Veil of Honor

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “I thought I could trust him,” Will said bitterly. “He came with impeccable references.”

  “Perhaps he was diligent, until he learned you had no time to properly monitor him,” Bridget said. “Temptation skews the morals of many men.”

  Lilly put her hand on Will’s arm. “I just thought of the perfect man for this, Will.”

  “Who?” he asked tiredly.

  “Morgan,” Lilly replied.

  “Cousin Morgan?” Bridget replied, stunned. “Ben’s little brother?” Although, he wasn’t little anymore. Morgan was one of the men in the family who stood over six feet tall.

  “The very one,” Lilly said, smiling.

  Will rubbed his chin, the blond beard rasping. “He was a bookworm at Eton. He finished at the top of his class at Cambridge…”

  “Where he read Economics,” Lilly finished.

  Will dropped his hand. “I am in your debt, Lilly. This is, indeed, the perfect solution.” He reached for the door handle, just behind him. “I will go deal with the wretched Mr. Stephenson, first.”

  “Make sure he leaves all his books behind, Will!” Bridget called after him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lilly agreed to stay until Morgan arrived in Kirkaldy. Bridget wrote a letter that Will dictated and signed, asking Morgan if he would be interested in a permanent appointment managing all Will’s family business affairs and outlining the extent of them.

  Morgan’s letter arrived two days later, saying he would complete some initial investigations and interview Mr. Stephenson, for Morgan would be more thorough in his questioning than Bridget or Will knew how to be. When Morgan had a clear grasp of the family business, he would come to discuss the matter with Will.

  “I like that he didn’t immediately jump at the offer,” Will said, when Bridget finished reading the letter to him. “He is cautious.”

  “I imagine his services are in demand. Morgan would have to weigh all the potential commissions he would be giving up, against what you offer him. You must keep that in mind, Will, when you talk to him.”

  Will looked startled and then thoughtful. “I had not considered that aspect,” he murmured. “Where did you learn of it, Bree?”

  “Nowhere,” she admitted. “The thought just occurred to me, that is all.” After days of examining ledgers and journals and dealing with financial concepts that had been unknown to her a week ago, it sometimes seemed as though her mind might burst from the new ideas. They swirled in her head all day, connecting up facts she had known all her life that she had not fully understood.

  Thanks to Lilly’s training, Bridget had realized why England profited when a new colony was established. The flow of new goods back to England—tea and spices from India and wool from Australia, silk from Singapore, among many goods—enhanced both the colonies’ coffers and England’s overall wealth.

  The new ideas had made her think about the household budget she had always considered to be an artificial constraint, limiting her opportunities to do what she pleased with the house. Now she understood how a single household’s budget fit within the larger concerns that provided revenue.

  She got to her feet and handed Morgan’s letter back to Will. “I must see how Lilly is doing with Mr. Stephenson’s books.”

  Lilly had spread the journals and volumes Stephenson had left behind across the dining table, which made Bakersfield frown. She looked up as Bridget returned and wrinkled her nose. “Will should have the man arrested. These records are abysmal, Bridget.”

  Bridget’s heart sank. “Can the situation be recovered, Lilly?”

  “I suppose it can be,” Lilly said, putting her pen down and rubbing her forehead. “It must, mustn’t it? One cannot go on without money, as much as the upper class would like to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  “Only because they have so much of it, they can ignore it, most of the time,” Bridget replied. “When it is in short supply, one would think of little else.”

  “Poor Aunt Elisa,” Lilly said, with a grimace, rubbing her forehead. “I do feel for her, having to deal with the shopkeepers. Really, I do think Stephenson should be reprimanded in some way.”

  “Being dismissed without a reference is reprimand enough,” Bridget said. “He will have the hardest time finding any position at all, let alone one where trust is required of his employer.” She watched Lilly dig her fingers into her temples and got to her feet. “I think it is time for you to relax for a while, Lilly. We have been terrible hosts, throwing you into work as soon as you got here.”

  “It was necessary,” Lilly said, “and I’m glad I am here to help with this.”

  “Let me take you into Inverness,” Bridget said. “An excursion to stretch our legs and breathe fresh air. Mrs. MacDonald has given me the name and address of a seamstress who can let out my dresses.”

  Lilly smiled. “A good seamstress is a necessary resource. Every time I have born a child, my waist gets a little bit larger. It can be distressing.”

  “It is also a reason to buy new dresses,” Bridget replied, with a smile.

  * * * * *

  Mrs. Barr, like Mrs. MacDonald, was a widow living in a tiny terrace house on Culduthel Road, on the east bank of the River Ness. Culduthel Road was a narrow lane lined with such houses, each with a tiny garden in the front. Soot covered the walls and roofs and the gardens were already moribund for frost came early in the year, this far north.

  Bridget had seen rows of houses like this in London and had always marveled that entire families could live in such small accommodations. The terraces in London were different from this sad place, though. The roads in London were thick with carriages and pedestrians, coming and going, giving them a busy hum.

  This narrow lane was bereft of traffic and some of the houses looked empty and forlorn.

  Mrs. Barr’s house had chimneys giving off smoke. Lace hung at the windows, which were clean.

  “It is dismal, isn’t it?” Bridget murmured as they opened the gate and moved down the narrow path to the front door.

  “There are lots of places in the north just like this,” Lilly said, as Bridget knocked on the door. “Even Northallerton has bleak sections where the poorest live.”

  Mrs. Barr was a tiny woman, who only came up to Bridget’s shoulder. She had faded blue eyes and silver hair although she moved with energy, nevertheless. She held the door open to let Lilly and Bridget into the house after Bridget explained why they were there.

  The two of them stepped into the front room of the little house. Bridget halted a step inside the door, astonished.

  She had expected that a front room would, as the name implied, be a formal room with the family’s best furniture put on display, with cushions and other comforts to help them relax.

  This room was an explosion of tables and work surfaces, most of them stacked with boxes and bolts of cloth, while tools and sewing implements laid scattered over the remaining surfaces.

  A peat fire crackled in the small hearth.

  “My Lord…” Lilly murmured, looking around.

  Mrs. Barr smiled. “I am a widow, my lady. I must provide for myself as best I can. This is how I do it.”

  “You make enough money from your sewing?” Bridget asked curiously, for she had never before considered the idea that the work a seamstress did was of enough value to provide a living.

  “I make enough to get by,” Mrs. Barr said, her cheeks turning pink.

  “I do apologize,” Bridget said. “That was rude of me. My only excuse is that recently, I have become aware of the myriad ways that a person can…well….”

  “How people make money,” Lilly said.

  Mrs. Barr laughed at Lilly’s frank tone, relaxing. “Och, well, we turn our hands to whatever pays. Mrs. Adair, over the road, there, she’s been a widow for three years now. Her poor excuse for a husband couldn’t find work most of the time before he had the good grace to die, so she has been weaving for years.” Mrs. Barr moved over to one of the work tables. Her
dress swished across the floor, which was clear of rugs and carpets, yet swept clean and tidy. Her dress, Bridget noted for the first time, was not stained or torn. It was not the height of fashion or made of expensive material, although the black bombazine fit properly around Mrs. Barr’s figure and a simple lace collar finished the neckline.

  Mrs. Barr lifted a dust cloth and pulled from beneath it two bolts of cloth.

  Lilly drew in a sharp breath. “Oh my, look at those colors!” She moved forward, with her hand out. “May I?” she asked Mrs. Barr.

  Mrs. Barr pushed aside tools and spools of thread and laid the bolts out, so the fabric could be better seen in the light from the little, lace-framed window.

  Bridget moved over to examine them. The fabric was wool tweed, made of the most astonishing mix of colors. The one on the left was blue and green with flecks of brown and white, while the one on the right was a wonderful, unexpected mix of lavender purple, dusky pink and a flesh-colored thread running through both.

  “Feel how soft they are, Bridget,” Lilly murmured, running a fold of the blue and brown tweed over her hand. “Oh, I would so like a walking suit made of this. Would you be able to accommodate the commission, Mrs. Barr?”

  Mrs. Barr’s eyes twinkled. “I would be most happy to, my lady. I’ll just get my tape measure.” She moved away.

  Bridget unrolled the purple tweed so that a full yard hung in her hands. The weight and drape of the tweed was delightful. The wool was warm against her hand. It would make a lovely suit or jacket or coat.

  Mrs. Barr came back with a tape measure in her hands.

  “Mrs. Barr, would you be willing to sell me the entire bolt of this cloth?” Bridget asked, as ideas popped into her mind.

  “Good Lord…the whole bolt?” Mrs. Barr asked.

  “Yes,” Bridget said firmly. “There is a dress designer in Brighton I think would like this quality of cloth and these colors very much indeed.”

  Mrs. Barr pushed her bottom lip out. “Those? Those are quite ordinary. If ye do appreciate the colors, then you should see what else Mrs. Adair has made. First, let’s get you both measured up, then I’ll take you over to Mrs. Adair’s house and introduce ye.”

  Mrs. Adair was far younger than Bridget had been expecting. She was not much older than Bridget, with raven black hair twisted into a simple knot on the top of her head and a long nose. She was taller than either Bridget or Lilly and thin.

  It was just as well she was not a corpulent shape, for the weaving loom sitting in her front room took up nearly every inch of the space, forcing Mrs. Adair to turn sideways to move into the rear of the house.

  Rolls of finished tweed were stacked on the top row of large pegs hammered into the wall in a regular grid, while the pegs beneath held strands of gaily colored wool, laid out in ordered batches of color, a range of browns and gold and cream.

  The fabric already woven on the loom was a beautiful array of dark green and light green and a thin block of red. The warp threads were red and black. The overall pattern looked like little red creatures dancing across a meadow of fabric.

  “Oh, Bridget…” Lilly breathed. “I didn’t know such a pattern was even possible.”

  Mrs. Adair smiled. “I don’t know of any other weaver who makes it. I made the pattern up myself.”

  Bridget’s heart hurried along as she stared at the loom. “Who buys your tweeds, Mrs. Adair?”

  The lady’s face fell a little. “Well, I have customers here and there… Enough, one might say, to get by.”

  “You could sell this tweed in London for five shillings a yard,” Lilly said.

  Both Mrs. Barr and Mrs. Adair’s mouths opened and their eyes widened.

  “Five shillings?” Mrs. Adair said. She touched her cheek. “God in his heaven.” She clutched Mrs. Barr’s arm.

  Mrs. Barr patted her hand. “‘tis no point dreaming about riches, Adele. Ye’d have to get the cloth there, then sell it and while you’re selling it, who’d be making new yardage, hmm?”

  Bridget shook her head. “It’s not just a matter of selling the cloth,” she said apologetically. “How many yards can you make in a day, Mrs. Adair?”

  “Once the loom is set up, I can make nearly six yards.” She hesitated. “It takes more than a day to arrange the warp threads and set up the loom, though.”

  Mrs. Barr sighed. “A simple skirt takes ten yards. A gentleman’s jacket takes five.”

  Bridget nodded. “If your tweed became fashionable, Mrs. Adair, and I have no doubt that if the fashion houses in London saw your cloth, it would become instantly sought after, you would not be able to meet the demand making six yards a day.”

  Lilly gave Bridget a startled look. “I would never have thought of that…” she murmured.

  Mrs. Adair sighed. “More’s the pity.” She looked wistful.

  Bridget nodded. “Therefore, we must figure out a way to make more of it, every day.”

  All three women gaped at her.

  “Tell me more about how you weave such beautiful tweed, Mrs. Adair,” Bridget urged her. “Are there many ladies who know how to weave like this? Tell me everything you know.”

  * * * * *

  The bolt of purple tweed sat between them on the carriage seat as they drove home. Lilly ran her fingers over the cloth, playing with the ends. “What are you thinking, Bridget? That you can sell cloth for the women, in London?”

  “Tell me it will not be instantly popular, if I tried,” Bridget replied.

  “Oh, I am sure it would be, only you yourself pointed out that six yards a day isn’t nearly enough to meet such demand. You cannot ask women like Mrs. Adair to work more than she does already. That loom in that tiny little house…they would do nothing all day but weave, to make more money.” Lilly shook her head. “Mr. Dickens, before he died, always spoke in the newspapers about the hard labor that poor people face just to feed themselves and their families. You would be contributing to that.”

  “Only, they wouldn’t be in London,” Bridget pointed out. “They would be here, in Scotland, where they have always lived.” Yet her heart sank a little. “Clearly, I must consider this further, but, oh, the possibilities, Lilly!”

  * * * * *

  Morgan arrived at Kirkaldy late the following day, just as Lilly was preparing to leave. Just like Iefan, Rhys Davies’ oldest son, Morgan, who was next in age, had inherited his father’s dark Welsh good looks and the Celtic temperament to go with it. Bridget had always found him to be an intense man, quiet and introspective in the shadow of his older brothers. He was only a few years older than Bridget.

  He was sitting in the library with Will when Bridget came downstairs from nursing Elizabeth. Morgan’s smile when he saw her chased all the darkness from his features. “You look gloriously well for a lady so recently confined,” he said, his deep voice rumbling pleasantly.

  “Not that one would know it, judging by her activity,” Will added as he rose from his seat behind the desk and placed another chair beside Morgan for Bridget to use.

  “I have reason for the activity,” Bridget said, sitting down. “Will has explained everything to you, Morgan? Will you stay and help?”

  “We were just going through what I learned in London,” Morgan said. He hesitated. “Perhaps we can finish the conversation after dinner,” he said, glancing at Will. “There’s no need to discuss business with a lady present.”

  Will didn’t flinch or react. He said evenly, “You must accustom yourself to speaking of business affairs in front of Bridget. In fact, you will need to explain yourself to Bridget more than you will to me, in the future. If that makes you uncomfortable, Morgan, you should say so now.”

  Morgan’s black brows came together as he looked from one to the other of them. He weighed his answer with a sober expression, taking his time. “Did you hear that the women who live in the Territory of Utah, in America, have been given the right to vote?” he said.

  Will snorted. “How extraordinary.”

  Mo
rgan shook his head. “It is a sign of things to come, Will. Utah may be the first, although it will not be the last authority to do so. Who am I to argue with the progressive times we live in? If ladies are capable of voting, then they are capable of running businesses and discussing financial affairs.” He inclined his head toward Bridget.

  “Thank you, Morgan,” Bridget said. The first large hurdle had been overcome.

  “Although, I must warn you, Bridget,” Morgan continued, “that you may find the task overwhelming. The Fairleigh family is an old one, whose roots go deep. Will’s grandfather mangled the finances, speculating wildly in some quite bizarre businesses. Will’s father reversed the damage and more than made up the difference.” Morgan smiled. “Some of your grandfather’s wilder investments have actually paid off, decades later, Will. There is a sugar-beet farm and factory in Georgia, for instance. The carpet business in Constantinople, of course.” He paused. “I’m not sure that Mr. Stephenson would have served you well, even if he had been kept in line all these years. He did not strike me as a man with an imagination. If he had been, he would have disguised his thievery better.”

  “Is that what is required? Imagination?” Bridget asked.

  “If it is, then you will not find Bridget lacking in that regard,” Will said. “I have heard more in the last day about colors and tweed and fashion in London than I ever thought I might, here in northern Scotland.”

  Morgan smiled. “Women must have their dresses, Will. Without pretty dresses, society would be a boring place indeed.”

  “Exactly, Morgan,” Bridget said, her enthusiasm building. “You should see the fabric that the women weave and sew, here. It is glorious! I am positive it would sell in London, if only someone could represent the women there. I have sent a bolt of the tweed to a dress designer I know and I fully expect she will want more of it—as much as Mrs. Adair could make. I’ve been trying to think of a way for ladies like Mrs. Adair to make more, because if we show the cloth in London, the demand will be there.”