She listened silently from her chair in the corner of the library to the man’s excuses and long-winded narratives about foreign banks and unreliable currencies. Will’s family affairs stretched across Europe and into the Middle East. Gradually, a secondary sensation, merely a feeling, grew in her.
The next time Stephenson handed Will a report, Bridget got to her feet and held out her hand. “May I, husband?” she asked.
Will looked amused. “You’ll be bored silly, my dear. It’s nothing but numbers.”
Bridget hid her smile. Will was acting out the role of the indulgent husband for Stephenson’s benefit.
“I will risk boredom to see a demonstration of what you two are talking about.”
Stephenson shrank back, which had the effect of pulling the sheet farther away from her hand. “It is quite tedious reading,” he told her, his voice trembling. “A lady has no need to bother herself with such mundane matters.”
“I insist,” Bridget said, extending her hand.
“I don’t think…” Stephenson began, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
“Give her the report, Stephenson,” Will said. An iron note sounded in his voice.
Stephenson swallowed and proffered the sheet.
Bridget took it with a smile, turned the sheet around and scanned it. Stephenson’s hand was messy, the ink blotched in several places and the digits crammed together.
It took her a moment to understand what she was looking at. When she did put it together, coldness set in her middle. She got to her feet. “Will, may I speak to you in private?”
Will’s eyes narrowed.
Stephenson rubbed the top of his head, disturbing the fine locks. “Is there a problem, Lady Bridget?”
She gave him a cold stare and walked to the library door and stepped out and waited.
When Will closed the door behind him and cocked his brow, she beckoned. “Not here,” she said quietly, for Stephenson might hear them through the door. She carried the sheet into the morning room.
Lilly looked up from her knitting. “You are finished with the manager?”
“Not quite,” Bridget told her.
“Should I give you the room?” Lilly asked, as Will came in behind her.
“No, you should hear this,” Bridget said. She turned to Will. “You must dismiss the man, Will.”
“What?” he breathed.
“Yes, and without references, too.”
Lilly got to her feet. “What has he done?” she asked, hurrying over.
Bridget held the bank reckoning out to her. “See for yourself. Dozens of withdrawals marked ‘miscellaneous’. One, perhaps two in a month could be withstood, but dozens…Will, he has been stealing you blind all these years, because he knew he could. That is why he didn’t want me to study the statement.”
Will’s scowl rushed into place. “Stealing…” he said flatly.
“What is more, he has become slovenly about properly managing the books because he knew you would not…did not have the time to examine them closely,” she amended.
Lilly frowned over the sheet. Bridget had explained the situation to her before they had closeted themselves in the library with Mr. Stephenson. Now Lilly said, “The accounts with shopkeepers in Brighton…it is possible he made the withdrawals from the bank to match their accounts, then pocketed the money. The merchants certainly did not receive the settlements, so the money was delivered somewhere. Look at all these amounts, Will. They’re small, odd amounts, just as accounts with merchants would be.” She held the sheet out to Will.
He glanced at it, then at Bridget. “You cannot manage the full extent of the family holdings without help, Bree. You heard the man. Carpet factories in Constantinople, a winery in Italy…it is too much.”
“I think you are right, Will. It is too overwhelming,” Lilly said. “I am at my fullest extent managing Northallerton alone.”
“But you agreed to teach me,” Bridget said, her heart sinking.
“I can teach you everything I know,” Lilly said. “I would be glad to do it. However, you need someone with professional training to deal with the full range of business concerns. Someone you can trust, which is not Mr. Stephenson, apparently.”
“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.”
Scandalous Scions Two Page 52
