your interests?” Malbanks tilted his head, a caricature of royalty.
“Leave my brother out of it.”
“And the gob-ment?”
“He won’t even take his seat.” The look on Nash’s face matched the bitterness of his tone. His eye was twitching; he must be close to his limit.
Malbanks pounced. “So, no one needs any representation, he thinks.”
“That’s not what he said.” Maddie stood, as if to block Nash from his attacker with her puny woman’s bulk. Malbanks’s gaze simply flicked over her head, taunting Nash.
Nash grabbed her elbow, a sharp shock. He must think she’d made him look weak. “And you, what working woman do you speak with? I’m surprised you could stand it. Did you need to wash after?”
She jerked out of his grip. His face went slack with surprise. He couldn’t know how much he’d hurt her. They stared at each other, not wanting to reveal their hearts, and not wanting to see the other’s heart now, either.
Clayton cleared his throat, and started on about volunteers versus trained soldiers, but Maddie could barely distinguish the words. How could Nash have aired their dirty linen in public? His eyes carried regret, perhaps, but she knew he would never apologize, not here.
She wanted to scream at him, push him, punch him, and cut his heart out. Instead, she walked to the window with all the deliberate grace she could muster, away from all of them.
She crossed her arms to corral her racing heart. At first, all she saw was her
own reflection in the glass. Her eyes glittered, but she would not cry. She watched the shape of Mrs. Heywood heading toward the hall, heard her voice say something about calling for supper.
She heard Nash’s voice rejoin the conversation. Though it was the end of July, her bones went cold. She had to find her family. She had to find a way to be safe.
“You could join the yeomanry, Quinn.” Clayton called after him.
“And drink all day? I’ve a business to run.”
“So do we all,” Heywood said. “And we need to keep the workers laboring.”
“And the rabble-rousers out,” Malbanks seconded.
“Else we’ll all be in the poor house by winter,” Clayton finished.
Outside, the blocks around the theater stood out, light against the other districts’ dark. Except beside the river, where a large building was rather too well lit. Maddie twisted her neck to get a better look. She tried to make sense of it. If only it were daylight.
She felt Nash at her shoulder. “Maddie,” he started.
“Look. Over there. Is it the sunset edging that building?”
“The sun is long gone.” He opened the window and leaned out, and then snapped back into the room.
“Malbanks, your mill is on fire.”
{ 23 }
While Malbanks rode ahead on his roan, Heywood, Clayton, and Nash followed in the older man’s sideboard, carrying every bucket the servants could find. Mrs. Heywood forced a quickly packed basket of food on them, choice cooked morsels that wouldn’t last an hour. But the cook also packed two loaves of bread and bottles of water underneath.
“Hell of a way to break up a party, Quinn,” Heywood muttered, his concentration on the team of horses. Clayton, squeezed between them on the bench, nibbled at a leg of pheasant.
Nash couldn’t eat. Even the smell of the bird turned his stomach. How could he have said those things to Maddie? How could he have said them in mixed company? In any company? If a person could melt, she would have melted in front of all of them, he was sure of it. And that look—not angry, that he had been braced for, but deep green pools of pain.
And for what? For standing up to Malbanks, a feat which in all rights should have gained her praise. And now he’d left her, with those rigid shoulders aching for a touch, with the sniping biddies of Mosley Street. He was the worst husband, the worst lover. No wonder she couldn’t say she loved him. After that performance, he couldn’t even love himself.
An Untitled Lady: A Novel Page 18
