Starlight (The Christies)

by Carrie Lofty

  By the age of sixteen, Alex had planned to marry Mamie when they were grown. No passion beyond their shared political causes had ever been part of their union. Instead, they had forged on with mutual respect, common tastes and pursuits, and the wish to honor years of companionship.

  He had nothing in common with Polly, nor had he known her long.

  Yet there he stood, scanning the room for a glimpse of her bonfire hair.

  Connie Nells stepped forward to the lectern. She was a solid woman, hearty and stout, with blond-brown hair swept back in a bun. Her husband, Walt, stood toward the front of the crowd. He had crossed his arms in an intimidating way, but the encouragement he offered Connie in the form of a smitten smile belied his posture. He didn’t seem upset with his wife’s position in the union, just protective of her place.

  Alex stayed close to the wall, curious. He still couldn’t see Polly. Made sense, since she was so short. In a lot of ways she reminded him of his dear stepmother. Same fire. Same surprising strength in a small package. But whereas Catrin—the only mother he’d ever known—had used subtle tactics, Polly charged at the world with browbeating smiles. He didn’t understand where she pulled up such reserves of optimism. But it was infectious. Her brightness was slowly, furtively sneaking into his bones.

  Connie raised her hands and tried to quiet the crowd. After a try or two, she looked to her husband. Walt cupped his hands and shouted, “Shut up!”

  The assembly quieted enough for Connie to offer her welcome. “As you know, Graham Gowan suffers from white lung and has been housebound for some time.” Many nodded, their expressions brimming with sympathy. “But I am pleased to say that he remains strong enough to advise his chosen second. Part of our purpose here today is to approve or reject his choice.”

  Alex frowned and stood straighter. Murmurs blanketed the crowd in a buzz of expectation.

  Connie raised her hands again, which achieved her ends this time. “You probably suspect who I mean, but let me introduce her formally. She’ll speak for a moment, and then we’ll vote.”

  Alex spotted Polly making her way toward the front of the crowd, then right up to the lectern. The jump his heart made was as annoying as it was predictable. Her gown’s dark forest color accentuated pale skin and vibrant hair. Red flushed her cheeks and brightened her freckles. She kept her keen eyes level and her chin up. If the rules of Society were written down somewhere, Polly Gowan had never received a copy. She did as she pleased.

  “I want to thank you all for coming out tonight,” she began, beaming as broadly as Alex had ever seen. “And thanks again to Hamish for reserving our space here in the common hall. It’s just small enough to ensure none of us will feel the cold.”

  Laughter met her remark, which had been delivered with just the right amount of sweetness. Even Hamish grinned, his body language as formidable as Walt’s. Polly glanced across her people with obvious satisfaction. Then her gaze caught on Alex. He kept his expression as neutral as possible.

  She blinked. Her bright eyes widened only a fraction. Quickly, she looked away.

  “And on a Wednesday, no less,” she said with a laugh—that one slightly strained. “Forgive my father for forgetting what a challenge it can be to feed and bed children in the middle of the week. Obviously my brothers and I have become far too independent.” She nodded to two young men standing off to the left, both of whom shared Polly’s distinctive coloring: pale skin, green eyes, and hair like flames. “Although I’m doomed to continue my independent ways, Heath and Wallace will be more than happy to burden our da for as long as humanly possible.”

  Slowly, Alex began to relax. She was a marvel. Often he had stood at the front of a lecture hall or, more recently, at the head of a boardroom. But that was not his forte. Polly’s example was one of confidence, cheeky humor, and some untenable magnetism. He could not help but be pulled in. She had the whole assembly in her power.

  “Of course you know why we’re here.” Her voice took on a serious timbre. “No one has yet come forward to claim responsibility for the destruction at Christie Textiles, which resulted in permanent damage to Mary Worth’s right hand. That reminds me—Heath has the collection for Mary and the other victims. Please donate what you can.”

  The taller of the two brothers, who sported a ragged young beard, held up a glass jar that rattled with coins.

  “But even more seriously, our failure to find the saboteur risks our reputation as lawful citizens. We have an opportunity to prove to the masters that we can, indeed, police our own. We can show them that we are not the mindless droves they believe us to be. My da has clasped that dream close to his heart for nearly three decades. I intend to continue his policy. Whether you wish that to happen depends on your vote.”

  “We’re behind you, Polly,” Les called. Shouts of approval followed his.

  “Thank you. All of you. So please . . . do this for your community. If you know anything about the explosion, talk to me. Talk to my father. We seek only a fair resolution to this chaos.”

  Alex listened, transfixed. What sort of childhood had inspired her current position in life? So many questions, each chasing fast on the heels of his fascination.

  “And if someone comes forward to press for violence?” came a voice from the crowd.

  Scowling at Polly was a tall, skinny young man with dark hair that poked out raggedly around his ears. He had the face of an attack dog. The hairs on Alex’s arms stood straight up. The union had gathered for measured debate, but the skinny lad was a provocateur.

  Polly’s stare was a direct challenge. “Air your grievance.”

  “Why bother? No one fights the Gowans.”

  “Watch yourself,” she said. “You’re speaking out of line and you know it.”

  Polly flicked her eyes toward Alex. For three heartbeats, they clashed.

  She’s hiding something.

  In particular, she was hiding something with regard to that young man.

  To conceal the fists he could not help tensing, Alex crossed his arms. Then he nodded to Polly as if to say, Continue.

  By all means, continue, Miss Gowan.

  Nine

  Although Polly felt her smile slipping, she forced her expression to remain bright and encouraging.

  Alex had come. And so had Tommy.

  The two were as volatile as the explosives used to rip a hole in Christie Textiles. And, with a shiver of recognition, she realized that she’d kissed both men. The only other man who’d ever touched her was Rand Livingstone, but that memory evoked a very different shiver. No pleasure. Only the fear of having been completely powerless, even just for a moment—until she had grabbed back her control with a swift knee to his bollocks.

  Alex had the potential to control her. She felt it as her body leaned forward at the lectern. Greed. Curiosity. A hundred emotions, none of which agreed on a course of action. He wore a flat cap that nearly concealed the angry red slash above his eyebrow. His garments were practically those of an ordinary laborer, yet something about his posture gave him away. Not so combative. Just more assured. For some reason she’d never realized how tall he was. The assembly hall held no power to diminish his height.

  He’d snuck in. Blunt on occasion and so clever underneath it all, of course he had. Polly could not help her sense of having been duped. She would’ve invited him had he asked.

  But she couldn’t concern herself with Alex right then. Tommy looked as if he’d spent the last week in an alley. Perhaps he had. Others in the crowd clapped him on the back and smiled at his return. She only prayed Alex wouldn’t overhear some incriminating remark. Given the right clues, he could easily put two and two together. She wanted a moment alone to brain Tommy before anyone else had the chance.

  Yet the whole of the room awaited her next remarks.

  “We all know that there may be difficulties in the future,” she said, voice clear and even. “With the arrival of Alex Christie as our new master, we have reason to hope that our expectations
will be satisfied. We deserve to be heard.”

  “Bully to that,” called a man with a raised fist. “How do you know he’s any different than the rest of the scheming masters? They take us for all we’re worth.”

  “We haven’t had a raise in over a year.”

  “The only concessions we’ve had are the new fans. But they use that as an excuse to dock our pay packets.”

  “How many of us must be sacked before we strike back?”

  “The new master won’t be any different. Don’t you make that mistake, young lady.”

  Polly’s head spun with the anger spewing forth from so many mouths. The timbre in the room had shifted. Her authority was slipping away with each new angry comment.

  “Unless tending the new master’s needs has given you special insight,” came another voice.

  “Is that true, Polly?” A smirk of satisfaction shaped Sarah’s perfect lips. “Taken up with His Highness?”

  Polly wanted to utter the first retort that came to mind. No more than you’ve taken up with George Winchester. But she kept quiet.

  “Few of you have made the effort to know him,” she said. “Whatever I do is on behalf of our interests. Any who doubt that can take it up with me personally. Just remember how well I can swing a punch.” She aimed that last directly at Sarah.

  The adults were scowling now. They were as frustrated as she, needing answers, needing guarantees. And they were spoiling for a fight. She had to end this. Now.

  “Do you remember those moments in the mill?” she shouted. With an angry swipe, she tossed back curls made unruly by the dampness. “Men, have your wives told you how scared they were for their lives and for the lives of your children? Do you remember how we ran for the doors and nearly gave that unknown villain what he wanted? There’d have been seventy dead, charred to a crisp. And what would the papers have said?”

  “Animals.” Hamish’s voice was low, but it carried well. “We’d have been dubbed animals.”

  “That’s right. I said it then and I mean it still. They’d have painted us as dumb Calton scum who hadn’t the sense to escape a burning building. The blame would’ve been pinned on one of our ranks, with all the sympathy directed at the masters who endure our agitation.”

  Her head with throbbing with a heavy pulse. Her people were scared, and she could set them right. She could calm them when everyone else panicked, even if that meant no calm for her.

  “So I ask you,” she continued, her voice harsh. “Is that how you want to be remembered? Because I refuse with all my strength. I will not be defined by others. I will not be bullied by others. And if you can’t stand with me, then I cannot be your leader.”

  Silence greeted her words. Eyes flicked around the room, meeting other hostile, discouraged expressions. For her part, Polly found the only safe haven in the room. It should have been one of her brothers. Perhaps Les or Hamish. Her allies in this fight.

  But it was Alex.

  Again, she recognized his talent for communicating so much with so few alterations to his features. Just a shift of his eyes, a different set to his firm lips. She only felt . . . warmed. Supported by what she took to be admiration.

  Whether or not it was true had no importance right then. She needed the fantasy. He was a harbor amid the ever-strengthening voices that debated her future.

  Among the men, Tommy postured and raised his fists. Hamish and Heath slipped quietly through the group and restrained him, using just enough force to hold him back without riling him further. She wondered what they said to ease the tension that twisted his back. She wondered what the others had said to rile him in the first place.

  Bloody hell, she needed to corner him. Soon.

  “So what say you, Calton weavers?” Her throat scratched and ached with the force of bellowing over so many opinions. “Will you give into this goading? Or will you follow me as you followed my da, toward a place of respect no one will deny?”

  Some shouts of approval gave her hope. She lowered her voice. “I need you, my friends. So do our neighbors and families. Mrs. Dervish is out of work again because of her hip. Will we abandon her? Sammy Higgins. Are you here, man?”

  “Aye, lassie.”

  “Sammy’s eye is gone, an injury he suffered at Locksman Woolens. Will we abandon him, and his dear wife, Patrice? Because if we choose the path of violence, that is our fate. The strongest among us will be jailed, our voices stripped. The neediest among us will be left without aid. Then look at the babes you carry and imagine them orphans. I swear to you, that is the darkness we court.”

  She paused, with another quick glance back to Alex. “And if we don’t find the culprit behind the damage at the Christie mill, we will be blamed for it.”

  Talking could only take opinions so far. Da had always said as much. Eventually, one needed to step away and let minds come to their own conclusions. Those conclusions stayed firm.

  So she exhaled and opened her hands. “It’s time to vote. I leave it to you, friends.”

  She stepped down from the lectern and strode through the crowd that parted for her. After grabbing her tartan shawl off a hook, she left the hall. Only when out of sight did she lean against the nearest wall, close her eyes, and breathe.

  The door opened, then closed just as abruptly.

  She looked up, half expecting Alex to have followed her. What would he say? She couldn’t begin to guess. But it was Tommy Larnach.

  Alex stood rooted. His shoulders dug into the wall at his back.

  He wanted to go after Polly, but he would be too conspicuous. Even watching the skinny, dark-haired lad follow her into the corridor was not inducement enough to make him move. He needed to see how this group of angered, scared people reacted to Polly’s measured plea. Her words had raised goose bumps along his bruised and aching nape. In the United States, her skills as an orator would’ve been a marvelous asset for those advocating workers’ rights.

  Here, she could be the most potent threat to his business, his success, his future. And yet she had so eloquently advocated negotiation and finding the saboteur.

  Finally, after minutes that dragged like weeks, Connie Nells returned to the lectern. Interesting that a woman took control of the vote. Maybe it was another tactic to soothe the multitudes. Alex knew full well that had his father stood in her place, he wouldn’t have been able to refrain reiterating his position—and threatening those who disagreed. The man had charged through life, half brute and half cagey tycoon. Whether that was to be admired or frowned upon had depended on the moment.

  However, the union needed even tempers.

  Walt Nells only needed to clap his hands a few times. Everyone quieted and looked with mixed expressions toward his wife. Some anger. Some resolve. Some fatigued resignation. Alex had no guess as to the vote’s outcome.

  “No more deliberations, I think.” Connie’s words carried about as much punch as she could muster, but with a peaceful Lowlands lilt—nearly a lullaby. “All in favor of opening the floor at the next meeting toward the purpose of suggesting new leadership, raise your hands. Hamish and Walt will take the count.”

  Tense moments passed.

  “Twenty-one,” called Hamish from one side of the room.

  “That’s what I have,” Walt replied.

  “The count stands at twenty-one. Now for Polly Gowan.” Connie wet her lower lip. She handled herself well, but public speaking was obviously not her strong suit. “As a reminder, Polly’s position would be known only to us, for her own safety and our combined success. The police will not respect a woman at the head of our union. And the masters may not take our demands seriously. Graham Gowan would retain the official title. All in favor, raise your hands.”

  Again Hamish and Walt circled the room. Alex tried to count, but his place against the back wall allowed no clear vantage.

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Aye.”

  A whoop of approval surged up from the crowd. Alex breathed out. She was a tricky devil, but at le
ast Polly Gowan was the devil he knew.

  As people shared congratulatory smiles and handshakes, and as mothers roused their sleeping children, Alex slipped into the corridor. He did not want to be spotted. Polly’s success might be completely undone if anyone knew he had attended.

  He stopped short. The dark-haired lad stood entirely too close to Polly. Detained by wiry arms, she fought with the wall at her back. They shouted at each other in unison. Their strong Glaswegian accents were incomprehensible when spoken at the same time, blending into a messy brogue, but their argument contained as much of the Lowlands dialect as English. There was no deciphering any of it.

  Alex slammed the door to the meeting hall.

  As one, they turned toward him. The lad grinned, nasty and severe. Polly showed no hint of reaction. How did she do that? Without preamble or apology, she shoved the young man’s bony chest. Then she hissed something Alex couldn’t understand—maybe more of that Scots language.

  The lad only laughed. His eyes remained sharp and dangerous.

  Alex’s scalp throbbed with an oncoming headache. “What the hell is going on?”

  Polly didn’t look back as she strode past. “Not your business, master.”

  He caught up quickly. But he didn’t touch her, not with a pair of dark, keen eyes upon them. “Aren’t you curious how the vote came down?”

  “I won. There would’ve been a brawl otherwise. All that violence unleashed in the guise of celebration. In the meantime they must to be civil.” She shook her head, as if remembering her present company. Then she huffed a sharp breath—her only sign of relief. “I’m going home.”

  “No, you’re not.” He opened the door for her and forced her to meet his gaze. “You’re going to take me to Old Peter’s.”

  “You need no direction. I’ve heard tell you visited already.”