"…
whereas such a navigation would be of great utility to trade, and in
particular benefiting the county of Derbyshire, a meeting will be
held at the assembly room of the Old Bath Hotel, in Matlock Bath
aforesaid, on Wednesday, the 11th day of March, 1818, at 10 of the
clock in the forenoon, to consider of the proper ways and means to
effect such navigation, at which meeting the nobility, gentry, and
clergy of the said county, and all others who deem it their duty to
interest themselves in a matter of so great importance are requested
to attend."
His
announcement appeared not only in the newspapers, as required by law,
but, to Lord Gordmor's chagrin, in abbreviated form on placards in
shop windows, on posters plastered to walls, carts, and wagons, and
on pasteboard signs carried like battle standards about the streets
of every village between Cromford and Little Ledgemore, the hamlet
nearest his mines.
Consequently,
even those who failed to read the newspapers or missed the notice
printed therein, could not fail to be informed.
Though
far from delighted, he was not surprised, on the specified date, to
find the Old Bath's assembly room filled to overflowing. Men of every
degree packed the floor, and a similar assortment of women crammed
the music gallery.
No
one needed to identify Miss Oldridge, sitting in the gallery's front
row. The looks Car sent her from time to time—which she
affected not to notice, the heartless creature—would have told
Lord Gordmor who she was, even if Sir Roger Tolbert, the meeting's
chairman, had not graciously performed that office.
Clearly,
the lady in the repellent green bonnet had not been idle.
Neither
had Lord Gordmor. Scattered through the crowd were men who worked for
him. His agents had spent the last week drumming up support and
gathering information in every inhabited corner of the Peak.
True,
Jackson had returned to Matlock Bath last Wednesday with troubling
news about Miss Oldridge's influence in the area. But the worst
became known late yesterday afternoon: Mr. Oldridge was so vehemently
opposed that he would abandon botany for the morning in order to
speak at the meeting.
But
Jackson had been prepared for this, and moments ago had whispered
that the situation was in hand. Apparently so. As the meeting began,
Sir Roger Tolbert leaned toward Gordmor and murmured, "Appears
Mr. Oldridge was otherwise engaged. Well, not surprising, not at all.
Meant to, of course. But these philosophers, my lord—" He
tapped his balding head. "Knowledge box much occupied, you
know."
If
Mr. Oldridge had not wandered off on his own, then one of Jackson's
men had helped him. The agent said it would not be difficult. One
need only mention spotting an interesting piece of fungus or moss or
lichen. The old gentleman wouldn't be able to resist going to have a
look at it.
Whatever
the cause, the most significant landowner and sole opposition had
failed to appear, and it would be highly improper for a lady to
address such a gathering. Women were banished to the gallery for a
very good reason. It was men who arbitrated matters of such economic
importance. Women looked on and gained what edification their weak
little minds could absorb.
Lord
Gordmor relaxed. The rest of his team were upon the platform with
him. His engineer had arrived on the previous Wednesday and spent the
next several days with Carsington, going over the original canal
plan. They had made a number of adjustments, which they would reveal
to the public for the first time today.
Also
in attendance were two members of Parliament for somewhere or other,
one of whom informed the citizenry—at length and with a great
deal of flowery oratory—that his lordship's proposal would be
looked on favorably as a project of lasting benefit to the area and
thus to the nation as a whole.
When
the windbag part of the business was done, the engineer made his much
shorter and less tedious presentation. When he'd done talking,
Carsington unveiled the new plan.
It
stood on an immense easel upon the platform, and was done on a large
scale, simply, in thick black ink.
From
her perch above, Miss Oldridge could easily see it, as could most of
the other important landowners.
For
the benefit of those who could not make out details, Car described
the route and the changes made, "to accommodate the special
requirements of individual parties."
The
new route lay at a greater distance from houses, gardens, and parks.
In the case of the Oldridge property, the canal made a convoluted
detour. This lengthened the route, making it meander when it might
far more easily have gone straight; however, it would cause virtually
no disruption to Miss Oldridge's arrangements.
Car
and the engineer had made handsome accommodations for the other
landowners as well. No rational person could possibly object, and
none did. His lordship discerned in the audience not only pleased
expressions and nods but clearly audible approval.
Gordmor
looked up at the gallery. Even Miss Oldridge was smiling.
Wonder
of wonders, Car had done it, as he'd vowed.
ALISTAIR
did not find the smile as comforting as his friend did.
He'd
learnt to read Mirabel's vast vocabulary of smiles. The curve of her
mouth was cold, not sunny at all, and the feeling swiftly came of
something about to spring at him from out of the darkness.
There
was nothing he could do but brace himself and wait.
He
was vaguely aware of voices, of the meeting going on and on,
endlessly, it seemed, while he sat in a state of suspense. His leg,
which could abide neither tension nor immobility, expressed its
displeasure by hammering pain from his thigh to his ankle.
Then
Captain Hughes stood up, resplendent in the uniform of His Majesty's
Navy. He asked if the ladies and gentlemen would indulge him a few
minutes of their valuable time. "I have a letter from my
neighbor Mr. Oldridge of Oldridge Hall, Longledge," he said.
"The gentleman having been detained elsewhere, I've been
delegated the task of reading it."
What
had Mirabel said the day they met?
I
am thinking of putting that up as his epitaph: "Sylvester
Oldridge, Beloved Father, Detained Elsewhere. "
Here
it was, then, the attack Alistair was waiting for.
The
captain read in the clear, ringing tones of Authority.
This
same commanding voice had for about two decades read, once a month,
the thirty-six Articles of War to a ship's company of several hundred
battle-hardened officers and men.
To
his listeners he must personify England's invincible navy and the
great nation it served.
Small
wonder the room instantly fell silent, and the faces became soberly
attentive and respectful.
Miss
Oldridge could not have chosen a better representative.
When
Captain Hughes compared the advantages to be derived from the canal
to the disadvantages, citing concerns of respectable tradesmen—and
noting their labor and sacrifice during the late wars with the
French—heads began to nod. Water issues constituted one of the
gravest anxieties, he read. He sincerely hoped the gentlemen had
taken into consideration the dryness of Derbyshire's limestone hills.
Had they accurately estimated the size of reservoir required, and the
costs of building this leviathan? Had the gentlemen calculated this,
that, and the other thing? Had the gentlemen included such-and-such
in their calculations?
This
part of the letter, which threw a glaring light upon the plan's every
weakness and inaccuracy, was mercifully brief, though disturbing.
Then
the captain began calling out names, and putting specific questions
to the men he addressed: "Is it not true, Jacob Ridler, that…
?" "Is it not the case, Hiram Ingsole, that… ?"
Thus
appealed to, the men stood up, one by one, and admitted, most
reluctantly at first, to reservations. Once they'd opened their
mouths, however, they grew less shy. Their objections became more
articulate and more vehement. Their fellows—along with the
wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers packed behind the ladies in
the first row of the gallery—applauded and cheered.
When
the tradesmen and farmers had finished with their grievances, the
vicar Mr. Dunnet discovered he had some reservations, after all.
After him, a few other gentlemen found something to object to as
well.
By
the time the gentlemen were done with their complaints, the crowd,
which had begun so meek and accommodating, was growing noisy and
hostile. They booed Gordy's answers and wouldn't let the engineer
speak. Sir Roger banged his gavel in vain. The politicians suddenly
discovered previous appointments and fled. A few of the ladies also
departed.
Alistair
looked up at Miss Oldridge. She wore an expression of blank
innocence, as though she not only had nothing whatsoever to do with
the pandemonium breaking out below her but did not find any of
it—including him—particularly interesting.
The
look was a gauntlet flung down, and he was too much a Carsington to
retreat before a challenge.
He
had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to make his presentation, and no
more. "You are too scrupulous and softhearted," Gordy had
told him. "Nothing gets done in politics without influence and
money. As we are not exactly flush of money, we must make the most of
influence."
What
this meant, Alistair had learnt last night, was that he was to look
handsome and gallant and hold his tongue. He was to leave all
negotiating to Gordy.
He
would have done this, sat clenching his hands and biting his tongue,
if Mirabel Oldridge had not worn the provoking smile—after all
he'd done to please her.
She
had told him she would fight him with every weapon at her disposal.
She had warned him that she was not overscrupulous.
Perhaps
she'd assumed he'd chivalrously decline to fight back. Perhaps she
thought the only weapon in his arsenal was looking beautiful. Perhaps
she believed that overawing the yokels with his fame and family
influence—and seducing the one woman who wasn't overawed—was
the only strategy he was capable of executing.
He
couldn't be sure what she thought. It didn't matter. The look
infuriated him. He couldn't remain mute. Honor, pride, loyalty, and
duty all demanded he fight—and fight to win.
He
stood up, ignoring his leg, which viciously protested with sharp,
burning jabs from hip to heel.
"Gentlemen,"
he said. He did not raise his voice. Car-singtons rarely needed to.
They needed only to exert the force of their personalities.
His
low rumble carried to the farthest corners of the hall, and the noise
subsided slightly.
"Gentlemen,"
he repeated, "and ladies." He sent a quick glance up at
Miss Oldridge.
The
uproar dulled to a buzz, then murmuring, then silence.
"I
shall consider it a great honor to address your concerns, one by
one," he said. "Let me begin with the crucial matter of
water and reservoirs."
ABOUT
this time, Mr. Oldridge was ambling in the wrong direction—toward
Longledge Hill rather than toward Matlock Bath—in the company
of his former bailiff.
They
had met quite by carefully arranged accident.
Caleb
had been strolling casually toward Matlock Bath when he met Mr.
Oldridge, also on foot, cheerfully resolved to do his duty, as his
daughter had begged him.
He
was surprised, but not disagreeably so, to see Caleb Finch. At the
time of Finch's dismissal, Mr. Oldridge had been sunk in the lowest
depths of the melancholia from which he'd only recently begun to
emerge. His daughter had seen no reason to trouble him with
unpleasant details. She'd simply told him that Finch had decided to
leave.
Consequently,
he greeted Finch affably, asked about his health, his family, his
work.
Caleb
was vague about his work but very precise about a recent discovery.
It was this the two men were discussing while going the wrong way:
away from rather than to the crucial canal committee meeting.
"Are
you quite sure of the shape?" Oldridge was saying. "Like
little cigars?"
"Precious
little," Caleb said. "Smaller than an ant. And brown. At
first I thought it was only dirt, but something made me take a closer
look. I was sure I seen it before. And now I'll take my oath I did.
My next to last position, in Yorkshire. I had to set the men to
scraping it off a wall on account mistress didn't like it. I thought
it was a shame, sir, as it was so interesting-like."