Authors: Nicky Penttila
They had no table. Mrs. Smith scooped the chops and greens into bowls and handed them around. They ate where they sat, the missus and her parents by the hearth with the boys, Jem and Nash on a bench by the street-view window.
“Food gives heart, my folk say.” Jem ate quickly but neatly. “We also say eat like the wind or there’ll be no seconds for you.”
“About this afternoon. Does that man live around here?”
“Across the Irwell, in Clayton’s housing. He were run off for drunkenness. He sobered up, but all he could find was piecework with Malbanks. That wage will starve a man slow. More?”
“You take it.” Nash leaned on the bricked wall, no plaster here. And no wood on the floor. But Mrs. Smith kept a neat house, and she served her man his seconds with a slow but honest smile. He thought he saw something pass between them, but couldn’t read it.
“She wants to know if you’d take tea after. The boy can run across and borrow a dish.”
“I thank you, but no. I should be getting home.” He’d been too hard on poor Maddie, taking his frustrations with work out on her. What was six buckets of water a day, compared with the chance at a comfortable hearth and a smile just for him? What could he say? She’d see him as a tyrant, and if he waltzed back and charmed her, she’d see him as capricious. Perhaps he could build her something, but what? A blasted bathing chamber, floating in thin air?
“Give our thanks to your ladies. Mrs. Willis’s chop may be better than her brisket, and that ain’t nothing to scoff at.” Jem set down his bowl to lift the toddler onto his lap. The boy held some sort of wooden puzzle toy he slid apart and back together, chirping in his own child language. Nash saw the grandfather had a similar piece, unfinished, in a basket beside him.
A part fell to the floor, and Jem leaned down to pick it up, giving it back to the boy. “We can play this game for hours.”
Now that he’d said he needed to go, Nash’s bites grew smaller and smaller, stretching out his supper to hold onto an excuse for staying. For the first time, he considered how his life would change if Maddie gave him children. Not the sort that run into the wheels of carts and frighten the horses, but the sort who delight in the toy a grandfather makes him. That sort might not be bad at all. Might actually be quite fine.
An unfamiliar feeling burned at the top of his chest. Perhaps Mrs. Willis’s chops were too spicy today.
Jem shifted the boy to sit sideways across his legs. Nash’s legs moved to make the same shape, as if readying themselves. “About this afternoon. You’re on the committee, so better I might tell you.”
“The meeting in Middleton? You’re going?”
“Aye, but not that. Here. I think there’s something up.”
“A strike?”
He shook his head no. “Most thought it better to hold the reform meetings than go out again.”
“Good.”
“But there’s too much ill-caring toward the Malbanks mills. The wage cut on top of losing all that broadcloth work to the machines. A hard man, he is, and not fair.”
“Striking wouldn’t break the machines.”
“Nothing will. We’re none of us Luddites here. And yet.” At Nash’s blank look, Jem mimed striking a match and flinging it. Fire.
Uncontrollable, unpredictable, fire was the biggest bugaboo in town. One building could set others off, and if it got hot enough, even brick would fall. And here they were in July, with the Irwell running low and the ponds gone dry.
Nash jumped to his feet, startling the baby into dropping his pieces. His wail started low but continued to rise.
“I must warn Malbanks. Do you know when?”
“I don’t even know if, if you take my meaning.”
Nash nodded. He bowed over Mrs. Smith’s hand, and nodded to her parents. Setting his hat back on his head, he headed downtown.
No one wanted a city in flames.
Master Hugh Malbanks first erected a monument to commercial progress, the largest spinning and weaving mill in Lancashire, and then one to his family, a six-column mansion, appropriately enough near the bank of the river. Built on a plan by Wren, or rather one of Wren’s acolytes, the edifice did impress on one’s approach. To Nash’s eye, though, the monstrous house looked orphaned and crowded, without an estate of rolling hills and gentle valleys cradling it. Malbanks did hold a home farm, out past Bolton, but he wanted his house to have a view of his domain, which stood at the south end of town. If the day rooms also had a view of the fortresslike New Bailey jail, well, the man might equally well enjoy that prospect.
Malbanks kept Nash cooling his heels in the stately entry hall. He wasn’t surprised—the doorman seemed nearly faint with shock that someone would be calling.
Nash didn’t know much of the man beyond general rumors. Malbanks worked hard, played little, endowed a Methodist church in his mother’s name, and acted the aggressor in negotiations, even when it wasn’t necessary. He took overmuch care with his dress, a sign of foppishness or new money; Nash suspected the latter. Still wearing his workday uniform, a jacket losing some of its blocking and good-enough trousers, Nash could pass for the oldest of old money—or no money at all.
Malbanks had learned the manners of polite society, as well. He was at table, finishing what looked to be roast pheasant, when the butler showed Nash in. Malbanks nodded and took another bit of the fowl, failing to offer his guest either refreshment or a seat.
This was standard treatment for petitioners and other poor folk, but it took Nash by surprise how small it made him feel. If he’d had a cap in his hand, he might have twisted it between his hands in that nervous way he’d seen the tradesmen do so often at the castle. His blocked hat sat on the stand in the hall, so instead he stood at parade rest. He was an uninvited guest at an odd hour, and Malbanks could do as he liked. They might well have sent him down to the kitchens, the highest floor the “lower classes” were normally allowed in the rare event they came calling.
At the far end of the eight-foot table sat a well-dressed, exhausted-looking female. The rumored Mrs. Malbanks, who was said to be continually pregnant yet had not offered any offspring to public viewing. Deliberately breaking the unwritten rules of decorum, he openly analyzed the lady. Watching her quick peeks down the table at every sound, the way she looked at him in glancing blows, and the tiny bites she took, only made Nash grimmer. When Malbanks set his silver down, ending the course, she jumped.
“Mouse, this is Nash Quinn, merchant and lately magistrate. Mr. Quinn, my lady, Mrs. Malbanks.”
Nash half-bowed in her direction, and thought he heard her squeak. Hadn’t Wetherby called Maddie mouse, as well? He’d obviously never met this lady.
“Malbanks, I apologize for calling so late, but I’ve just heard information pertaining to your mills I thought you might want to hear immediately.”
“No need for formality, we can talk freely here.” The servant carrying the soup course stepped neatly around Nash to deliver the tureen.
“As you wish. One of my hands has heard of trouble brewing.”
“An old story. They decided not to strike. Didn’t get enough votes ‘aye.’ A rebellion felled by democracy. Choice, isn’t it?”
“Not a strike. A fire-set.”
All motion in the room stopped, save for the flat clang of the soup ladle dropping into the tureen. Mrs. Malbanks’s breathing grew audible, rapid and shallow. She started to rock, forward and back. Her chair was unusual, higher than the others.
The mill owner scowled. “Enough, mouse. They wouldn’t dare.” He turned his attention back to Nash. “How good is your information?”
“Second-hand, but I trust the source.”
“All talk. That’s all these Mancunians are good for. Talk and half-work.”
“It’s dangerous talk. No one wants a London Bridge.”
Mrs. Malbanks moaned softly; Nash winced at the sound.
“And they won’t have it. Mouse, leave us.” A servant rushed to pull back her chair. She didn’t rise, though. The chair had wheels at the bottom. She gripped its arms as the servant pushed her from the room. After the door shut again, Malbanks spoke.
“I’d thank you not to speak of burning things before my wife. She has bad memories of fire, as you see. But I do not. As you know, the river runs through the main mill, and a holding pond sits beside the other. I’m in no danger.”
“Even a small fire, easily doused, would stall production. We need your mill at full output to make the Netherlands deadline.”
“Is that what you’re fretting over? That deal may mean everything to you—it’s your entire stake, is it not?—but it is small change for me. We’ll get you our portion well in time to meet your ship.”
Nash knew it for a lie. The man’s portion was half the cargo, and the order hadn’t yet been started. “Your spinners are back to working again, then?”
Malbanks looked to the window, swallowing quickly. Then he slowly lifted his glass for a servant to refill it and drank half before setting it down. “Consider it done. Now if you are through terrorizing my household, I’d like to enjoy my soup before it congeals.”
“Three weeks.”
“It will take two. Good night, Quinn. I believe you can show yourself out.”
At least the fool didn’t worry he’d steal the silver on his way out the door.
* * * *
All Maddie wanted was to be a good wife, a good Mrs. Nash Quinn. She did not dispute her husband’s right to set the house rules, though it was unusual. Man led, and woman followed.
The walk to church did not soothe, the streets bustling more than usual during work hours. She’d fallen asleep, clean but fitful, in the new sheets Mrs. Willis had thoughtfully put on the bed as Maddie soaked. She knew he’d come home because the bed was warm and rumpled there when she woke. Plus the note he’d left ordering her not to come to the warehouse.
He could do that, and what could she do? If he pressed the point about bathing, what could she say? What if he were so angry he sent her away? He might have her transported to Australia as a bad wife. No one would gainsay it. She’d argued with her husband—they’d say she brought it on herself.
By the time she reached the gate to the churchyard, she was panting as if she’d narrowly lost a race. Even the sight of her mother’s resting place could not calm her. She paced the length of the path it stood by, fifty steps back and forth, and again, and again. The July sun shone bright but cool; by midday it would be scorching, drawing away the loamy scents of the grounds.
Of all the things Maddie imagined could put a wedge into their closeness, bathing had never made the listing. For the hundredth time, she thought about her father, his family, her real one. Why shouldn’t she try to find him? Surely they would love her, want her. They would have to.
How could she even start to look? Mr. Heywood had fobbed her off, and if she pushed him he might tell Nash. Nash seemed to have little enough use for his own people, how could he understand this crying ache to find her own?
If only it were easier to procure a bath, if only it didn’t take an hour of heating water and carrying it, no one would gainsay her. At school, the bathing chamber was next to the kitchens, and she could always be sure of getting one pot of hot water. She’d mix it with the cold herself, and after she grew strong enough to carry it, she would replace what she had taken, bothering no one. Here it seemed she had unbalanced the entire household, right on up to its master.
She couldn’t rely on him. She had to have money of her own. If she had funds, she could hire another porter, half-time. Or even build a bathing house, with its own fire that she would tend herself. It would be a tight fit in the tiny space behind the house, and close on the night-soil and cinder boxes, but it could work.
If Nash didn’t want her at the warehouse any longer, perhaps she could hire herself out to Mr. Heywood. She might teach, or tutor. Her needle skills weren’t what they ought to be, and besides, they were masters of the cloth here. She might find a place back at Miss Marsden’s school, if he deserted her completely.
At that thought, she had to slow down. No, she couldn’t go back. And she didn’t want him to desert her. She wanted him to love her, treasure her, and not always find her so wanting.
He seemed pleased enough with their coupling. Perhaps if she found more ways to pleasure him, he would overlook her oddities. At least until she had enough saved to feel secure. Men owned women’s money as well as their bodies, the law said, but that rule was not as fiercely attended. Perhaps Mr. Heywood would act her legal guardian. It was all so difficult. Why couldn’t she just make herself suit?
Turning at the end of the path, she saw what looked to be her shadow, only it was moving toward her. Brown curls sneaking out of a plain bonnet, open oval face topping a printed dress in browns and greens. Maddie dropped her gaze. Her own dress was green and cream.
The other woman’s purposeful stride didn’t catch; she hadn’t seen her. When she paused at Maddie’s mother’s grave, Maddie retraced her steps, and stopped an arm’s length away.
It was no shadow, but a young working woman, beautiful in her strength. They stood silently, staring at the simple stone.
“She’d have been forty this week, had she lived.” The woman set three daisies banded with yarn on the top of the marker. She glanced at Maddie, a flash of blue diamonds, and then looked out at the nearby stones. “Is your Ma here, as well?”
Maddie couldn’t speak, the words stuck in her heart, not even reaching her throat. She gasped a breath out, then in, pushing, pushing.
“Are you my sister?”
The ice blue gaze snapped back to Maddie’s face. “I had a sister once, when me Ma was living.”
“What happened to her?” Maddie pushed out.
“Emily? We sold her to the nobs what killed our Ma.”
Maddie’s head felt too light, toppling her balance. She set a hand on the top of the grave marker to steady herself. The daisies tumbled. The blue-eyed shadow took a step toward her, arms rising as if to push her away from the stone. Then her eyes widened.
“It be you?”
“I was Emily Moore. They gave me new names.”
“Sounds about right. Well, I’ll be.” She shook her head hard, as if to settle the thought in her mind. Instead of pushing her away, the woman reached back to touch her own bonnet near her temple. She ran her finger down the side as if to trace the edge of Maddie’s face. Maddie’s skin sensed the touch as if it were real.
The woman smelled of new cloth out in the sun, fresh dyes and smoke. She stood Maddie’s height and had her proportions. Except for those eyes, they might be twins. They might be sisters.
Maddie pushed her lips into a wobbly smile. “I never knew I had a sister. Are there others?”
The woman flinched hard, as if Maddie had struck her. Her lips twisted down in a way that Maddie would ever remind herself not to emulate. “What do ye want?”
“Nothing.” Everything.
The woman crossed her arms tight, frowning. “We thought they might throw you back on us when we heard as how the nobs was killed. Proper way to go, we thought.”
“I was sent away to school. Just came back, just found out I was adopted. I was about to marry, and—”
“And so he deserted you?” The woman didn’t seem to think much of men.
“No! Well, yes. But his brother didn’t. He married me.”
She quickly scanned the cemetery. “Does he know you’re here?”
Maddie shook her head. “He knows I come here.”
“Looking for us?”
Us? Maddie’s mind went blank with pure joy. Only the woman’s quick grip on her forearm kept her from fainting away. She pressed all her hope into words. “Our father still lives?”
Her sister’s mouth pursed as if she would spit. But she thought better of it, and relaxed her lips. “He’s a top man, now, in the trade. Master weaver.”
Maddie skirted around feelings too strong to bear, retreating to the comfort of conversation. “And you, you are a weaver, too?”
“I work the mills. But I spin for Da, too. This is our work.” She pressed down the skirt of her dress.
“The colors are so rich.”
“Good weave, aye. But if I’m wearing it, that means we couldn’t sell it. The mills are the death of us, he says. You can stand now?”
Maddie nodded, and the woman took her hand away, leaving what felt like a true hole in her arm. “I’m called Madeline Quinn now. Mrs. Quinn.”
“Kitty. Miss Moore, if you please.” She held out her strong hand, a Mancunian woman of business. Maddie took it carefully and performed the odd pumping motion. Kitty let go first. The touch failed to satisfy, but Maddie didn’t dare ask this stranger-sister for an embrace. She wouldn’t risk anything that might make Kitty disappear.
“I saw your flowers, last month.”
Kitty stared down at the stone. “I’ve seen yours, as well. Must have been. I don’t come by so much. When times are hard, I find myself here more often.”
“Times are hard now?”
Kitty frowned at her as if Maddie were simple. Then she shrugged. “Wages be half what they was when I started at the mill, now a dozen years past. Bread is a shilling a loaf. The men talk reform, when all that will get them is prison. And then where will we be?”