Mr. Fairclough's Inherited Bride

by Georgie Lee

  The jingle of equipage and the snort of horses on the kerb outside drew Mary to the window. She pushed aside the curtain to see the black-lacquered top of Mr Fairclough’s carriage glistening with the carriage lamps affixed to the sides. The front door opened, spilling light into the street as Mr Fairclough crossed the pavement with sure, firm steps that made the edges of his cape flutter. His head was bent down, tilting his top hat at an angle of contemplation made obvious when he stopped outside the carriage door to raise a hand in goodbye to Richard. It was the same motion Mary had made when bidding the servants at Ruth’s cottage goodbye after Mary had overseen the packing up, selling and dispersing of Ruth’s things according to her will. The rest had been sent on to Richard to be absorbed into the various rooms of his house. Every once in a while Mary noticed them, pausing to think that they shouldn’t be here, she shouldn’t be here but in the London Jane described.

  Fool. You were such a fool. She crumpled the letter and let a tear of anger and self-pity slip down her cheek before she roughly wiped it away. It all could have been different if she’d chosen better, but she hadn’t and it’d cost her everything: her family, her heart, her future, her life and all the things about it that she’d loved.

  Mary watched Mr Fairclough climb into the carriage. She could see nothing of him through the dark window at the back, but if even one of his thoughts turned to her and what Richard had suggested she hoped it was favourable. The driver snapped the reins and the clop of the horse’s hooves echoed off the cobbles as the vehicle carried him away. She’d listened to Mr Fairclough tonight speaking in her native accent about ideas and prospects, the future and plans for himself and the business, and she’d been impressed. She wanted to be like him, to come from nothing and make something of herself. Marriage to a man of his standing and potential could help her achieve that goal. If she put as much effort into herself and this matter as he did his railroads, the future she’d once imagined for herself could be hers again. She would be a married woman, even if she knew very little about the man she was setting her sights on.

  Not a difficult problem to rectify, she could hear Richard say, and it wasn’t.

  She hadn’t been expected to marry for love when she’d come out in England. There was no reason to allow love to be the guiding force in a match here either. After all, her parents had supposedly loved her, but they hadn’t hesitated to cast her out of their lives. Preston had sworn to love her, but he’d abandoned her the moment he’d had the chance. Only Ruth had loved her and death had stolen her away, leaving Mary to grieve as deeply as she had in that dirty inn on the lonely road to Gretna Green. Mary refused to allow love to guide her or to shatter her or her world again. Her last attempt at marriage had been the wild imaginings of a lovesick girl struck dumb by infatuation. Her next marriage would be one of sense and rational thought, of a partnership with a man she respected who could make her a true lady once again.

  Chapter Two

  December 1842

  ‘Here you are.’ Silas dusted and dried the ink of his signature and handed it across the desk to Mr Hachman, his man of affairs. Outside his office door, and down the stairs, the whir of machines in the Baltimore Southern machine shop made a steady hum, broken now and again by the metal clink of hammers pounding steel into the parts and pieces needed to build and maintain a railroad. This machine shop was the first of what Silas hoped would be many to come. Soon they and numerous station houses would dot the landscapes of Baltimore and cities across the States, helping ferry people and the mass of goods entering Baltimore’s ports up and down the coast.

  ‘Congratulations, Mr Fairclough, on your first delivery of steel railway tracks from your, I mean the Baltimore Southern’s, new foundry.’ Mr Hachman collected the signed papers and slid them into his leather portfolio. ‘The regular deliveries will keep the men employed here and on the tracks busy for ages.’

  ‘Good, for there are a great many men in need of jobs.’ The country hadn’t entirely recovered after the panic of 1837 and with cotton prices still low, there were many men in need of work. Silas and his railroad would give it to them. He touched the signet ring on his left little finger. His father had once accused Silas of not possessing a charitable enough spirit, of being greedy and grasping, but he wasn’t; he simply pursued charity in a different manner than his father. After all, there was nothing wrong with helping one’s self while helping others. It didn’t all have to be privation. ‘We’ll dominate the American market and never have our progress hampered by the Atlantic Ocean or foreign politics again.’

  ‘It is a grand day, Mr Fairclough, and a grand future for you and Mr Jackson.’

  ‘All we need now is the new English engine to haul more goods and people over our freshly laid tracks.’

  We also need Richard to remain well enough to see everything come to fruition.

  Silas flicked a speck off the green-velvet blotter. The rattle in Richard’s lungs had grown worse with the cold weather. The ever-increasing progress of his disease was too much like the month the typhoid had crept through his family’s London neighbourhood while everyone waited to see if they or someone they loved developed the fever. The question for the Faircloughs had been answered when Silas’s father had fallen ill. The determination, energy and spirit that had carried his father through a hundred difficulties with the Foundation hadn’t been enough to fight off the disease and he’d passed, leaving so much for Silas to carry, just as Richard would. Silas swivelled his chair around to peer out the large window behind him at the packed dirt of the Baltimore Southern rail yard. The landscape was made starker by the grey clouds hanging low in the sky and the bare trees dotting the edge of the property. He was prepared to take over the management of the railway, but he didn’t want it in this manner just as he hadn’t wanted his father to die. He wouldn’t disappoint Richard in the end the way he’d disappointed his father.

  ‘Mr Fairclough, there’s another matter of some concern that I must discuss with you,’ Mr Hachman said, halting Silas’s melancholy turn. ‘Our English solicitor called on your mother and was informed that the Fairclough Foundation has not received their usual monthly drafts for the last six months.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ Silas swivelled around to face his manager. ‘I personally sign those bank drafts and include a letter with them every month.’

  ‘I don’t know. This was all the solicitor sent concerning the matter.’ Mr Hachman removed a paper from his portfolio and handed it to Silas.

  Silas read the man’s brief account of his conversation with Silas’s mother in October. He jumped to his feet, flinging the letter down on his desk. ‘This is two months old.’

  ‘It was sent by packet ship which was delayed in Liverpool while they waited for the hold to be filled.’

  ‘Given what we pay him to represent our interests in England, he should’ve had the wherewithal to send this by Cunard steamer.’

  ‘I’ve sent word that all future correspondence regarding any Baltimore Southern or Fairclough family business is to be sent the fastest way possible.’

  ‘But what about this?’ His stomach knotted at the prospect of his family going without or enduring financial straits due to this unexplained delay. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the foundry, he might have kept a better eye on the regular payments instead of leaving it to others. He could have stopped this problem before it had even become one.

  ‘I’ve received no follow-up correspondence since this letter. Our solicitor, having heard nothing from us, may have assumed the issue was resolved or is still waiting for additional instructions.’

  ‘I wonder why one of my sisters didn’t write to tell me there was a problem.’ They’d never been shy about describing the most trivial details of their lives and delighting over any description of his, cheering him on from afar. He had no idea what his mother thought of his life in America. The few letters she’d sent to him over the
years had been terse in regards to whatever business had forced her to break her missive silence. He couldn’t blame her for not putting pen to paper more often. He hadn’t given her a great deal of reason to write to him when he’d left England.

  ‘I can’t say, sir, but if you have any other channels through which to investigate the matter, I suggest you employ them.’

  ‘I’ll send a letter to Lady Alexandra, my father’s cousin. She’s on good terms with my mother. If they’re in trouble she’ll know about it. Arrange for a bank draft to include with the letter. I want it sent by steamer immediately.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fairclough.’ The man clapped closed his leather folder, collected his things and left.

  Silas laid a piece of paper on the blotter and, in very concise terms so as not to create a panic where there might not be one, but also to stress the urgency of the situation, wrote to Lady Alexandra. Silas prayed his mother would turn to Lady Alexandra for help if things were truly dire, but he knew the strength of the Fairclough pride. His father used to say that Silas possessed an overabundance of it, just like the Earl, his grandfather.

  It can’t be that bad. If it were, Lady Alexandra would have written to me about it at once.

  The fact that he had not received a concerned letter from her or either of his sisters gave him some hope. Perhaps there was already a letter on the way stating that all was well and the bank drafts had been received and cashed.

  It’d been a long time since he’d communicated with Lady Alexandra and as he dusted the letter and prepared it for the inclusion of the draft, he thought of the Christmases that he and his family had spent at the grand dame’s manor house. His sisters might not have cared to spend time at Lady Alexandra’s estate, but Silas had been mesmerised by her lavish life, stately house, manners, servants and the bit of port she used to slip him after dinner. Time with her had been his first taste of true prosperity and he’d appreciated it, especially the Christmas after his father had passed.

  When was the last time I was home for Christmas?

  He couldn’t remember. It was long before Liverpool. During the last few years, the railroad’s affairs had made it impossible for him to travel. He summoned his clerk and gave him the letter for Mr Hachman. The attorney was one of the best man of affairs Silas had ever worked with and he reminded Silas of Septimus Clarke, the Fairclough Foundation’s general manager who’d helped see it through the difficult years following Silas’s father’s death. He was the same man who’d convinced his mother to find a place for Silas in Liverpool with Jasper King, placing Silas on the path that had led him to Richard and finally to success.

  Silas wondered if his mother cursed her decision to let him go to Liverpool all those years ago, especially since Septimus had retired. Millie had written to Silas about Jerome Edwards, the new manager who’d been engaged to take Septimus’s place. She’d spoken highly of him, but Silas regretted not having been there to help interview him and other prospective candidates, to at last put his business skills to use for his family and show his mother that his natural gifts had real value. Instead, he’d trusted from afar that his mother and sisters had made the right decision, just as he’d trusted that the monthly payments had reach them. They hadn’t.

  The door to Silas’s office opened and Richard strode in with confident steps but there was no mistaking now the looseness in his suit or the hollowness in his cheeks. Silas touched the signet ring with his thumb, his heart dropping even while he smiled. ‘Richard, what brings you here?’

  ‘I want to see the plans for the new English locomotive you’ve been telling me about.’

  ‘It’s magnificent.’ Silas laid out a number of drawings of the English-built locomotive that had been sent to him during his correspondence with Mr Williams, the engine’s designer. They were drawn in a fine hand with strong lines and a view from every angle. ‘It uses half the amount of coal as our current model and is stronger and faster. With this engine we can reduce travel times and haul twice the freight. Between this and the new track, we’ll surpass our competition.’

  ‘I have no doubt it will be as successful as our foundry.’ He clapped Silas on the back, the heavy fall of his hand much lighter than before. ‘Let’s go for a walk and you can show me the new steam works.’

  They left the relative quiet of the office for the clatter and banging of the machine shop. Silas and Richard called out and replied to greetings from the workers whose faces were blackened by sweat and grease. Silas and Richard’s dark suits were a stark contrast to the men’s stained shirts and sturdy trousers. Outside, the musty scent of coal from the large deposits elsewhere on the grounds carried on the light breeze. It mingled with the dampness from the nearby Patapsco River that flowed out into the Atlantic, its waters crowded with ships hauling goods and rough materials in and out of Baltimore harbour.

  They walked across the rail yard to a tall new building of glass and iron being constructed near the tracks. Men moved about the metal structure, heaving the large panes of glass into place. ‘I doubled the size of the steam works to accommodate the increased width of the English engine and added more glass for better light for the workers. It’s a bit of a gamble, but it’ll be worth it when the first steam engine rolls out of here and we’re turning a profit instead of sinking money into it.’

  ‘I’m glad to see our plans progressing, although the credit for this one is entirely due to you.’ Richard waved his walking stick at the organised chaos around them, then fixed on Silas. ‘With so much settled, have you given the matter of matrimony any further consideration?’

  ‘I have not.’ This last week was the most time Silas had spent in Baltimore since September. He’d travelled between Baltimore and Pennsylvania to oversee the acquisition of the foundry and the conversion of the steel works into producing rails. On the rare occasion when he had been in town, meetings with businessmen and investors had left him little time to enjoy the quiet of his home much less Richard’s, or the pleasantries of courting Lady Mary.

  ‘I still say it’s a strong proposal. You won’t have to waste time courting flibbertigibbets and she won’t have to parade herself in front of society bachelors who’ll size up what I intend to settled on her and see if it’s enough to make them overlook everything else.’

  ‘What everything else?’

  ‘I’ll leave that to the lady to tell you. I’m not her father, simply someone who’s concerned about her future and happiness, and yours. I want you both to have a true partner, not someone who’ll only see the advantage in the other and then turn cold once that advantage is no longer a benefit.’

  ‘I thought this entire idea was to my and Lady Mary’s advantage.’ Silas laughed as they strolled towards the dock where the ship unloaded the coal, the scent of it and the grease mingling with the faint mist of steam from the nearby engines.

  ‘It is and I’m convinced the two of you are companionable. Speak to her tonight at Mrs Penniman’s Christmastime Ball. Try to see in her what I see and what she can offer you. If you can’t, then I won’t hold it against you if you decline.’

  And he wouldn’t. Silas was sure of it. Richard might propose an idea, but in the end the final decision always remained with Silas. It was time to evaluate this investment and make a decision and settle the matter one way or another.

  Chapter Three

  Mary sat across from Richard in the carriage, her yellow-silk ball gown pressed in by Mrs Parker who sat beside her. They waited in the long queue of vehicles inching towards the Pennimans’ front door. Christmas was still three weeks away but the Pennimans’ Christmastime Ball marked the start of the festive season in Baltimore and the round of parties before everyone secluded themselves with their families to celebrate the season. The Pennimans’ Mount Vernon Square house was built in the classical style with wide columns flanking a massive wooden front door. It stood with a number of equally impressive homes surrounding the wide, tre
e-filled square at the centre of which stood a tall Doric column topped with a statue of President George Washington.

  ‘You spoke to Mr Fairclough again about your idea, didn’t you?’ Mary asked Richard, struggling to sit still on the squabs as the carriage moved forward, then stopped. Foundry business had kept Mr Fairclough away from Baltimore for so long that Mary was afraid he’d forgotten about her. While he’d been gone, she’d purchased a new ball gown and two day dresses to make herself more appealing. She’s been afraid to order more items, wanting to maintain some dignity should Mr Fairclough laugh off the idea of marrying her. Even if Mr Fairclough entertained the prospect, she didn’t relish the ball being the first chance to broach the matter with him. There were too many things that could go wrong and ruin this venture before it even began. Mary had been thrilled when the invitation had arrived. She wasn’t so thrilled now. It’d been years since she’d last attended a ball and she’d been a very different woman then, inexperienced and immature. She was none of those things tonight.

  ‘I spoke with him.’ Richard clasped the leather strap as the carriage shifted forward again.

  ‘Was he amenable to the idea?’ The promise of a sizeable inheritance should help him overlook her past mistakes, but she wanted to be loved for who she was, not how many dollars were in her bank account.

  Love. Mary silently huffed, rapping her closed fan against her gloved palm. There was a notion she’d better dismiss. She’d placed her trust in love once before and it’d ruined her. She wouldn’t make that mistake twice. If Richard believed Mr Fairclough was a good match for her, then that was enough reason for her to encourage the gentleman.

  ‘He hasn’t rejected it.’