The Lord of Lost Causes

by Kate Pearce

  Caroline recognized most of them from her old neighborhood, factory workers, farm workers and other employed men. She caught snatches of conversation about the right to vote and plans to march for the new reform act.

  “Mrs. Harding!”

  She stopped when her name was called and half-turned to see Jonathan Ford smiling down at her. His gaze switched to her companion, and he touched his hat. “Captain Grafton.”

  “The captain is making sure I get home safely through the snow,” Caroline spoke into the silence stretching between the two men. “Did you enjoy your meeting?”

  “It was most informative. I promised to tell Ruby all about it on Sunday.” He smiled. “She was most put out by the fact that she wasn’t invited to attend.”

  “What was this meeting about?” Captain Grafton inquired. “Wishful thinking on one man one vote, or another attempt to appeal to the goodness of the government to repeal the Corn Laws?”

  “We covered many subjects, Captain.” Jon said. “You are more than welcome to join us next time if you wish.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Then you do not care that children work fourteen hour shifts in our factories, and that most working men aren’t allowed to have a say in matters that concern them?”

  “I’m quite content with the way things are actually, old chap.”

  Caroline bristled at his drawling tone, but Jon didn’t appear to notice, or pretended not to.

  “Change is inevitable, Captain.”

  “Does your employer know you’re mixed up in this business, Mr. Ford?”

  “If he doesn’t, I’m fairly sure someone will grass me up sooner rather than later.” His smile was sad. “I don’t begrudge any man taking extra money to spy on his companions when wages are so low.”

  “Then you are a better man than I am, Mr. Ford,” Captain Grafton replied. “If I found such disloyalty in my ranks I’d do my best to exterminate it.”

  Jon nodded to Caroline and tipped his hat to her companion. “I won’t keep you out in this cold. Good night, Mrs. Harding, sir.”

  Caroline started walking again, almost dragging Captain Grafton along with her. A lot of the men around them eyed her companion nervously as they hurried back to their homes. No doubt many of them were his tenants and were fearful of his reaction in seeing them out at night at a somewhat suspect meeting.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs inside Madame’s shop, Caroline swung around to confront Captain Grafton. “You won’t identify Mr. Ford to his employer will you?”

  He leaned against the wall and studied her face. “Why would you think that?”

  “Because your contempt for him, and the other men, was patently obvious.”

  “Contempt? Perhaps.” He smiled. “But not for the reasons you might think. He’s a fool. They are all fools. If they march, the government will bring the military out and crush them like vermin.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Because that’s what they do, Mrs. Harding. They are terrified of ‘the common man’. They fear losing their grip on the power and wealth they have acquired and enjoyed for so long.” He sighed. “Eventually change might happen, but I can guarantee you that there will be a lot of blood spilled along the way to achieve it.”

  “But you will not speak of what and whom you saw coming out of the meeting tonight?” Caroline repeated her question.

  “Why should I?” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Thank you.” Caroline smiled at him, glad for once that he was an incredibly selfish man who only cared about his own wealth and position. “Good night, Captain.”

  He kissed her cold fingers and bowed over them. “Good night, Mrs. Harding.”

  Chapter 8

  “Thank you for inviting me here this evening, Mr. Marsham.”

  Francis poured himself a glass of port, passed the decanter, and inclined his head to his host. The ladies had withdrawn from the dining room, leaving the men to drink their port and discuss matters considered unsuitable for women’s ears or limited understanding.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while, Captain Grafton, but you are rarely in Millcastle.” Mr. Marsham chuckled. “My wife had begun to despair that we would ever see you at our dining table.”

  Mrs. Marsham was a plump woman who seemed somewhat out of her depth with the new moneyed mill owners and rag tag remnants of the landed gentry who apparently frequented her dinner parties. She’d barely spoken a word to Francis except to eagerly present him to her oldest daughter who was far more assured in her new role.

  In truth, Miss Emily Marsham was well spoken, intelligent, and as sharp as her father. It was a pity she would not inherit his mills, as she appeared far more capable than her sullen lump of an older brother. Francis had been selected as her dinner partner, probably because he was the only bachelor invited, and she had entertained him quite adequately.

  The Marsham house was on the outskirts of Millcastle. A solid new construction that looked out over the countryside rather than down at the mills and the workers that paid for its construction. Everything inside the house was brand new and rather elaborate. It was nothing like the old country house Francis had grown up in filled with inherited furniture, artwork, and a library full of leather-bound volumes no one could ever remember anyone reading. He wondered if the Marsham house even had a library.

  “There was a meeting in town this week at the Methodist Hall,” Mr. Clegg, the manager of the Millcastle Bank spoke up. “No doubt stirring up trouble for us.”

  “Aye, so I heard,” Mr. Pilcher one of the mill owners said. “I told my workers that if I heard that they were present, I’d dock them a day’s pay.”

  “How would you know if they were present then?” Francis asked, and everyone looked at him. “They are hardly likely to incriminate themselves.”

  “I have my ways, Captain Grafton.” Mr. Pilcher’s smile was smug. “There are always those who are loyal to their employer and value their job rather than the mindless ranting of some out of town rabble rouser come to talk about votes for all.”

  “They know they’ll lose their jobs if they are foolish enough to strike or demand higher wages,” Mr. Marsham stated. “We are all united on this.”

  Francis leaned back in his chair and surveyed the table. “Excuse my ignorance, but if they all defied you and went out on strike, wouldn’t you all go bankrupt?”

  “Not necessarily.” Mr. Marsham sipped his port. “There are always people desperate enough to take a job. The Irish will work for less and be grateful for it.”

  “And the women usually stay because they want to feed their children.” Mr. Pilcher chuckled. “We pay them less than the men, of course, but they tend to stick at it. They are far more biddable.”

  “As you said, maybe because they don’t want their children to starve,” Francis stated.

  “That’s on them isn’t it?” Mr. Pilcher shrugged. “If they don’t want to work, they can go into the workhouse, earn even less, and eat gruel.”

  “My goodness, gentleman.” Francis set his glass down on the table and lit a cigar adding to the fug of smoke already rising in the air. “There seems to be a distinct lack of Christian charity around this table.”

  Mr. Marsham frowned. “If people want to work, we’ll pay them. If they don’t, then they are not deserving of our charity.”

  “I see.” Francis refilled his glass as the decanter passed to him again. “I understand that the Methodist minister practices a different kind of charity, offering food and education to all his congregation regardless of their ability to work.”

  “Teaching our workers to read and write and letting them borrow books has given a lot of them ideas above their station,” Mr. Marsham growled. “When they think they know better than us then they become dangerous.”

  Francis kept his thoughts about the likelihood of most of the gentlemen’s own grandparents being able to read and write to himself. There was not
hing a virtuous hardworking man liked better than to throw scorn at those who came behind him.

  “And you’re a fine one to talk about charity, Captain.” Mr. Pilcher pointed his cigar at Francis. “If you were a good charitable man yourself, you’d rehouse all those thieves and beggars who rent your property in Three Coins.”

  “I never said I was a charitable man.” Francis raised an eyebrow. “I merely offer your workers somewhere to live on the somewhat paltry wages you offer them. If you paid them more, I wouldn’t be in business.”

  “We pay them what they are worth and what the mill owners around here consider fair.” Mr. Marsham smiled at Francis. “We all benefit, aye?”

  “Indeed.” Francis finished his port.

  Mr. Marsham stubbed out his cigar and rose to his feet. “We should go and join the ladies, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  Francis followed the gentlemen across the hallway to the drawing room where the ladies were gathered around a tea tray. Miss Marsham came to meet him, a smile on her face.

  “Would you care for some tea, Captain?”

  “No thank you, I can’t abide the stuff. In fact, I will need to leave soon as I have some urgent business matters to attend to.”

  Her face fell. “That is a shame. I was enjoying our conversation immensely.”

  Considering the other guests, Francis wasn’t as flattered by her compliment as he might have been. An intelligent female like her was probably starved for sensible company.

  “Perhaps we could meet again, Miss Marsham?” Francis suggested.

  “I’ll ask my mother if that would be acceptable.” She curtsied. “Maybe the theater or something, or mayhap the county ball?”

  “I don’t dance, Miss Marsham.” Francis bowed over her hand. “But please don’t let that stop you inviting me to accompany you.”

  He left her and went to pay his respects to her mother and the assembled guests. Without waiting for the butler, he found his hat and coat and walked around to the stables where his horse awaited him. It was almost too cold to be out riding, but he’d endured far worse. The only reason he would consider changing to using his carriage was to protect his horses.

  “Thank you.” Francis pressed a coin into the shivering stable boy’s hand and mounted up, glad of the horse’s warmth. “Get back inside, you’ll freeze to death.”

  He pulled his scarf up over his face and made his way down the curving drive. The house blazed with light, turning the ice and snow in the gardens a glorious golden color. Did he resent these people who so quickly turned their backs on their pasts and on the poor? His family had owned their land for centuries and had always taken care of their tenants in a most exemplary manner. He even remembered his mother driving out to offer unwanted advice, food and handmade baby clothes to the local farmers.

  Was that any better? When it came down to it, most people had to make the choice whether to succeed in life or to lie down and be walked over. He’d clawed his way back from the depths of hell in India, so he knew it could be done. But the local mill owners’ callousness about their employees still left a bitter taste in his mouth...

  He turned down the hill toward Millcastle where most of the god-fearing citizens were already asleep, exhausted from their labors. There were almost no lights in Three Coins where he rented out most of his ramshackle properties. In truth, he had no right to sneer at the mill owners. He was sure Caroline and Miss Ruby Delisle considered him just as reprehensible.

  “Damn them all,” Francis muttered as he rose to the trot. “Blasted women.”

  “Mrs. Harding, I need you to help your mother in the shop today.” Madame Louise paused to loudly blow her nose. “I am going home before I swoon in front of one of my customers.”

  “I do have some work to finish up for Captain Grafton, Madame—”

  “Then bring it down with you and sit in the shop! I doubt many customers will brave the weather—what with the ice and sleet falling and this horrible cold going around.” Madame sniffed again and stifled a cough. “I would hate to have to tell Captain Grafton that you refused to oblige me.”

  “As you wish, Madame. I’ll just go and get my things.”

  Caroline trudged up the stairs aware that she was not feeling quite well herself. She knew that if she mentioned it, Madame wouldn’t believe her. Avoiding her employer telling tales to Captain Grafton and bringing her to his attention was far more important since she’d discovered she had no morals when he was concerned. She had hardly seen him for a couple of days, which suited her perfectly.

  It was snowing outside, the flakes instantly turning to grey slush as they landed on the pebbled ground. Inadequate drainage around the square and under the older houses meant that the melting snow would soon smell as rank as the streets. Hopefully, the weather and the horrible colds everyone had contacted would keep customers away from the shop, and she could get on with her calculations in peace.

  Madame returned with her hat and coat on and a rather ratty fox fur arranged around her shoulders. “There is only one appointment in the book today for the Marsham ladies, but they might not choose to keep it.”

  “The Marshams?” Caroline asked. “Weren’t they just here last week?”

  “Apparently Miss Marsham needs her new ball gown as quickly as possible.”

  “Yet she didn’t mention it when she was here last?”

  “She did, and the gown is half made up, but she wishes to see it and to have it ready within a day or so.”

  Madame handed her a set of drawings.

  “I see that my mother is going to be very busy.” Caroline said. “And with half the seamstresses already absent, I assume my entire family will end up finishing this gown simply because we live over the shop.”

  “You are lucky that Captain Grafton has taken an interest in you, Mrs. Harding. Perhaps this is an opportunity for you to show your gratitude both to him and to me for allowing him to lease you the space.”

  Madame sneezed again, her French accent deserting her as it often did during stressful moments or when customers weren’t present.

  Caroline waited until Madame left, and then walked through to the workrooms where her mother was embroidering a bodice. Ruby and Ivy were also helping out in the half empty workroom.

  “Did Madame tell you about this ball gown for Miss Marsham, Mother?”

  Marie held up the exquisite piece of silk. “What do you think I’m doing right now?” She sighed. “I cannot go too fast in case I prick my finger and get blood on the satin.”

  “You can only do your best,” Caroline reassured her. “If Miss Marsham was more considerate you wouldn’t be put in such a flutter.”

  “It isn’t like her or her mother to be so demanding,” Marie pointed out. “I wonder what is going on?”

  “Well, if they show up we can ask them.” Caroline smiled at her family. “Now I really must get back to work.”

  An hour later, the shop bell rang and an older women entered the store. Although her clothing wasn’t particularly flashy, her demeanor suggested that she was a lady who expected to be attended to immediately.

  “Good morning.” She smiled at Caroline. “I am wondering if I have the correct address for the business office of Captain Grafton?”

  “You do, Ma’am. His offices occupy the upper floor. May I help you with something?”

  “I really just need to speak to him if that is possible.”

  “I assume you do not have an appointment?” Caroline asked.

  “No, I do not.”

  Caroline indicated one of the chairs. “Then if you will take a seat, I will ascertain if he is in his office and ask him if he might see you. Do you have a card?”

  “Perhaps you might tell him that Mrs. Musgrove is here from the hall. That should suffice.”

  Caroline curtsied, went up the stairs and knocked on Captain Grafton’s door.

  “What is it?” She went in and he looked up and focused on her face. “Your nose is red.”


  “That’s because I have a cold.”

  “I never catch cold. I consider them a weakness.”

  “You would,” Caroline smiled brightly at him. “There is a Mrs. Musgrove from the hall downstairs in the shop asking to speak to you.”

  His faint smile disappeared. “Damnation.”

  “Do you want me to tell her you aren’t available?”

  “I’d love to, but she would be mortally offended, and she is the only person from my past life who ever stood up for me.” He set down his pen and rose to his feet. “I’ll come down. She might have news.”

  Francis went down the stairs and into the front of the shop where he came to such an abrupt halt that Mrs. Harding cannoned into the back of him.

  “Very clever, ‘Mrs. Musgrove’.”

  His mother raised an eyebrow. “It was the only way I knew of to make you speak to me.”

  He bowed. “And I won’t be fooled again. Goodbye, Mother.”

  “Wait!” She reached out her gloved hand to him. “Mrs. Musgrove is very ill and will not recover. She wants to see you before she dies.”

  “What a load of codswallop.”

  She winced but held his gaze. “It is the truth. I promised her that I would at least try to see you and ask you to come.” She fumbled in her purse. “I have a letter from Mr. Musgrove confirming her wishes.”

  “Thank you.” He allowed her to place the letter in his hand. “As I said. Goodbye, Mother.”

  “But will you come?”

  “I hardly think that’s any of your business is it? So why don’t you run along and interfere in someone else’s life?”

  She reddened. “I have no one else left, remember? You are the last of your line.”

  “And thank God for that.” He marched over to the door and wrenched it open, making the bell jangle like a dancing corpse on the end of a noose. “Good morning.”

  She went past him, her chin held high, her stubborn expression probably a mirror of his own as they had always been so alike. Her coachman jumped down to open the door of her carriage, and then they were off in a slow circle around the square before disappearing from sight.