Madame Therion alone would have brought their entire first quarter production, if Will had not traveled to York to purchase the two commercial looms Bridget had been wishing for. The demand did not stop with Madame Therion, though.
The way the mills in Lancashire and Manchester tended to sell their cloth was to send swatches and samples to merchants and tailors in London and wait for them to order directly.
Bridget, instead, had shawls and bonnets and other small garments that did not require a perfect fit made up in their best tweed. She sent the items as gifts to every woman she knew, especially those who were the most fashionable, including Sharla and Bronwen in Denmark. Along with the gifts, she enclosed samples of other colors and patterns and suggestions for ways the tweed could be used for larger garments, including jackets and coats, skirts and dresses, walking suits and all manner of gentlemen’s outfits, especially hunting clothes and outdoor wear.
The orders for entire bolts and multiple yardages flooded in, often by return mail.
“You cannot establish a solid business based upon individual orders like this,” Morgan pointed out over dinner. “They seem like large orders, although in the grand scheme of things, fifteen yards of cashmere tweed is nothing. You must cultivate the large clothing manufacturers and the tailors and garment stores.”
“Patience, Morgan,” Will said. “Bridget has a plan.”
Morgan shook his head. “It is as well your other concerns are coming into the black once more, Will. You may yet need them.”
“Pessimist,” Will said, with a smile.
Barely three weeks later, Bridget received a letter from Mr. Henry Poole of Poole and Company on Saville Row, complaining in polite terms that he had been harangued by his customers into obtaining “some of this newfangled Kirkaldy Tweed” for their suits.
Bridget showed Morgan the letter. “Mr. Poole will not be the only one,” she added.
Will crossed his arms and raised his brows, looking at Morgan.
Morgan seemed to be trying to repress a smile. “Very well, I admit I was wrong,” he said. “I forgot for a moment that I was dealing with a woman and a woman’s perspective. You were right to connect directly with the end consumer, Bridget. You’ve created the demand you need.”
Christmas, then the beginning of 1870, came and went. The opening of Parliament and the first session of the year brought a letter from Vaughn, suggesting Will represent Vaughn in the House of Lords this year, for Vaughn had no desire to attend the Season.
When Bridget finished reading the letter to Will, he shook his head. “No,” he said flatly. “Maybe in future years but this summer is critical. I won’t gad about London with the fops and leave you to stabilize the production schedules all by yourself.”
Bridget moved around the desk and kissed him. “Thank you.”
He pulled her into his lap and kissed her properly, his hands roaming where they should not in the middle of the afternoon and in full view of an open door.
“Will, the door…” she said breathlessly.
He put her back on her feet. “Tonight, then,” he growled, making her shiver and her body tighten. “Now, about the dyes…”
Finding new dyes, in different colors, was a constant problem. So was the issue of space. It was clear that the hay shed would soon be too small to accommodate the burgeoning number of workers and looms and the always-busy sewing room.
“I need a room for myself, anyway,” Will said. “Something with walls and a door that can shut out the sound of the looms clacking, so I can speak and hear what is spoken to me.”
Will and Morgan quartered Inverness, looking for any building at all that might suit their needs, or could be converted to suit, while Bridget managed the production. By the end of summer of that year, she pointed out a troubling trend to Morgan and Will over dinner.
“Our sales have dropped,” she said. “I only noticed when I compared actual yardages against last month and the month before, because we seem to be dealing with such fantastic numbers.”
“It is summer. The need for tweed would droop over summer,” Morgan said.
Bridget shook her head. “Morgan, you’re a typical man who only thinks to buy a raincoat when it begins to rain. Women are always thinking of the season ahead. They will be right this instant ordering winter wardrobes for themselves and for their husbands and children.”
Both Will and Morgan looked at the open dining room windows, where the sun was still shining even though it was eight in the evening. The night was warm, with not a breath of air to stir the curtains.
“In addition,” Bridged added, “with France embroiled in war, the fashion houses like Worth will be unable to meet English demands, if they are operating at all. Britain must meet its own needs this year.”
Will smiled into his tea cup.
“The orders should be increasing, not leveling,” Bridget added. “Instead they’re not even leveling, they’re actually dropping. Something has happened to lessen the demand.”
“You are worried, of course, because this is your first full year,” Morgan told her. “Ebbs and flows are perfectly natural. The orders will return to their old level soon enough.”
Later, that night, when Will laid beside her and the night air bathed both of their sweaty bodies, Bridget gnawed at the issue. “It just doesn’t feel right, Will,” she insisted. “It is too great a change to be a simple ebb, the way Morgan is insisting.”
“Perhaps,” Will said, his tone reluctant. “Only, even if you are right, what can we do about it? Until we know for sure and we know what lies at the root of it, we can only carry on as we are.”
Bridget chewed at her lip. “I just wish we could be in London at the same time we are here. I wish we could hear what the society gossips are saying about us because that is where the demand is born.”
Will touched her mouth, to stop her biting it, then distracted her the way only Will could do.
* * * * *
Will came home from Inverness barely a week later with news which he delivered standing in the archway between Morgan’s office and Bridget’s, for it was late and the weaving shed had closed for the day. “The Inverness Farmers Society is building a new show hall farther down the river for their annual fairs.” He loosened the knot of his new-style tie and unpinned the collar, for it was warm.
Morgan moved into Bridget’s line of sight, looking at Will. “A new hall?” he said slowly, frowning.
“It is about time,” Bridget said. “For the last few years the farm show has made it almost impossible for people who live in the area around the hall to even breathe. All those animals and their droppings…” She had overheard the weavers speaking about it across the top of their looms, more than once during the summer.
“That will leave the old hall empty,” Will said patiently.
“Oh…!” She got up and moved toward him. “We could buy it!”
“Exactly,” Will said.
“I know that building. It is almost perfect in every respect,” Morgan said in his deep voice. “Offices overhead, a large open floor space beneath and rooms at the back for storage and sewing.”
Bridget put her hand to her temples, as her head throbbed. The heat was extraordinary. “You must buy the building with all haste, Will…” She swallowed, as her stomach swooped and dropped. “Oh…” she whispered as the floor rocked and then rose to meet her.
* * * * *
Something was rubbing her cheek softly. Bridget stirred and opened her eyes. Will carried her, with her face against the warmth of his jacket.
Kirkaldy Tweed, she thought disjointedly.
Then she realized he was carrying her.
“Will…” she croaked.
“It is alright. We’ve sent for Dr. McNalty,” Will said. He shouldered her bedroom door open, carried her in and placed her on the chaise longe in the corner by the open window. He knelt beside her.
His gaze moved over her face, assessing.
“There’s no need to
disturb Dr. McNalty,” Bridget said.
“You fainted, Bree.”
She nodded. “That is because I am with child.”
Will’s eyes widened and he drew still. “For certain?” he whispered.
“Now, I am certain,” Bridget said tiredly. And because she was so drained, she didn’t have the strength to halt the tears that welled and rolled down her cheeks.
Will drew back, alarm building in his face. “What is it? Why do you cry?”
“It is nothing,” she lied, for the fear had been building in her since she had begun to suspect she might be bearing another child.
“It cannot be nothing if it makes you of all people cry,” Will said, his voice gruff. “Tell me. What is wrong?”
“I am with child,” she explained.
“You just told me that.” Will’s voice was deep with puzzlement.
She cried harder, this time with shame. Now he would make her say it aloud and reveal her neediness. She forced herself to speak the words, because Will would not let her be until he heard them. Her voice was weak. Pathetic. “I am with child, which was my side of our bargain. Now you have no need of me.”
Will drew his hand back from her face where he was brushing her hair away from her temples and forehead.
An internal shutter dropped down behind his eyes, hiding every emotion and feeling from her.
It had been a long time since she had seen that blank shield in his eyes and its appearance now added to the writhing fear in her chest.
Silently, Will got to his feet and left the room.
* * * * *
London, three days later.
All bankers were cast from the same mold, Will decided, as he and Morgan waited for the honorable Mr. Rumpold Chessewick to finish studying the proposal that Morgan and Bridget had put together for Will to sign. All bankers wore the same clothes and the same mutton-chop whiskers, which were all silver. They all were inclined to wrinkle their nose and dislodge their pince-nez, for most things in life failed to live up to their expectations.
Chessewick was no different from the clerks and senior tellers and managers Morgan and Will had dealt with before reaching this exalted office on the third floor of Morris and Company. Chessewick happened to be the director of the bank most of Will’s family used, which made it more likely his bank would extend the loan for the farmer’s hall. At least, that had been Morgan’s theory.
Although now Chessewick was wrinkling his nose as he peered through the spectacles at Bridget’s neat penmanship.
The reminder of Bridget made Will’s gut tighten.
That damned stupid bloody agreement.
She had been pale and weak when they left Kirkaldy yesterday. Will wouldn’t have left at all except Morgan insisted they secure the farmers’ hall before anyone in Inverness grew aware that it was available.
Will had been thrown by Bridget’s announcement of another child. The subject of an heir to pacify his family had shifted so far into the back of his mind that it had been a shock when Bridget reminded him of it.
He had reacted badly. He knew that. He was too used to seeking solitude in order to think. It had been his first reaction, to find a place where he could be alone with an opportunity to draw breath and think.
He must make amends yet there had been no time before leaving for the train with a hastily packed valise and the papers Bridget had drawn up.
Morgan was sitting upright upon his chair, his curled hand on his thigh and his hat on the other, the perfectly turned-out gentleman.
Will made himself sit up as Chessewick cleared his throat and pushed the sheets back across the desk toward them with a thick, yellow fingernail. “This document says you manage the business yourselves. This is not an investment?”
“We take an active interest in shepherding the new business to success,” Morgan replied.
Chessewick’s finger moved again, indicating the sheets. “Including, I see, Lady Rothmere. That is…unusual.”
“She is a capable manager,” Morgan replied, while hot words bubbled to Will’s lips. “Of course, all final decisions are Lord Rothmere’s, with my guidance.”
“Your reputation is well known in this bank, Mr. Davies,” Chessewick replied.
“I am glad to hear it,” Morgan replied.
“However, I am afraid that even your name is not enough to shift my inclinations,” Chessewick added. “I am afraid we will not be able to proceed with an arrangement, today.”
Will’s indignation faded. He felt as if he had taken a blow to the chest. “I beg your pardon?” he said, his lips wooden.
“Thank you for bringing your proposal to Morris and Company,” Chessewick said, getting to his feet.
Morgan stood.
“Now wait just a moment—” Will began.
Morgan frowned and shook his head.
Will ground his jaw together.
“I am sure you can find your own way to the street,” Chessewick said, his voice wavering like an old man’s.
Morgan pushed on Will’s arm. Will turned and almost tripped, then righted himself and strode to the door. His temper was huge. Somehow—he didn’t know how, yet—but somehow, this was his fault. He knew it with absolute certainty. His head pounded with it.
Morgan steered him down the carpeted, hushed corridor with its banks of gaslights and varnished wood paneling.
“This is what always happens when I get anywhere near finance,” Will hissed. “What on earth do I tell Bridget? That my tie wasn’t straight enough?” The idea of telling her he had failed made him feel ill, which pushed his anger even higher.
“Hold yourself together until we’re out of this place,” Morgan said, his tone cool and his voice even lower than usual. “There is something rum about this that I did not anticipate.”
They made their way down to the ground floor where all the big, high tables and tellers’ cages lined the expanse of gleaming stone floor, while men conducted their business in hushed tones. It was the perfect symbol of permanence and solidness.
The doorman pushed open the door just ahead of their hurried strides and they climbed down the wide steps to Threadneedle Street. Will breathed in the air and grimaced. London air always tasted thick and unsweet. Smoke and other less pleasant aromas lingered, like an aftertaste, with every inhalation.
He yearned to be back at Kirkaldy.
Morgan whistled, making Will jump. “What on earth?” he demanded.
“It’s the quickest way to get a cabbie’s attention,” Morgan said. He nodded. “See?”
A cab was pulling into the curb just ahead of them.
“Back to the train station, then. Good,” Will said flatly.
Morgan shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said, as he opened the cab door and indicated that Will should go first. “It appears that Bridget was correct about something impacting the business of which we are not aware. We can’t leave London until we know what it is and have neutralized it.”
Will settled on the seat and Morgan shouted an address to the driver. The cab got underway as he sat down.
“Why must we get to the bottom of it?” Will said. “If my own family’s bank won’t lend the money, no one else will, for certain. Bridget will just have to content herself with the limited production she has now.”
Morgan shook his head. “Something made Chessewick say no. That something may affect future arrangements with any bank. It could spill over to the rest of the family. It could linger long enough to impede your children’s futures, too. You must know what it is, Will.”
Will thought of little Elizabeth and the unborn babe. Bridget, with her ambitions and her drive. Her compassion and her imagination.
He realized that if they did not pursue this mystery as Morgan was insisting—if Will gave into his overwhelming desire to escape London and avoid the entire messy business and the discomfort it gave him to deal with money matters—then he would have to look Bridget in the eye and tell her he had failed.
H
is heart lurched. “Where are we going, then?” he asked Morgan.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben shut the door to his plush, leather-lined office and moved back to the pair of tucked and buttoned sofas where Morgan and Will sat. He sat on the edge of the opposite sofa and put his hands together. “Now…what is the issue?”
“I’m sorry to drop in on you unannounced,” Will said. “Morgan insisted.”
Ben shook his head. “That is what family is for.”
“Confounding your day?” Will finished.
Ben grinned. “And evening,” he added. “If I don’t take you both home for dinner, Sharla will vent her ire by removing strips from my hide.” His smile faded. “Will, you seem ill. Would you like a brandy?”
Will’s stomach clamped. “God, no,” he breathed.
Ben raised a brow.
“Morgan, you know the numbers backward. You start,” Will said, sitting back.
Ben looked at his little brother and waited.
Morgan strung his hands together as Ben was doing. He spoke quickly and without hesitation, outlining the development of the business and the trouble with Will’s family affairs and how they had been overcome. Then, their uncomfortable few minutes at the bank, with Chessemere’s almost curt dismissal.
“A refusal of credit by one’s own bank is a serious business,” Ben admitted, frowning. “Especially as the figures are sound.” He lifted the proposal Morgan had given him. “These appear to be promising on paper, so I admit it is a puzzle why the bank didn’t leap on the opportunity to earn their two percent. I’m not sure what you think it is I can do, though.”
“You’ve been sitting on the edges of scandals and broken reputations for years now,” Morgan said.
“Thank you, I think,” Ben said with a grimace.
“We all have, one way or another,” Morgan replied.
“The entire family seems to lurch from one disaster to another, just barely staying undercover,” Will said, thinking of the dramas that had played out over the last few years.
“You have survived with your reputation intact,” Morgan continued, speaking to Ben. “That means you have developed long ears, in order to hear of trouble and cut it off at the pass.”
Scandalous Scions Two Page 55
