by Carrie Lofty
“That’s why we’re here.” Hamish’s weariness was beginning to show. “To reach a consensus.”
Polly indulged one brief, selfish thought. Now you know how difficult it is, my friend. But that was all she permitted. Sadness and dread urged her to jump to the front of the room.
Another voice chimed in. “Are we even agreed that a strike is necessary?”
Shouts of disagreement drowned out Hamish’s reply. He raised his hands, joining in the fray of voices, before dropping his arms. The cocksure man appeared lost.
“I should go home,” Connie whispered. “We both should, Polly.”
The tone had changed so drastically that the meeting more closely resembled the last moments before a pub brawl broke out. Polly could stand it no longer. “I won’t let it end this way.”
Her feet propelled her toward the front of the sweltering warehouse. She was halfway there when one particular shout proved just how close they were to ruin.
“We’ll take it to the masters! Take it to their homes and families. See how they like it!”
Her guts clenched when that call for violence wasn’t met with censure—but with cheers of approval.
She hurried forward, more determined now.
“Polly, don’t!” Connie pleaded from where Walt stood by the exit.
Her shout was, by far, the most sensible offered that evening. And it was the only one Polly chose to ignore.
She shoved past a score of angered men and women. Her elbows connected with ribs and the meat of shoulders. Some cursed her, but most parted, wearing looks of surprise. Persevering meant holding on to her patience, her courage, and her sense of right and wrong. So many considerations—but she was certain of each one.
She broke through to the front of the gathering, suddenly undaunted by the bodies. She caught her balance and stumbled into place beside Hamish. Perhaps she appeared as some pratfall stage act, because some of the shouting quieted. Well, at least she had surprise on her side.
“That was harder than it should’ve been,” she said with a forced grin.
Hamish’s cheeks were an unhealthy white along the top of his beard. Sweat matted the bright red hair against his forehead and turned his neckerchief limp. He appeared as if that fight in a pub had already taken place, with only a few bruises and cracked teeth missing from his air of defeat.
“Do you mind, Hamish? I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.”
He nodded, almost dumbfounded. Good. More surprise.
And there she stood, surround by a crescent of expectant faces, with the north wall at her back. Every voice quieted. She made a point of making contact with each set of eyes in the front row. Look. Hold. Connect with scared souls and angered hearts.
The room was hers.
“I saw my da buried today,” she said quietly.
Those words hadn’t been planned. She flinched, in fact, as if someone else had spoken of her father’s casket being lowered, how that shiny pine had dulled with the first fistful of dirt from Ma’s hands. Her eyes watered and her throat closed around the punch of grief. She had nothing left but what could be wrested from the stubborn, frightened, hopeful hearts of her fellow weavers.
She couldn’t stop. Not now. Da would’ve been standing there in her place, had he been well and able. Instead she stood for them both.
“Men still take their hats off as a sign of respect, don’t they?”
Pointedly, she locked eyes with Les. He had always been her most reliable deputy. True to form, and thankfully so, he slid his flat cap off his head. Other blokes followed suit. Hope rose in her chest—hope that she still dealt with civilized men and women, rather than the crazed animals the masters believed them to be.
“He would have had worthy insults for the state of this place,” she said, dubiously eyeing the ceiling. “But probably, he’d hold more pity for the poor sods who work here.”
That got a smile or two. Although she hadn’t spoken at his church service or at his graveside, she felt as if her next few words were the eulogy her da deserved.
“Few of you have any notion of how often he plotted and schemed for our little rabble. He and I sat at our kitchen table, and by the fire when his life was slowly ebbing. All the while, my dear ma sat knitting lace at pennies apiece. She never agreed with dragging me into this rowdy lot. But Da . . . he was as stubborn as me.”
A few more smiles. Quietly reminiscent. The older men and women, especially, shared that humor because they’d worked alongside him for tens of years. Maybe those elders would be able to hold the peace.
“More stubborn, even, because he never once thought about how strange it was to have a girl standing before you. He never once said that he’d wished I was a boy, or that it would be easier if I were a man. I thought that strange more than once, even as I started in. He’d only tell me, ‘Smile for them, girl. No one can think past your smile.’”
The one she wore at that moment felt less forced, more as if she were simply telling tales down at Idle Michael’s.
“Now, I don’t know about that,” she said ruefully. “Because he talked a load of bollocks as often as he talked sense. You remember, Les, that time when he wanted to trade Colin Potts for a pig?”
“Said a pig would’ve worked the looms with more grace,” Les replied. “And would’ve better satisfied Colin’s wife!”
Laughter—nervous at first—changed the mood in the warehouse. Polly wanted to keep that momentum on her side. “And the time he swam across the Clyde after losing a bet with Hamish here?”
“I beat him fair and square,” Hamish said smugly. His white-faced fear was receding. “I finished my quota first.”
An unexpected lightness came over her as she spoke. “Sure you did. Da knew you would, too, just like he knew the bet was good for morale on a day of low spirits—that day, eight years ago, when a quarter of Bennett’s workforce had been made redundant. I swear he laughed the whole way across, just like the rest of us did while watching from the riverbank.”
“There was a lot to laugh at,” a woman called. “Palest arse I ever did see!”
Polly grinned. “It was either swim nude or face Ma with the muddy washing. I know which one any of you would’ve chosen!”
More laughter now, good honest laughter. This was grieving, she knew, just as much as it calmed frayed tempers. She was saying good-bye in ways she hadn’t been able in the cemetery.
“But he would’ve been upset, and rightly so, at this discord. You cannot know how it pains my heart to hear us tonight. This fear. I’m fearful, too. I’m fearful that everything he worked toward will be bowled under by anger and burnt to a crisp by hot tempers.” After a deep breath, she lifted her chin. “I’m here to ask for your patience. Your wisdom. Your ability to compromise. Otherwise we’ll be consigning ourselves to the will of the masters—and consigning my dear da’s life to that of just another dreamer.”
“Please, let’s sit,” Hamish added. “Sit and we’ll take this as civilized people.”
Slowly, so slowly, the forty-odd workers began to take seats on the stacked crates. Les started them off. Polly passed him a grateful nod, and smiled at Connie when she rejoined them, dragging Walt by the hand. The soft rustling of fabric and the occasional scrape of wood against wood replaced the clamor of the previous half hour.
“Polly? If you would?” Hamish gestured toward the lectern, formally giving over his place.
Then he, too, found a place among the crowd. Left alone, she was once again in charge of her people. She’d wanted it all along—purpose, connection, acceptance. But the hollow in her chest could not be ignored. Buoyed by the strength of her da’s memory, and looked upon with glimmers of hope amid so many expectant eyes, she still felt incredibly alone.
“Shut up and get in,” Alex told Polly’s brothers. “She’s at Gorman’s warehouse.”
Although Wallace was built to proportions more suited to a man, he was still but a lad. Both boys shared their sister’s coloring, all whiskey
and flame. “That place is a shithole.”
They barreled into the hackney beside Tommy.
As the horses jerked forward, Alex stared down all three young men. His grip on the head of the walking stick threatened to pop his knuckles right out of his skin. “She’s on her own in Glasgow at night. How could you let her venture out on her own?”
“Let her?” Tommy’s laughter had a hard edge. “No one’s ever let that girl do anything.”
Wallace lifted his chin in a way that reminded Alex of his sister, Vivienne, always challenging the world to think less of her if it dared. “And begging your pardon, sir, we’re not her husband.”
“No, you’re not.”
If Polly really was in danger . . .That evening, he carried a deep, untapped capacity for violence.
A few dockside shops still spilled light onto the wharf—pubs and less-reputable hotels. Certainly not the sort of place where upright citizens ventured after hours. The lads spilled out of the cab with graceless enthusiasm, and Alex tossed the driver a few coins.
He raced ahead of Tommy and the Gowan brothers. Moisture stained each inhale with the rot of the busy harbor, where petroleum slid alongside mold and dead fish. A light fog blurred every line until even the corner joints of brick buildings looked as soft as hair. Through a narrow walkway and up a climb of stone steps, he came to a rise, where a low building dominated a blind alley. In the receiving yard on its south side, a winch and several broken-down wagons waited like shadowy spiders. What should’ve been a lifeless building shone a pale glow.
God grant me another chance. I’ll make it up to her.
Voices in disagreement echoed out from the warehouse and bounced down the tight dead end. He slowed and moved with the darkness until he found a crack of light. A door was ajar.
Inside, Polly was surrounded.
“Thirty, maybe forty people,” Alex rasped as the others caught up with him, “Jesus, what was she thinking?”
He took in the lay of the warehouse’s interior. What he should’ve done was round up the constables, but the union—and Polly in particular—had already suffered menace enough from the authorities. Alex would simply need to wade into that lot as if his name adorned Christie Textiles.
A lucky thing.
But the assured cadence of her voice gave him pause. How calmly she could command people’s respect. How easily she eased even the most restless natures. No wonder he’d fallen for her. She had the power to charm dozens at a time. To find himself the center of her attention was like being hit by lightning. Only, he didn’t hurt. He wasn’t suffering. She had freed him in ways that would take him years to fully understand.
“Now,” she said evenly. “The first thing we need to do is consider our options. As it stands—”
“I have a question, Mrs. Christie.”
Alex saw Polly’s shoulders draw back. In that place, the use of her married name wasn’t a compliment or a show of respect.
“Who said that?”
Rand Livingstone pushed into the semicircle, followed by two men wearing silvery scars across rough faces. “I did, lassie. Tell me, why should anyone give a rot’s toss what you have to say?”
“I’ll put it right back to you, Livingstone. You’ve never stood with us, not like Howard McCutcheon has. He’s been overseer at Christie’s for ten years, but he still sees the path to justice.” She appealed to the crowd. “But has anyone at Winchester’s not felt the weight of Livingstone’s bullying—bloody hell, even his fists and truncheon? Women, tell me you haven’t been pressed to accept his hands on your bodies.”
A fierce undertone attested to her truth.
“That bastard.” Tommy Larnach wheezed and sagged to his knees. The brothers helped by propping him beneath his arms. Thick black hair covered his forehead as he slumped forward. “He’s going to set them all off.”
For the first time, Alex could see why Polly defended this unlikely lad. Fierce and unkempt, sly and menacing, he worked hard to hide a sense of fairness as stern as Polly’s.
Inside the warehouse, Livingstone’s voice lifted to a shout. “There is no Winchester Fabrics now! We need to give Tommy Larnach over to the police and end this.” He turned to sneer at Polly. “And we need to know how willing you are to aid your precious cause, Mrs. Christie. Perhaps you can share information gleaned in the master’s bed? That I’d like to hear. Give us the secrets of the scheming whore who sold out all of Calton.”
Angered cries filled the warehouse. Polly’s magic evaporated, just as molten slag replaced the blood in Alex’s veins.
He slammed open the warehouse door.
Twenty-five
Alex and Polly locked eyes. For that brief moment, they shared every fear and every hope.
Then Rand Livingstone fired a gun.
“You son of a bitch!” Alex bellowed.
Before he could reach the human scum and his hulking bruisers, the scene melted into chaos. Workers in the rough clothing of the poor scattered toward far corners. Men sheltered women behind crates or machinery, while others hurried toward the exits. Alex jumped aside to avoid the crush. He glanced back to where he had seen Tommy, lying between Polly’s brothers, but he could no longer see the lads. He only hoped they would stay together and protect one another from the stampede.
“Polly!”
Like a fish fighting its way upstream, he shouldered past fleeing bodies and called again for his wife. He broke through the crowd but she was gone. He spun in search of her auburn hair.
A crack of fire surged through his jaw. Thought was blown from his head. Reeling, as pain raced like a bullet from skin to bone to brain, he staggered backward and caught his balance against a crate. Another blow smashed the base of his skull. The crate beneath his hands gave way. The whistle of another descending blow gave him a blink of warning.
He flipped onto his back and swung his walking stick. The wood slammed against a man’s forearm. With his attacker doubled up, cradling the wrecked limb, Alex lurched to his feet. To his surprise, he was gathering details with uncanny sharpness. His opponent was one of Livingstone’s cohorts, some ungainly troll with carrot-orange hair and huge shoulders. And the walking stick in Alex’s hand was a much less satisfactory weapon than a nearby pipe.
He snatched up the hollow length of steel. “Where is she?”
“You broke my bloody arm, you bastard,” the brute said with a snarl.
Something grated behind Alex’s left ear when he spoke. So he wasted no words—simply hefted the pipe in one hand and the walking stick in the other. “Where?”
“That man’s bodyguards have her. I was only supposed to scatter the crowd.”
“What man? Livingstone?”
“No! Some Yankee.”
Alex slammed the stick across the man’s upper back, then raised the pipe. “Where is she?”
“Out to the north docks, with the lightweight craft.” The troll’s words were squeaky with panic. “Us and Livingstone were supposed to follow. We’d be paid then. To a schooner called the Mamie.”
No.
Throwing the weight of his frustrations behind it, he jabbed the pipe into the man’s ribs. His stumpy opponent groaned in agony and slumped to the floor.
Alex met him there, grabbing his collar and giving him a shake. He ground the toe of his boot between the man’s legs. “Who has the gun?”
“Livingstone.”
Heath burst into the warehouse. “We saw them!”
Alex shoved the troll’s head against the planks and snatched up the makeshift weapons. Fear like he’d never known made his heart shake like a terrified animal’s. No coincidences. Not now and not like this. Threads of information laced together, weaving a funeral shroud for Josiah Todd.
He left Tommy with Polly’s younger brother. “Wallace, rouse the constables. Invoke my name and send them to the north docks. Make it happen.”
Then he and Heath shot down the alleyway. The young man had found a jagged piece of wood, which he hefted over
his shoulder like a cricket bat. Their footfalls slapped against the moist cobblestones, straight toward the docks. Each pounding step crushed pain up through Alex’s jaw and the base of his skull. He focused on his aches rather than fears.
So many times he’d led with his brain, as if his body was just a container to carry his thoughts from place to place. Now his body was his most important asset. He’d beat Josiah Todd into oblivion with his bare hands. If Livingston or anyone else was stupid enough to intervene, they’d get the same.
“Here!” Heath tore around a corner, Alex on his heels.
A dozen yards later, they burst onto the main walkway that ran parallel to the docks. Ships of all shapes and sizes cluttered the River Clyde, maybe a hundred in all.
“A schooner called the Mamie,” Alex grated out.
Heath hesitated, concentrating. Then he nodded. “This way.”
The lad worked these docks. If anyone could help find Polly, her brother would make it happen.
“It came into port in April,” Heath shouted over his shoulder. “Big vessel, for a pleasure craft. I don’t remember it unloading cargo, which is why I remember it at all.”
Alex had believed his former father-in-law a despicable but ultimately cowardly man—one more apt to use stealthy, backhanded means rather than overt action. Had Todd truly descended to the point of madness, intent on taking revenge on Alex for having married Mamie? For taking Edmund?
Just how far would he go?
Polly clutched where a stitch jabbed under her ribs. The corset beneath her funeral garb was laced too tightly. She’d hustled to keep up with Livingstone. He hadn’t let go of her wrist since dragging her bodily out of the ramshackle warehouse. Once up the ramp of a schooner and through the hatch, he threw her down against the inner hull. Only thick carpeting cushioned her landing.
Livingstone spoke to a lackey who descended the ladder into the hold. “Stay with her, Hollis. I’m going to find the others.”
