Authors: Nicky Penttila
She smiled tentatively, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Could this be true? With a finger, he traced the edge of her face, down her neck, across the dip in her throat. He plunged lower, to nearly between her breasts.
A sudden wave of disgust and fear washed through her. Maddie shot back, away from him. Her spine struck the window frame.
His hand hung there in the air, finger out, like a gun with a crooked barrel. He turned it to palm up, a gesture of surrender.
A splash of light startled them both. The maid stood in the open doorway, a candle in her hand, mouth agape.
“Miss Wetherby needs a fire, Mary. And some of that stew from supper.” The girl shut the door, and the room fell back into dusk.
“You, my dear, are compromised. Carry on this way and we will need to marry tomorrow.”
“You did it on purpose?”
“No. Well, maybe. It couldn’t hurt.” He kissed her again, a slow, gentle promise. She tried to relax again, but failed. She knew he could feel the stiffness in her limbs, her failure to enjoy the moment. He pulled away, but still his smile held. She shuddered in relief.
“You’re right. No need to rush.” He brought the finger to his lips and kissed its tip. Then he touched her lower lip, transferring the kiss.
“After all, we will have a lifetime. Won’t we?”
She would marry, after all. She would marry him. She could make this work. She
would
make this work.
“Yes,” she said.
Nash missed the crisp orders and tight command aboard ship. Even on the ships of the line, the jawboning diplomatic officers rarely surfaced to muddle the crew. Here on the Manchester Select Committee in Charge of Keeping the Peace, he sat among some half-dozen of their ilk. And there were only eight of them sitting around the dark oak stretch of the Star Inn’s banquet board.
Heywood took the center of the table, facing the door and anyone who might enter. “You’re to be my support in this,” he’d told Nash, “against the tide of fools.” Nash didn’t know that they were fools, but they did enjoy hearing themselves talk.
Hugh Malbanks, sitting at the far end of the table, owned the most profitable cotton mills in town, though he had just passed thirty years of age. Gray-lipped and stern, he drove the hardest bargains and wasn’t above threatening his workers if it would get the job done. His trading with Nash was fair enough though, and he was one-third partner in the consortium Nash had drawn up to bid for steady work from the Netherlands. The first, trial, supply was due to ship in less than two months.
William Clayton had some two decades more experience than Malbanks, but his cotton operation was only half as extensive. Heywood had introduced him as “the professor,” and he did carry a rather abstracted air behind narrow-rimmed spectacles. He sat to Malbanks’s right, but lost his seat to a new arrival when he got up for another draft.
The others on the committee Nash knew by name or sight, excepting the Reverend Ethelston of Cheshire. Four of them seemed to be taking their afternoon doze.
Heywood cleared his throat, a mighty roar, and they staggered awake. “Old business. I see the ban on singing has been proclaimed.”
The recitation was a formality, but Nash couldn’t let that one go. “I do feel safer now.”
“You weren’t there.” Malbanks spread his palms on the table. “Those men stood one step away from insurrection. We don’t need a reprise of the business of Seventeen.” Like then, Manchester’s workers were grumbling strike, and the manufactory owners needed to nip that in the bud. As a supplier, Nash’s livelihood depended on steady need. Even a week of work stoppage would overflow his warehouses. And if the ship from Boston made Liverpool on Thursday, as expected, he would need to erect a new warehouse out of thin air by week’s end.
Heywood stroked his beard. “I don’t recall song being part of the incitement to riot in Seventeen. Press the men down too hard, and they’ll rise up out of plain orneriness. We do have your fine yeomanry to keep the town serene, after all.”
“The workers are girding for battle,” Malbanks said. “I see it in their eyes.”
“When do you get close enough to a worker to see his eyes?” Clayton shook his head, and then had to readjust his glasses. “Someone is going around painting frightening pictures, but they don’t represent our town men.”
Nash’s ears pricked up at that. “Saboteurs?”
“Don’t use those Frenchified words at me, sailor boy.” Clayton winked. “Aye, Trefford’s house had mud thrown on it. But was it the men, or merely their children?”
“His workers are merely children,” Nash said.
“We did have to raise our first workforce.” Trefford seemed little taller than a child; seated at the far end of the table, his legs didn’t touch the floor. “But they’ve all grown up now. Adults make better workers.”
Malbanks lifted his hands and crossed his arms. “But they surely aren’t as docile as children anymore. What we need is a constabulary force, a standing police.”
“You can’t be serious. A standing army of policemen? In Britain? Never been done.” Heywood had to take a drink just to stop his flow of talk.
The man from Cheshire piped in. “We have a standing army, potential policemen, just miles out of town. What is the difference?”
Malbanks glared at him. “We would have control over a civilian policing force.”
Nash crossed his own arms. “Who is this we? The merchants? Or would London step in again and order us about?”
“If London will not pay to help us, I don’t see how they can give the orders,” Malbanks said.
“What we need is representation,” Nash shook his head. “Who argues for the interests of industry? No one. We need a member of Parliament from Manchester.”
“Two members!” Clayton’s shout did not help Nash’s argument.
Suffrage had not kept up with the times. When boroughs had been assigned, Manchester was merely a meadow by a river. The two members of Parliament from Lancashire, more than fifty miles away, represented all the people of the county, and did a ramshackle job of it, in the opinion of Manchester’s men.
“We need the help now,” Malbanks said. Heads nodded, and he continued. “I propose calling up special constables. We would disband them, Mr. Heywood, when summer marching season is done.”
“See that you do.”
Malbanks nodded. “I know many of the innkeepers, bakers, and the like, eager to ensure the peace. If they can’t afford the horseflesh to join the yeomanry, this will do for them.”
Nash wasn’t convinced. “An armed, untrained military force, charged with keeping the peace?”
“At least we’ll know innkeepers won’t be as drunken as the yeomanry,” Clayton said, glasses precarious on his nose. “They won’t care to deplete their wares.”
Heywood rose, and the meeting was ended. Nash followed him down the stairs and grabbed a pint. They settled at a table by the only window in the place.
Nash couldn’t keep quiet. “Why didn’t you knock them down? Constables. What idiocy.”
“It’s a distraction and a comfort. These are trying days for men who aren’t fortunate enough to have contented workers. Let them have their toy soldiers. It will keep their minds off greater mischief.”
“I can’t like it. We need to steer clear of smelling like an army. My own men seem happy enough, but for my going missing in the middle of a working day. Why have this meeting at mid-day?”
“Because that’s when the owners are at leisure. That is, the ones who can ever afford to be at leisure.” Heywood quaffed his half-pint and smacked his lips. “Speaking of mischief, I hear congratulations may be in order.”
“You disapprove?”
“You’re free to marry any girl you fancy. A mighty short fancy, I might notice. I hear that money may have sweetened the deal.”
“I do not marry for the money.” Nash sat back, frowning. How did Heywood still know so much of his family’s business?
“Strong protest indeed for a man newly endowed as partner in our new enterprise. I must remind you, the woman brings nothing to this marriage, no connections save those that could harm. You could do better.”
“You know of her family?”
“I wrote the contract, remember? I know they agreed never to claim her, nor seek her out. In exchange, we agreed to keep her out of their way. The mother is buried at St. Mary’s, of all places. He wanted her interred, and I knew the vicar there wasn’t so choosy.”
“Is the vicar still there?” Madeline might wish to speak with him. “Perhaps he could perform our ceremony.”
“Too late for that; he’s gone to his maker. I’m still a deacon there, though; if you want it, consider it done. I must warn you, Quinn: A bad wife is far worse that a bad business deal. Don’t do this out of some false vision of family honor.”
“It isn’t false.”
“It isn’t honor. Setting up some chit to marry Shaftsbury. What was the old man thinking?”
“Perhaps that the girl would be a good match.”
“Didn’t he choose his own bride, and that fell out poorly? Why did he think he could choose any better for his sons?”
Nash frowned. “Sons? Do you think there is some young thing training herself up to be my bride?”
Heywood laughed, the roar streaming out the door and echoing into the street. “A bride for the lost little lamb? I should say not. We all thought you would come out of the Navy buggered.”
“Blasphemer.”
“That’s not blasphemy, it’s slander. But tell me true, do you feel anything at all for this woman?”
Nash tried to sound out his feelings. Dormant so long, they were hard to read. “There is something between us, something that could be kindled. I intend to kindle it.”
Heywood lifted his mug to him, and drained the last of his bitters. “I’ll tell my lady wife to set up a decent supper for her, then. She’ll need all the help she can get.”
* * * *
Maddie paced the small track from bookshelves to window in the small study. She’d spent much of these past three days here, finding an outlet for her nerves by organizing the chaos of the castle’s accounts and paperwork. Shaftsbury found her just as she was turning away from the cloud-soaked view outside.
“Thought I’d find you here. The carriage is come round.” Dressed in hunter and gold, Lord Shaftsbury looked like a Gainsborough painting come to life. His smile was wider than Mr. Quinn’s, or what she could remember of his. She hadn’t seen him since the morning after she’d accepted his offer. He’d returned to town for some meeting and never come back. At least he’d sent two letters, short as they were. In one, he’d made the biggest concession she could imagine.
He’d written that he’d found the churchyard in Manchester where her mother was buried, and that if she wished they would wed in that church rather than the castle’s. Her mother’s name was Mary Moore. Reading the words, Maddie had nearly fainted, right there in the chair in her bedroom. It was surprising enough that he would seek out that hallowed ground, but that he would both consider her wants and dreams and place them ahead of the raft of his own family’s traditions made her head spin.
As it did his mother’s. At news of the engagement, Lady Shaftsbury had first sulked, but relented under Shaftsbury’s gentle prodding. She’d even offered to allow Maddie to wear her own wedding shawl as the “something borrowed.” When the venue changed, so did Lady Shaftsbury’s mood: She had refused to attend.
“Looks like rain,” Maddie said. “Your mother made the right decision.”
“It will hold off. It’s been such a sunny spring. I’ve seen you enjoying the gardens; aren’t they grand? As for Mama, she’s changed her mind again.”
“She’s going to Manchester?”
“She’s taking my place. Says that’s more appropriate. She’s such a stickler for everything proper.”
Was it proper that an earl not attend the wedding of his only brother simply because he was marrying a nobody? Maddie held her tongue.
Shaftsbury turned to the shelves. She’d made short work of the ledgers, which hadn’t been touched since Perkins left four months before. “Hard to believe you did all this in a matter of days.”
“I like doing the accounts, making the columns come out right.” Tidying up the world, at least the arithmetical part of it, as Miss Marsden put it.
“Might I offer you some advice? As well as your license, since Nash never showed up to take it off my hands.” He pulled out the folded paper, signed by the local archbishop, and handed it to her; without it, they would have had to wait weeks before marrying. “You know you don’t need to wed so quickly. For as much as he despises autocratic behavior, my dear brother practices it almost daily.”
“I do want this.” She saw him staring at her hands, which were crushing the vellum. She loosened her grip, and tucked the license into her bag.
“Rushing you into a hastily planned wedding is the least of it. Stand up to him from time to time, if you’re able. You might suggest you help Nash with his accounts, as well.”
“He has trouble with maths?”
“Not with maths, no. With making space for people in his life, yes. My brother tends to forge ahead and forget to look back to see if you’re following, if you get what I mean.”
She wasn’t sure she did. Shaftsbury’s smile grew crooked. “Not too clear, am I? You’ll figure it out. And you might see if he’ll release Perkins. The castle needs him. I was an idiot to send him away.”
“A generous admission, my lord.”
“Merely the sad truth. But I must say you look beautiful this morning, a radiant bride. Look, you even blush. No, no, somebody needs to fawn over you. Nash will forget, and Mama,” he paused, “well, she’s probably at the carriage now so we’d best make haste.”
As he handed her into the carriage, and she settled next to her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Maddie finally felt her heart ease. So much had happened so quickly, but it was turning out all right. Perhaps even better: There would be no extended engagement, as she’d expected when she believed herself the earl’s bride. She would be a married woman—part of a true family—far earlier than she’d dreamed.