“What did he say?” Jasper asked. His voice was harsh.
Lilly gripped his hand, as her trembling grew worse. “He’s investigating Blackawton after all this time?” she whispered. “It’s been twelve years!”
Shore shook his head. “He wanted to know how Blackawton died. I told him what I told everyone else in 1860. That the man sabotaged the armaments store of my battalion while we were out on the moors completing field training, and I shot him as he ran away.” He shrugged. “Pollacky didn’t seem to like that answer. He wanted to know why Blackawton would do something so outrageous.” Shore grinned. “That one I could answer truthfully. I said the man must surely have been crooked in the head. I mentioned the Russian agent thing you cooked up to explain it, Major. Pollacky nodded at that one. He’d heard it before, of course.”
“What else did he say?” Jasper said.
“Not much at all,” Shore admitted. “His client—that’s what he called the person paying his fee—his client was interested in uncovering the facts concerning Blackawton’s passing, as nothing had ever officially been settled about the matter.” He reached for another tart. “A thinking man can figure that after twelve years, the only people who might be interested in learning about what really happened would be those who were disadvantaged by the affair. I suspect you can better guess who that might be, than me.”
Jasper’s hand tightened on Lilly’s. “We can guess,” he admitted. “Blackawton’s family, most likely—what’s left of it, at least.”
Lilly shuddered. “Why now, after so long?”
Jasper stirred, picked up her hand and kissed her knuckles. “It doesn’t matter,” he told her, his tone firm. “This Pollacky learned nothing from Captain Shore which he could not have discerned from public records. You and I appear nowhere in those public reports. He can’t connect us with that night at all. The matter is ended.”
He turned to Shore. “If your estate can spare you, stay the night, Cary. We’ll have dinner and catch up on all your news. Then I’ll drive you to the station tomorrow morning and see you on your way.”
Shore’s hand shifted on his knee. “That would be appreciated, Major.”
Lilly tugged on Jasper’s hand. “We do nothing?” she asked, for her heart had not eased at Jasper’s insistence that the matter was ended.
“We do nothing,” Jasper said flatly. “If we respond in any way to Pollacky’s enquiries, he will connect us to the affair. We continue on as we would normally, as if it has nothing to do with us.”
Lilly shuddered.
“We were due to leave for Cornwall in three week’s time for the family gather,” Jasper added. “We can leave early—Cian won’t mind in the slightest. We’ll be away from here for nearly a month. Warrick and his staff will have only the vaguest notion of where we might be, if anyone asks. It will put us out of Pollaky’s reach.” Jasper shook his head. “Not that he will come here, Lilly. Nothing connects us to that night. Nothing at all.”
“And…” Lilly swallowed. “Should someone warn…Kirkaldy?” She could not bring herself to speak Emma’s name. Not in front of Shore.
Shore cleared his throat. “I’m not sure how Scotland figures in this, my Lady, but if the chances Pollacky might arrive here are so small, it’s even less likely he’ll uncover any connection with whatever it is in Kirkaldy that concerns you.”
Lilly gave him a weak smile.
“I will write to Will, just the same,” Jasper assured her.
IT WAS THE FOURTH DAY Emma had been forced to trail behind Bridget on her rounds of the mills and sit with her in her big office as she conducted her affairs.
Two days after Emma had followed Morgan to his secretive wrestling, Will had spoken to her at the breakfast table, his eyes narrowed with concern. “It’d be best you don’t venture off the estate for a while, Emma. Not unless you are with Morgan or me. Or with Bridget in the carriage, for George will be there, too.”
Emma lowered her teacup. “What on earth, Will… How can I visit Helen in Inverness? And there is Lydia Becker’s lecture tonight…”
“I think you must forego that pleasure,” Will said flatly.
Emma glanced at the unfolded letter sitting beside his breakfast platter. “Has something happened?” she asked. “Who is it from?”
Will folded the letter up. “I would show it to you, although there is no detail in it which provides an explanation for the request. Jasper says merely that we should keep you away from strangers for a while.”
It was an extraordinary request. “Jasper asked that?” Emma breathed.
Morgan lifted his head from the newspaper laid out above his plate. His eyes narrowed.
Emma tried to calm herself, only there were far too many questions circling. If Jasper had made the request, was it really from Lilly? And why was Will accepting the direction without question? Did he know the truth? Emma stared at Will’s features and wished she could hear his thoughts.
Will patted the folded letter. “You know as much as I, Emma. I trust Jasper, though. He’s a smart man, and he’s come by information he says is worrying enough that we should keep you away from strangers asking questions.”
“Jasper is a good man,” Morgan added, in his deep voice. “He has never failed to defend the family when it is needed.”
Bridget was frowning, trying to follow the odd conversation and Will’s unusual directive. “You can come with me, Emma. I saw the small collection of borrowed books you have—you can read while I work.”
Emma couldn’t help but glance at Morgan. He did know the reason why Jasper, of all people, might make such a request.
He shook his head, his blue eyes steady. It was the smallest motion, barely discernable.
Emma made herself smile at Bridget. “Thank you, Bridget. A day in the carriage will be a nice distraction. The weather is perfect for it.”
That had been four days ago. The restriction preventing her from leaving the estate remained in place, preventing her from visiting Helen. Instead, Helen wrote letters, telling Emma about Miss Becker’s lecture and how successful it had been.
In return, Emma wrote back to Helen, telling her about the passages in the books she had read which shocked her, or resonated in some way.
For four days, Emma had been reading and writing letters to Helen and also to Lydia Becker. Lydia sent her a note expressing her regret that Emma had not attended the lecture.
Emma explained to Miss Becker about her circumstances and the reading she had been doing, instead. Lydia wrote back the next day, her enthusiasm for the books spilling across the page in violet ink. She enclosed a long list of other books and materials which Emma should obtain at the soonest opportunity.
Helen Campbell resolved Emma’s difficulty by sending a small case of books out to Kirkaldy, many of them on Lydia’s list.
Emma sank into this new world of politics, women’s rights and equality, suffrage and law with gusto. There was nothing else to do in the carriage but read or write letters.
She imagined anyone observing the carriage from a distance would be amused, for it contained two ladies with their skirts spread, pages and books across their knees, inkpots clamped to the carriage walls and satchels of business papers, pages and books on the benches beside them. They barely spoke to each other, so deeply were they concentrating upon their disparate affairs.
The days of intense reading and correspondence furthered Emma’s education in a way a year of more casual study might have. After four days of it, though, Emma’s mind was stuffed full. She could not face another earnest polemic about how women suffered under societal norms.
“That is the fourth deep sigh in twenty minutes,” Bridget observed, and winced as the carriage bounced over a rut.
“I do not think I could withstand another depressing lecture about the plight of women,” Emma confessed.
“Your interest in universal suffrage has waned?” Bridget asked, as she rearranged the ledgers on her knee and opened the top one.
“Miss Beckers’ lectures, one presumes,” Bridget suggested.
“Perhaps,” Emma said, with a sigh. “Only, she lectures to women who do not need convincing. They already are in favor of suffrage for women, or they would not be at the lecture. Men don’t attend, because they don’t see any need for change. They are perfectly content with the status quo.”
“Are the writers of the books you have been reading not men?” Bridget asked.
“They are men, and they are discredited and laughed at for their attitudes,” Emma pointed out. She shoved Malthus back into her satchel. “It is an impossible task. Hercules would expire if he was faced with it.”
Bridget laughed. “How does one eat an elephant?”
Emma stared at her. “Excuse me?”
“I remember Morgan confronting me with everything I must take care of to set up my business. It seemed as mountainous as your Herculean task, Emma. And that is what Morgan asked me. How does one eat an elephant?”
“Why would one care to?”
“Very well, then. How would you eat an entire chicken?”
“I suppose…I would carve it into pieces, and then, most definitely, start with one of the legs.” The leg of a chicken was her favorite part.
“There is your answer. You eat an elephant one bite at a time.”
Emma sat back. “I’m not sure what the first bite would be, in my case.”
Bridget reached into her satchel and brought out the spectacles she seldom wore, as she was self-conscious about needing them. She slid them into place. “It seems that your problem right now is a lack of information.”
Emma glanced at the books. “Why would you suppose that?” she asked, puzzled.
“Oh, not the information in the books. I mean, you do not know what your first bite should be. You lack that information. Therefore, you must ask someone who might know what the answer would be. You have your first bite and can expend all your energy upon the task.”
“And if the person I ask doesn’t know either?” Emma pressed, for she suspected that Helen or even Miss Becker would not know for certain what the very first bite would be, or they would be doing it themselves.
“You ask them who you should consult next, who would have the answer.”
Emma considered that. “It seems far too simple,” she decided.
“Because it is,” Bridget replied calmly. “You carve away at the problem until you have a task small enough to manage and you do that. Then you do the next thing. And the next. And when you next look up, you will find that the elephant is nearly all gone.”
“That is what you did?”
Bridget nodded. “One step at a time. I tried hard not to look at all the steps ahead, because it made me dizzy. Concentrating hard on just the thing I must do now helped enormously.” She spread her leather portfolio across her knees.
“Then I know what I must do now,” Emma said grimly.
“And that is?”
“Nothing at all,” Emma replied. “My head hurts too much.”
Bridget laughed.
“Are those the new designs for next summer?” Emma asked, spotting drawings of dresses and accessories on the pages in front of Bridget.
“They are.”
“Oh, may I please look at them? An afternoon of nothing but fashion is just what I need.”
Bridget cleared the bench beside her, dropping the satchel to her feet. Emma moved beside Bridget and studied the designs.
“Here,” Bridget said, handing Emma a stack of the pages, and leaving half of them for herself.
Emma settled the stack on her knee and turned the pages one by one, considering the drawings. They were colored illustrations, such as one found in any fashion magazine, with lines and arrows pointing to features of the garments they showed.
“I had no idea you manufactured so many finished garments,” Emma murmured. “I thought you only made samples to show customers what it is possible to make with your tweed.”
“I did. This year, though, we are adding small lines of clothing which is already made. It is an idea Iefan learned about on the Continent. Middle-class families, especially the ladies, don’t have time to make their own clothes. Nor do they have the resources to pay for custom tailoring, the way society has always done it.”
“These garments are intended to appeal to working and middle-class women?” Emma asked, studying the frothy jacket laid out upon the uppermost page.
“Exactly,” Bridget said, sounding pleased.
They turned pages, examining the proposed designs.
“How do you know what size to make them?” Emma asked. “Ladies are so varied in sizes. Look at Blanche, who is tiny, and then me—her head only comes up to my nose. And there is Mrs. Hudson, who is Helen’s housekeeper. She is a galleon at sea. A shirtwaist for her would take six yards, I’m sure.”
“The same jacket is made in a range of measurements, from small to large,” Bridget murmured. She was frowning over the page she examined. “A lady must pick the size which best matches her measurements.”
“So, a haberdasher or emporium must have all the sizes on hand?”
“Or perhaps only the most popular sizes. It is all rather vague at the moment,” Bridget explained. “That is why we are only conducting a small experiment. A few items only. I am to choose which ones.”
They fell back to considering the designs.
“What do you think?” Bridget asked Emma. She sounded nervous.
“May I be frank, Bridget?”
“Please, yes.”
“I think these are all wrong. This jacket for example. The frilly front and the wide sleeves. It is exactly what a society lady would wear. It is something I would wear, and I am tempted to steal the design and take it to a seamstress and ask her to copy it. It is lovely, Bridget, but it is not something a middle-class lady would wear and especially not something a working class lady would wear.”
Bridget chewed the inside of her mouth. “Yes, I believe that is the sensation I was feeling, looking at these. They are all very pretty.”
“That wide sleeve though…a lady wearing it while working in the mills would catch the sleeve upon the shuttle race or a warp thread and the loom would grind to a halt. That is, if she could see the shuttle to catch it in the first place, over that massive frill on the front.”
Bridget sat back and removed her spectacles and rubbed her nose. “The ladies at my mills all wear the most hideous clothing. Black and simple and badly fitting. Would it not be nice for them to have pretty things to wear?”
“While working?” Emma asked, startled.
“Why not?” Bridget demanded. “A lady can look smart even while working.”
“Then the sleeves must come in firmly around the wrist, and the fronts must be plain. Dark colors to hide dirt and stains, although anything but black would still serve. Slightly shorter hems on skirts, so they don’t trip.”
“And no trains,” Bridget said firmly. She sat up. “Some braid and embroidery would not interfere with her work, though.”
“Even a little lace at the collar,” Emma suggested. “You should save the lace for clothing worn when they are not working. Brighter colors, and frills and trains, for those.”
Bridget pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil. “Let me write it down. I will compose a letter to the designer tonight and ask him to adjust the designs.”
“Really?” Emma said, feeling winded. “Simply because I said so?”
Bridget shook her head. “No, you merely spoke what I was already thinking. I couldn’t quite put it into words, though. You did, and I completely agree with you.” She sm
iled at Emma. “Thank you.” She pushed the half-stack of designs she had been looking at over to Emma. “Here, let us go through them one sheet at a time.”
The rest of the day passed pleasantly, while the two of them critiqued and analysed the designs, in between stopping at the mills to inspect output reports and talk to the managers and supervisors.
Emma found herself examining the ladies bent over the looms and what they were wearing with more than usual interest. Their clothes were shoddy and ill-fitting. There were one or two ladies, though, who would not look out of place at a sober at-home in London. They were neat, tidy and their dresses fitted them properly.
“Those are the seamstresses who make their own clothes and understand how to properly size their clothing,” Bridget explained. “I will be taking most of them off the looms when the garment factory opens, to supervise the work of the machinists.”
On their way back to Kirkaldy at the end of the day, Emma said, “It is a very different idea, making clothes before they are ordered. What if no one wants to buy them?”
Bridget nodded. “It is a risk, although Morgan says the risk is minimal, because we are not basing the entire business upon this one experiment. We are…” She frowned. “Diversifying,” she finished.
“Morgan approved of it?” Emma said, startled.
Bridget smiled. “It was his idea in the first place.”
Emma felt her lips part. “No!”
“Most of the better ideas I’ve put into place were his to start with. He is a progressive thinker.”
Emma wanted to laugh. “Morgan?” she breathed. “He is so…so traditional, it makes my teeth ache.”
“Only in his personal habits,” Bridget said, her tone serene. She brought her fingertip to her temple. “His mind works in an altogether different sphere. I sometimes think he can see what life will be like in one hundred years and is merely guiding my business in the direction only he understands.”
Emma watched the conical towers with their decorative weather vanes, the multiple chimneys and broken roofline of Kirkaldy come in to view over the top of the oaks and Scots pines surrounding the main house.
Year of Folly Page 8
