* * * *
After she returned home, Maddie and Nash sat to supper, and then sat together reading until time for bed. Looking in the window, their evening looked much like many others. Inside, though, one could hear the difference. No one spoke.
At eleven, they readied themselves for bed, still like a theater piece without sound. Maddie used the washbasin first as Nash disrobed, then they switched places, a mockery of a minuet.
Without a word, they slid under the sheets from separate sides of the bed. Maddie wore her night rail; Nash, as usual, wore nothing.
For a long minute they lay side by side on their backs, not touching. Maddie wondered if she ever would touch him again.
Nash had made it clear that should she disobey, should she march, he was through with her. She would march. There was nothing more to say.
She closed her eyes. Only a few months ago the idea of leading a quiet life as a bookkeeper for a man like Mr. Heywood seemed the best of a ream of bad choices. Now it felt unbearable.
What the people were doing was right. She should help them. She must. It was her cause, too. She could work; she would not starve. Perhaps she could set up a small school, as Miss Marsden had done in Bath. Perhaps, in a decade or so, she would have buried her longings and her loss in good deeds and those beautiful moments of discovery that shone in children’s faces.
That imagined joy was years away. Right now, she loved Nash’s touch, his breath, his scent of new wood, coppery tea, and man. His rumbling tenor voice in the other room. The constant surprise at his grace though he was such a big man.
He was starting to understand her, too. To know her, as no one else ever had. As no one else ever would. Or so she’d made herself believe. Her breath hitched.
His hand took her hip and rolled her to her side. Pulling her close, he wrapped himself around her. Their bodies quickened, unfettered by their minds’ arguments against the connection.
He planted kisses behind her ear and along her neck and shoulder while his hand massaged the deep curve in her back. The gentle touch seemed to push her fears away.
“Stay, Maddie.” The words croaked out of him, rusted from an evening’s disuse. She spun to face him, his eyes wide in the darkness. “Please.”
She took his mouth with such passion it pushed him onto his back. Without letting go for one second, she moved over him, hiking up her rail and fitting her bared hips into his.
He groaned and arched against her, his bulge pressing against her. His body wanted her, but she wanted it more. Without waiting for Nash to do it, she took the base of his cock and positioned it. Inch by inch, she slowly sank onto him, taking him fully inside, as far as she could. She savored every moment, every thrust and gasp and drop of sweat on her skin.
She memorized the lines of his body, the rhythms of his breathing and thrusting and calling out. The wonder that was Nash.
She would need to recall these things in the life to come. She knew they would not be repeated.
{ 36 }
Nash had never been inside the office of the constable before, but the cold welcome he received Sunday afternoon matched the stories he’d heard about the place. Heywood looked surprised and a bit guilty; Malbanks positively hissed. Constable Nadin and Trefford, in full yeomanry blue, seemed to be rehearsing their truncheon faces.
“How did you find us?”
“Good afternoon to you, too, Malbanks. Star Inn’s keep forwarded your direction.” That was only partly true. The keep had merely said the meeting was elsewhere. Bamford had told him where it likely was.
The man had interrupted Nash’s breakfast by pounding at the door. A grim Bamford told him of the events at White Moss that dawn. A man sent to spy on the drilling near Middleton was discovered and beaten, but not by reformers, by country boys who didn’t even plan to march. They picked the wrong sot to toy with though—now they sat in New Bailey jail as James ‘Gingerbread’ Murray lay at home in his bed nursing his wounds.
Bamford wanted to go with Nash to the committee meeting he was sure would be called today, to explain again the peaceful intent of the true marchers. Nash had agreed, but at the Star, the weaver had faltered, saying he would not willingly submit himself to the vagaries of constables, especially this day. Even Nash’s influence could not protect the likes of him in that lair, he’d said. Their hopes would have to ride on Nash.
He wasn’t sure he was up to it. All he wanted to do was go back to bed and roll over his wife as she had rocked him over last night. There would be plenty of time for that after tomorrow.
Heywood stepped up to him. “Did you hear what they did to Murray? One of their militias set upon him, beat him nearly to death.” His mentor had gone fully to the opposition. “I tell you, these hooligans must be stopped. Why, they could attack us as we sleep!”
“They could do that any day.” Nash knew that was not the right track to take, but it did shut the man up. His face reddened until Nash thought the man might faint of apoplexy. Malbanks merely gave his sickly grin.
“You don’t seem surprised. Perhaps because your family attended?”
“What are you on about?”
“Your lord brother was seen observing the buildup of the civilian army last week. At the side of your wife.”
“They passed by, playing the tourist.”
“When earls treat with weavers, what manner of world do we live in?” Malbanks’s grin could poison the air.
Nash bit down hard, reminding himself to stay to the purpose. “I did hear of White Moss, though I hadn’t heard of this meeting.”
“We sent a messenger to the warehouse,” Malbanks said. “He must have missed you. Perhaps you were attending services.”
“Gingerbread Murray makes a worse spy than he does a baker.”
Heywood sat down heavily. “He wasn’t a spy. Nothing like.”
“He just happened to be taking a stroll, at eleven at night?”
Heywood glared at Nash. “It isn’t against the law. He was attacked without provocation.”
“Again, I heard they were provoked. He was indeed set upon, but not by the marchers. By some vagabond youths who don’t even work for a living.”
“If this is the sort of person coming into our town tomorrow, I say call the whole thing off,” Malbanks said.
“I just said it wasn’t this sort of person.” Nash brushed the hair away from his forehead. He needed a haircut. “Nadin, was Murray a spy?”
“Can’t say one way t’other.” The bullish man wilted under Nash’s glare. “I didna send him out.”
“I sent him.” Malbanks stomped his foot once as if starting a marching band. “He performed admirably. Now we know the true intent of these rabblers.”
Malbanks minion Trefford’s face was alight, an amateur spoiling for a fight, but the professional peace-keeper, Nadin, did not look as positive. His gaze flicked from Malbanks to Nash to Heywood. He was the one who led the constables.
If Nash could convince him, all might still be well. “This does look ill. And it may appear that all your fears are justified. The truth of the matter is we have the promises—hard promises—of the organizers that tomorrow they will keep their people under control. And, the weavers’ union head told me, these men accused will not be any part of it.”
“That’s certainly true,” Malbanks said. “We’ve arrested them, haven’t we, Nadin?”
Nash couldn’t believe it. “For brawling?”
“For attempted murder. They’ve already been remanded to Highgate.”
“Where they will just be released at session.”
“Which is weeks from now. They are out of our hair until then.” Malbanks wiped his hands clean in emphasis.
Heywood pinched the bridge of his nose. “If only we could jail them all for two weeks. Let everyone cool their heels.”
Even Trefford looked surprised, but it was Nash who spoke. “Who would work the mills?”
Malbanks waved his hand. “You men of business. That’s all
you think about. We have anarchy on our hands.”
“You yourself are such a man, Malbanks.” Heywood’s face mirrored Nash’s confusion.
“No longer. Sold out to Clayton, for quite a nice sum. The fool doesn’t know what he’s in for.” That explained Clayton’s newly excess capacity. No wonder the man offered to help Nash. He needed the quick return on his investment.
Malbanks spat, hitting the spittoon in the corner. “The worst possible spirit pervades the country. This morning’s incident is proof positive they intend an armed uprising.”
“With sticks and pitchforks?” Nash rolled his eyes.
“They are steps away from open rebellion, and I won’t have them doing it in my jurisdiction.” Malbanks was almost shouting. “Who’s with me?”
The tavern-keep stepped up, eyes blazing. “I demand the town’s own yeomanry have the honor of making the first charge.”
“Saints alive,” Heywood started out of his chair. “No one is charging at anyone tomorrow.”
The yeoman hadn’t expected attack from that quarter, but quickly found his footing. “We’ll have our blades sharpened, just in case,” he muttered.
Malbanks slapped him on the back. “Gentlemen, we have anarchy on our hands.”
Nash nearly shouted with frustration. Even Nadin’s flat face showed dismay. “Nothing like,” Nash repeated. “The marchers plan to sing tunes and bring their families with them. Does that sound like an invitation to mob?”
“Damned dangerous to have women and children there,” Malbanks said. “At the least, we should forbid that.”
Trefford found his voice, if not his intellect. “Why could they not terrorize another town?”
“The terror is all in your head,” Nash said.
“Tell that to the French king,” Malbanks retorted.
“We are not France, thank the Lord. Though if we keep starving the peasantry, we may as well be.”
Heywood cleared his throat, but waited to speak until the air had settled. “We proceed as planned. Watch and wait. They must act first.”
Nadin nodded once, and under his hoary eye the yeoman nodded his resentful agreement. Malbanks shrugged. “Tell the yeomanry to stand ready. No true patriot is going to be injured by that mob.”
Nadin squinted at Heywood. “If they don’t carry weapons in, they won’t find any on St. Peter’s fields. We picked up all the likely stones yesterday.”
“You sent constables to clear the field?”
“Yeomanry. Right eager, they are.”
Nash shook his head. “This is a meeting, not a battle.”
“This is war, man.” Malbanks, despite his small frame, could roar. “One we must not lose.”
{ 37 }
The trunks were gone. Maddie had gone. Nash breathed a sigh of relief as he pushed the rowhouse’s door shut. Malbanks could hang, the radicals could hang; they could hang one another. So long as Maddie was out in the country, safe.
The scent of her lingered in the entry, a trace of cinnamon from the soap he’d given her amid her own sweet fragrance. She had been wanton last night, so changed from the first time. Was it only a few months past? For a moment, he considered riding out to join her. No, he had to be here at dawn, to make sure those tarted-up shopkeepers kept their swords sheathed.
He sat on the lowest stair step, savoring the quiet. The front door was ship-tight, blocking the sounds of the city, even a city roiled as wild as this one. The smell of potatoes and stew set his stomach growling. Mrs. Willis was cooking only half-rations tonight. Back to his bachelor habits; what a relief those days were done.
Then he saw it, something in the basket reserved for the calling cards that never came. A letter, in Maddie’s script. His stomach sank, appetite gone. He’d sent her away for her own good. Surely she could see that. If she had agreed with his reasoning, if she’d done what he asked, why leave a note behind?
His hand didn’t obey his first command to reach out for it. He forced himself to snatch it up. He stalked through the sitting room, to the window overlooking their tiny garden. Better light here than at the great window in front, facing the street.
Leaning against the window frame as if it were a ship’s mast in stormy seas, he battened down his baseless fears and unsealed the vellum. His eyes sought the signature first. Just M. No Yours faithfully, no Until tomorrow. No Love.
She hadn’t gone peaceably into the country, after all.
These last months have been wondrous strange. I honor and thank you for your assistance, your bravery and strength, for all you have given me. I regret that they are not enough.
I see that for you, family is a heavy burden. For me, it is everything. Family begets a love that is unconditional. I love you, and I grieve that I cannot meet your conditions.
What is a wife to Manchester merchants, who glory in being the makers of their own fate? I wished to be a helpmeet, as Mrs. Heywood is, but I feel you would prefer a Mrs. Malbanks, a living ghost, or perhaps a true ghost. If so, feel free to declare me dead. I will use my earliest name in place of yours.
How could she not see that her family was here, was him? She’d understood last night. Or had she? He sagged into the wood, left hand gripping the sill as if it were the house pitching and not his world. He’d done it all for her, for their life together. How could she not see that?
The afternoon rain plodded down, tapping at the window, mocking him. The rains were short, but nothing stopped them.
Where would she go? Maddie would hate to live in one of those squalid cottages. The cottagers lived so close, no one had room to breathe. No running water, not even for the privy. She’d need to go to the baths twice a day.
He looked around their sitting room, which also served as their dining room, and receiving room, and music room, and reading room, and writing room. Mrs. Willis had taken his luncheon plate but had yet to return to fold the dining table away. The thing took up half the space in the room. He folded it himself, admiring the clever way it compacted nearly flat. Ship-shape. He’d loved how everything had its place on board a ship, and its purpose, so different from the ramshackle castle. Here in his first home, he’d copied as many of the good ideas he’d learned onboard as he could.
And one bad one: Ladies weren’t welcome onboard. Their skirts mussed the coils of line, their hoops made it impossible—scandalous—to negotiate the ladders. Worse, on ship, ladies had no purpose.
Nash had made Maddie feel unwelcome here. He’d moved the writing desk downstairs, but he hadn’t built her decent closets. He’d set her up to consort with the wives of manufacturers but saddled her with a reception room that could not hold a table and three music stands at the same time. When she wanted to be useful, he’d tried her at the warehouse, where he had to admit she shone, and then snatched the opportunity away. Sure, he’d brought her back, but she knew it was at his whim, and he was starting to see that people—even females—wished to be masters of their own fates. Just as he did.
A life of one’s choosing versus one at a capricious master’s beck and call—who wouldn’t choose the first? Especially when one considered herself mere goods.
I admire and respect you too much to wish you to continue to act the hypocrite. You took me on as unwanted trade to obtain capital from your brother. At least I can be grateful that you did not set me on a shelf in that high room in the warehouse.
I go to the castle, as you wished. But tomorrow I march, from Middleton. I release you from your burden. I wish you great success and fortune.
How could he defend against that? He couldn’t deny it. Looking through her eyes, he saw no white knight but a greedy merchant scrabbling for spoils, never recognizing the treasure among the dross.
Hypocrites, weren’t they all? Every event in Maddie’s short life had proved to her she carried no value, while every person mouthed the empty platitudes: You are special; I have plans for you; you are part of our family; I love you.
He couldn’t bear the pain he pictured in her hea
rt. He couldn’t bear the knowledge that instead of easing it, he had compounded it. He couldn’t see how she hadn’t simply sunk, with all that rancid freight about.
He couldn’t just give her up, and he couldn’t allow her to cut her own throat, either. She needed support, if only financial. At the least, he could arrange that. There was precious little he could do to soften the blows from society, though they might remain estranged, forever tied but by this loosest of threads, to give her a cover of respectability. That course of action also dangled the chance she would return. And he would damned well do her better then.
No, she would want a clean break. He would, in her place. He would never wish to be connected, even loosely, to someone he thought treated him as unwanted goods. He would just have to change her mind, with all he had: his words.
Nash pushed himself upright and marched to his writing desk. He would answer her letter with his own. If it caught the evening post, it would get to her by seven or eight. He would courier it if it took too long to compose. He pulled the table open, dropping the leaf onto its two spindled supports. He pulled out a sheet of the good vellum, prepared the ink, and trimmed the pen. He must right this ship. He stared the blank sheet for one minute, two, three. And then he wrote, scratching his heart across the page. And then he prayed.
{ 38 }
Maddie could see that Deacon had the right of it; neither the coach much less the crested carriage would have made it to within a mile of Middleton this morning. The road, lanes, and paths were filled with folk heading in the same direction. Maddie and the driver barely made it to the edge of town in the field wagon, but were able to give a dozen of the older walkers a ride in the bed of the cart. The driver was supposed to wait on her return from the meeting to transport her back to the castle, but she told him he could leave as soon as the path cleared. She would not be returning to the castle.
Though the day was fine and fair, the air warm even at this early hour, she shivered and held herself close. So many people! There must be hundreds, even thousands, in Middleton alone. Women in simple white dresses and aprons and bonnets, just as she wore; men in their Sunday best. She’d never been alone among so many strangers, and none of her kind, or what she’d been brought up to think were her kind. She’d been so wrong.
An Untitled Lady: A Novel Page 29
