by Arnette Lamb
“Impolite,” her brother corrected, but he’d turned his attention to the passing scenery.
Agnes marshaled herself. “What if we were planning a surprise for you, Button?”
As perky as could be, Hannah squealed. “Like Papa ’n’ me did for you?”
The promise of retribution inspired Agnes. “Oh, my surprise for your father will be very different.”
Christopher joined in. “Can we guess what ’twill be?”
“Guess! Guess! Guess!”
A game ensued, occupying the children during the ride across Glasgow. The visit to Saint Vincent’s Church proved a waste of time, except to hear a confirmation from Bishop Brimston that no Mrs. Borrowfield attended services there.
“But we drove her here in our carriage every Sunday morning,” Lord Edward said.
The bishop, a fellow as old as the tales of Toom Tabbard, squinted up at his noble visitor. “What time did she arrive at service, my lord?”
“Our services at Saint Stephen’s Church begin at ten o’clock, so we would have left her here at half past nine.”
“Odd, my lord.” The bishop scratched his head. “I begin promptly at nine, and my congregation’s not so large as my brethren at Saint Stephen’s. I would have noticed her coming in so late.”
There must be more, Agnes thought. “How did Mrs. Borrowfield get home to Napier House after the service? Did you fetch her?”
“Nay. She said she enjoyed the walk.”
“What did she look like?” the bishop asked.
Lord Edward described an older woman with graying hair and a healthy frame. But his description was too general and mannerly to suit Agnes.
She searched her memory for the image of the woman who’d held Hannah in Saint Margaret’s Church in Edinburgh. She said, “Mrs. Borrowfield’s chin was weak and dimpled, and her lips very thin. My lord, what color was her cloak?”
His gaze went out of focus. “Very dark brown, as I recall, with a black ribbon tie at the hood. ’Twas lined with . . .”
“With what color?” She willed him to see it.
“I have it!” he exclaimed. “ ’Twas yellow.”
Shaking his head in apology, the bishop said, “Yellow or black, I cannot help you, my lord. No woman of that likeness attends my service. But should you ever wish to join us, I’d consider it an honor.”
As they returned to the carriage, Agnes thought of other ways to locate the elusive Mrs. Borrowfield. She was still considering the possibilities when they arrived at the mill and Lord Edward handed her down from the carriage.
His hands lingered far too long at her waist. When Agnes protested, he whispered, “I heard no cry of foul play when you were panting in my arms this morning.”
“No, ’tis only the lingering effects that are foul.”
9
FUMING, AGNES STARED AT THE passing traffic while Lord Edward helped the children from the carriage. A wagon stocked with barrels rumbled past and veered onto a side road that led to the larger buildings in the rear.
Hannah complained that her sling needed attention, which her father patiently gave. Christopher grumbled.
According to the lad, the mill occupied three square furlongs of land, and Agnes believed him. The structures stood at the crossroads of Cathcart Avenue and the west wagonway, the best route to the Port of Glasgow. At Napier House the oldest structure, the tower, was shielded by the newer buildings. Here at the mill, the opposite was true. The first building, a stone rectangle built in the thirteenth century, fronted the massive structures housing the looms and spinners.
Lord Edward motioned to the driver. “Take the carriage ’round to the side, Jamie. Wait for us there.”
Inside the old structure the walls served as a chronicle of the Napiers’ contributions to the design and manufacture of cloth. Centuries’ worth of progress marched along the walls, beginning with the seal of office of the Napier first charged with the care of the royal napery. With surprise, Agnes noted that the family had not kept the most valuable remembrances for the gallery at Napier House; rather they displayed them here.
In the far corner of the room an iron gate barred entrance to a downward spiraling staircase. The grill-work depicted the Napier shield, a hand holding a crescent.
Lord Edward joined her. “Did I lie, my lady?”
His seduction was getting out of hand. Ignoring him posed her best option. “No. The mill prospers, and you’re from a very illustrious family.”
A knowing grin gave him a rakish air, which was perfectly fitting. But how could she have known that the scholarly earl possessed the heart of a rogue? She couldn’t have.
Christopher stepped to the fore. “The Napiers are weavers, inventors, and mathematicians. One of our ancestors invented the logarithm.” He pointed to a state portrait of Queen Charlotte holding one of her many children. “We made the christening gown.”
“Are you eager to carry on the family tradition?”
“Aye.” With more enthusiasm, he said, “But I’d also like to build a ship that will sail to India in a week.”
“A week’s time?” said his father. “That’s very ambitious.”
Stubbornly, the boy held his ground. “I’ll try all the same, if you’ll let me.”
The earl of Cathcart grew pensive, and Agnes wondered if he was thinking about the assassin. The mood fled as quickly as it had come. He ruffled his son’s hair. “I predict a lively discussion or two on the subject.”
Footfalls sounded in the circular staircase. Agnes tensed. Lord Edward had turned his attention to Hannah, who had reverted to gibberish. Keeping her touch casual, Agnes rested her hand on Christopher’s shoulder. If trouble were coming up those stairs, she’d push the lad to the floor and reach for her dagger.
She was certain that the approaching man was not the assassin; he moved quietly, but she’d take nothing for granted.
Through the iron grillwork she saw a portly man emerge. Dressed in the clothing of a gentleman, he wore a ready smile. He carried a heavy ring of keys. As he moved into the room, the iron hinges on the gate squealed like a frightened gull.
“Mr. Peel!” shouted Christopher.
Singling out an iron key that bore a Celtic knot, the man locked the gate. Over his shoulder, he said, “Good afternoon, my lord.” He nodded to the children. “Christopher, and Miss Hannah.”
Edward extended his hand. “Afternoon, Peel. Lady Agnes MacKenzie, may I present the fine superintendent of this mill, Avery Peel.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Peel.”
His gaze strayed to the sling on her arm. “My lady, welcome to the mills of Napier. I had heard that you were in Glasgow. May I say that I had the pleasure of meeting your father once.” To Edward, he said, “Best man o’ the Highlands, ’tis said of the duke of Ross.”
Rather than offer her left hand, Agnes acknowledged Peel with a friendly smile. “He is indeed, Mr. Peel. And he speaks fondly of your city until the conversation comes ’round to the time he brought my sisters and me here about a decade ago.”
“You would have been in Boston at the time, my lord,” Peel said to Edward, but his attention wandered to the matching sling that Hannah wore. “To this day, the ladies of town go on about that Harvest Ball.”
Interest sparkled in Edward’s eyes. “Did the MacKenzie lassies behave dreadfully, Peel?”
The superintendent moved closer to Hannah. “I wouldn’t be knowing the gospel truth of it, my lord. Gossips have their own way of stitching up the event.” Peel squatted before Hannah. “Have you hurt yourself, lassie?”
Swaying from side to side, she held up her arm. “ ’S’fashion.”
“And quite well done, young lady,” he said with enthusiasm.
Edward rested his hand on her head. “Lady Agnes met with an accident, and Button couldn’t let her suffer alone.”
“Of course she couldn’t, my lord. Hannah’s got a big heart.” Peel stood and addressed both children. “There’s sweet buns left in the kitc
hen, and luncheon aplenty.”
Christopher discarded his heir-to-the-family-business demeanor and chuckled with glee. “May we, Papa?”
Turning to Agnes, Edward tucked his hat under his arm. “You were rather hungry earlier, were you not, my lady?”
The innocuous remark, delivered in an overly concerned tone, held a world of meaning to Agnes. He was thinking of the intimacies they’d shared in the music room, the hunger that had raged between them. The charlatan. “I’ve had my fill and more, Lord Edward. Are you still hungry?”
She watched him deliberate over how to reply. At length he said, “For some delicacies, I am always hungry.”
He deserved a slap in the face, but she would not lower herself.
Into the stilted silence Mr. Peel said, “My lord, you might want to visit Dunbar. I believe he has made some progress. Rather boisterous about it, he was.”
At the mention of the name, Edward grew attentive. “Splendid.”
Hannah and Christopher led the way down a corridor of rooms where hundreds of swatches of cloth and samples of thread were displayed. The hum of machines grew louder with every step. Agnes wondered why Edward had stopped at the dressmaker’s shop when there was cloth aplenty here. She asked him.
The question caught him unprepared, for he stared at her in surprise. “The children need warmer sleeping gowns. The tower rooms hold a chill, even in summer. The modiste was convenient, and you had forgotten your sling.”
Consideration for others had been his motive, and Agnes felt a twinge of shame. She touched his arm. “Have you told anyone here about . . . ?”
“Nay, and the constable will not have spread the tale, since he cannot solve anything above common thievery or a romance gone bad.”
“Then you’re left with me.”
“A very interesting alternative, I must say.”
“You needn’t say anything about that.”
“About how you whimpered—”
She pressed her gloved hand to his mouth. “Haud yer wheesht!” she hissed.
When the scoundrel winked at her, she stepped in front of him and continued down the hallway.
In a larger chamber, a bevy of clerks and accountants worked at desks made in the distinctive style made popular at the turn of the century by Queen Anne. As they traveled farther into the buildings, the sound increased to a muffled roar. Christopher opened another door, and the noise grew so loud it seemed to move the air.
Leaning close and speaking behind his hand, Edward said, “ ’Twill lessen when we’re out of these stone rooms. The shed itself is made partially of wood.”
Agnes followed the children into a cavernous room built of stone and wood. The earthen floor was covered in sailcloth. Oddly the sound quieted.
Taking her arm, Edward guided her toward the center aisle.
“A shed?” she asked, taken aback by the size of the place. “That being the scale, Westminster is a chapel.”
He chuckled.
The busy atmosphere held none of the gloom she’d seen in similar textile concerns in China. At either end of this building, huge steam-driven fans, that had the appearance of great iron flowers, kept the air fresh but not drafty. Spaced ten across in long rows, hundreds of looms, with giant spools of thread in an array of colors, filled the room.
The workers looked sober and clean, their clothing worn but cared for. They appeared as Christopher had described them: family men. But women were also a part of this work force, some operated looms, others pushed wheeled carts with fuel to replenish the many lamps.
The workers paused to acknowledge the presence of the earl. He returned their greetings, addressing them by name. Agnes was reminded of her father, who could be counted upon to roll up his sleeves and labor alongside the farmers at harvest time. Agnes and her sisters had been allowed to ride in the wagons. Later she had driven a wagon herself.
In a corner of the mill, near a bank of windows, fabric was stretched on frames. Women, old and young, worked side by side, embroidering designs on the cloth. One loom, different from others, sat off to itself. Of iron, the machine rested on great blocks of wood. The loom produced a long roll of heavy white fabric. “What is that, my lord?”
“A canvas loom. ’Tis the only one of its size and kind in Scotland.”
For years Agnes had helped her sister Mary stretch canvases, but she hadn’t considered where and how the cloth was made. “For artists who employ larger canvas.”
“Much larger.” The loom itself was at least ten feet across, and its spools as tall as she.
“The greater part of this will be shipped abroad to Dutch painters. ’Tis fitting for their grander style.”
“Is it profitable?”
“Surprisingly so. Every year the profit from that loom pays for itself, for Riley, who is the operator, and for Dunbar’s workshop.”
“Then why not have more of the machines and hire more Rileys.”
“ ’Tis a peculiar trade. The younger weavers have no liking for working with flax.” In the clickety-clack dialect of Glaswegians, he said, “The warp and the woof of silk ’twill give us tomorrow’s wages.” In his own voice, he added, “Sailmakers will have to take over the craft when Riley’s had a belly of it.”
Looking to the left, she saw a sea of white spools of thread. “Or is the profit too paltry for your tastes?”
“My dear, you cannot wound me with a wee prick of your tongue, and do not expect me to apologize because my business prospers.”
Agnes knew her remark was unfair, but the earl of Cathcart didn’t bother to follow the rules of decorum. “I will wound you as you embarrass me. I’ve heard no apologies from you.”
His chuckle turned cunning. “I apologized once to you. I’ve learned my lesson since.”
He referred to that first kiss they’d shared at the inn in Whitburn. Desire, base and raw. The truth behind his seduction saddened her.
“Banish that dire notion that spins in your head, Agnes,” he insisted, moving close. “For it does not aid our cause.”
“We have no cause.”
“Another truce, then. Have you other questions about the operation of the mill?”
She thought of the colorful thread in the looms and the white thread against the wall. “Where do you dye the thread?”
“At the rear of the property. ’Tis a distance away, and the road is muddy.”
Christopher dashed in front of them. “May we go to the kitchen, Papa?”
“Aye, but you’re to have only one bun each.” He spoke pointedly to both of them. “Hazel’s making partridge.”
“One for you,” Christopher said to Hannah, “and one for me.”
Moving between the children, Agnes said, “I’ll accompany them.” She had no intention of leaving them alone.
He paused, uncertain. “I should like to consult with Dunbar.”
“Go on with you, then,” she encouraged. “We’ll entertain ourselves.”
Indicating a windowed room beyond the great canvas loom, he said, “There’s Dunbar’s workroom. I shan’t be long.”
Progress to the kitchen was slow. The children were hailed by one person after another, all of them solicitous of Hannah’s fashionable sling. Agnes felt a warmth about the people, certainly no artifice. But what about the clerks? And what had sent Peel down into that room with the locked entry?
Looking across the building, Agnes saw Edward enter the workroom he’d spoken of. He spoke briefly to the man who must be Dunbar, then followed him to a bench. As one, they examined a bulbous glass containing an amber liquid. After another lengthy discussion, Edward removed his jacket and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. Even from this distance, she couldn’t mistake his enthusiasm or avoid comparing him to her father.
Wondering what had captured his interest, Agnes followed the children to the kitchen. But when next she saw the earl of Cathcart, his first words shocked her.
* * *
“The bloody bastard’s been in the carriage.
I found this in the seat.” He held out the smaller golden version of the MacKenzie badge, the one she’d attached to the tartan and placed over the damaged Napier crest in his study. She’d been so shocked at seeing the dead dove wrapped in the plaid, she’d forgotten the brooch.
They stood in the side yard of the mill, outside the kitchen and near the building housing the school. Hannah and Christopher were saying their farewells to the other children in the yard. Jamie, the driver, was examining the harnesses.
The wide road leading from the front of the building was rutted and worn from the constant stream of wagons. Beyond it lay a pasture with a few fat cattle and a small herd of recently sheared sheep. The area between the school and the mill proper served as storage for a mountain of cone-shaped spools, now empty of thread.
Baffled, Agnes said, “How could he have come onto the property unnoticed? When could he have gotten inside the carriage?”
“Jamie didn’t leave it unattended for long, just for necessity. But surely someone would have noticed a stranger.”
Agnes remembered seeing the cooper’s wagon enter the yard earlier. “Perhaps he stowed away on one of the delivery wagons.”
Distraught, Edward surveyed their surroundings. “I’m at a loss, Agnes.”
Frustration laced the informality. She asked him about the stairwell behind the iron grate.
“Tis the old dungeon. We keep the treasury there, and our charter.”
“A dungeon?”
“Aye, complete with manacles and an iron maiden.”
This was not the first time trouble had visited the mill. She remembered their conversation at the Dragoon Inn in Edinburgh. “You said there had been a fire here. When did it occur?”
He pointed to a scorched brick building on a patch of blackened ground beyond the schoolhouse. The roof, doors, and windows were gone, leaving only the charred masonry. “ ’Twas there. It occurred last March.”
“The same time as the arrival of Mrs. Borrowfield?”
“Yes, by God. I did not link the two.”
That was her expertise, but she wouldn’t remind him of it. “What was in the building at the time of the fire? Was anyone hurt?”
