“That will be enough of that, young man.”
Behind Mrs. Duckett, from one of the rooms off the foyer, an elderly gentleman had emerged. Behind him were several more toff ladies and gentlemen, all looking out at him with identical stares of disgust and shock.
“How dare you speak to my daughter in such a manner? You have no business coming here.”
“I have every reason to be here,” Nat defended himself, though he was notably less steady.
“What are you doing here, you gutter rat?” came a voice from behind him.
Nat looked back over his shoulder to see none other than the pompous face of Charles Dyer. His eyes boggled as he took in the sight of Nat, soaked to the skin and in bedraggled clothing.
Nat knew his time was done. He’d gotten more than he’d hoped for—he’d said everything he wanted to say to Mrs. Duckett. His eyes rested on her one more time, and he gave a final parting shot.
“You should all be ashamed. All of you should be ashamed. But I’m no fool. I know the way the world works. You don’t give a toss. You’ll continue to live on with your riches and my lot will continue to suffer.”
Then he turned down the steps and pushed past Mr. Dyer, who was already starting to sputter and shout after him.
Nat walked fast, with his head bent to the rain, which had increased to a steady patter by now. Every few feet he looked back over his shoulder to see if a copper was following him, but there was no one. He was alone, walking through the streets of Belgravia in the rain.
The farther he walked, the more the streets changed, degenerated, until they melded into the dilapidated, dirty, crowded streets that belonged to society’s dregs. His lot.
By the time he arrived back at his family’s tenement it was after midnight. Inside, his father was still awake. He seemed to have come out of his stupor, and was now tending to Oliver. The little boy looked to be doing slightly better, though Nat knew enough not to hope that he was over the worst of it.
Ollie was sleeping at least, and while his fever was still high to the touch, he wasn’t coughing. Rose was on her cot, on top of the blankets, still dressed. She was sound asleep.
“You’re back then?” Joseph Cotter said. It was more statement than question.
Nat sank wearily into a chair at the table.
“I am. Blimey, that did not go as I had mapped out in me head.”
“What did not go as you’d mapped out?”
Nat looked guiltily to his father. “I went to see Mrs. Duckett.”
Joseph Cotter’s hand stilled, the damp rag resting on Oliver’s forehead.
“You didn’t. Oh, Nathaniel, please tell me you’re having me on.”
“I did, and I said what needed to be said.”
“Sweet God. What needed to be said?”
Nat rolled his eyes. “Cor, Father. If I’da called the woman a church bell, what would that matter to us?
“Tell me you did not call Mrs. Duckett a church bell. What will she think? Oh, Nat, that was foolish of you. What have you done?”
Nat was tired of his father’s timidity. He was tired of having to bow and scrape and pander to the rich. He was… tired.
“I didn’t call anyone anything. But you don’t work for them anymore, so I might as well have and it would be no consequence on our heads. Why you care so much, I’ll never know.”
Then he left off talking to his father to tend to Oliver. He’d set out to unburden himself, to confront Mrs. Duckett, and he’d done that.
Except that it hadn’t made him feel any better. He only felt even more defeated.
More hopeless.
Chapter Four
After the poorly timed arrival of Mr. Nathaniel Cotter, the party declined rapidly. Not that it was doing well to begin with, but at least it had been limping along at a steady pace while her mother’s guests waited for Charles to arrive. With Mr. Cotter’s departure, it soured beyond repair. Supper ended early, and all of the guests made their excuses in rapid succession.
All of the guests, that was, except for Isobel’s parents and her brother.
“Is this the kind of person you hire to work in your factory?” her father accused.
“No, Father. But—”
“Gutter snipe, that one.”
“But Charles was responsible for hiring—”
“I say fire him immediately.”
“He doesn’t work for me, Father. He—”
“And what will your neighbors think?” her mother had jumped in.
“My neighbours?”
“To have such a creature appear on your doorstep. And then to have Willcox let him in!”
“Mother, it’s hardly the scandal of the century. I—”
“No proper man will have a woman who lets that kind into her home.”
“He wasn’t in my home, Mother, and I’m not looking for a husb—”
“It’s a wretched thing to do to Andrew’s memory,” Charles had said then.
With that, Isobel deflated entirely. Charles was baiting her. Goading her. When her mother and father got worked up, it had always been his favorite thing to do. Ever since they were children. As Mr. and Mrs. Dyer rattled on at her, firing one accusation after another, Charles sat back with a self-satisfied grin. No more sense than a spoiled boy of ten years had her brother.
She was a fool to have let them all talk her into allowing Charles to run Andrew’s business in the first place.
“—Too entitled.”
“—Must be taken down a notch.”
“—Should be banned from our city.”
“—Should be sent to the workhouse.”
“—To the colonies!”
Isobel shut her ears to her parents’ stream of abuses against the poor. There was no point in reasoning with them now.
When finally they left, she lugged her tired body and her tired mind up the stairs, submitted to Stott’s undressing her, and then crawled beneath the covers to wait for blessed sleep to release her from her earthly burdens.
But even sleep was against her this night. She dreamed of Nathaniel Cotter, dreamed of his accusing eyes, dreamed they followed her around. Reminding her that she’d failed him. She’d failed them all. And there was not one thing she could say to defend herself because she had failed them.
“What can I do?” she’d shouted in her nightmare. But Nathaniel turned his back on her. And the brewery crumbled to the ground. And there was nothing left but a pile of brick, ashes, and Isobel standing amid the ruin of the Duckett family legacy.
When she woke the next morning, Isobel felt like she’d had no more than two hours of sleep.
But in that short time, a glimmer of possibility had come to her. A kernel of a notion that, as she allowed herself to be dressed by patient, unassuming Stott, took root. And as she ate her breakfast alone at her table with a footman standing statue-like in the corner, the kernel blossomed into an idea. An idea of how she could liquidate funds. It was unconventional, a shame, even. But it was the only option she had.
Her first order of business was to go straight to the bank, and for that visit she brought a portfolio of documents with her. Once that meeting was over, she took herself directly to Guilford Street to see Mr. Entwhistle at his office.
The wiry little man had been surprised to see her, but he had been downright shocked when she handed over the portfolio that contained an assortment of new documents. He nervously wiped his fingers over his temple as he read what was on the fresh papers. Disbelief was the dominant emotion on his face, though Isobel thought she also detected sadness. Regret, too. And perhaps (or was she imagining it?) grudging approval.
“Your country home,” he said, still very much dismayed. “When I suggested you try and liquidate funds, I did not expect that you would give up your estate in Derbyshire. That has been in the late Mr. Duckett’s family for generations.”
“Yes, the thought had occurred to me,” she answered dryly.
He looked up at her, gently closing t
he leather portfolio. “Mrs. Duckett. You could have sold the brewery and lived quite comfortably off the money from the sale for the rest of your life. Or at the very least, if you were determined to sell your country estate, I would have been happy to put it up for sale properly. In a month or two, you could have had twice what the bank has paid you for it.”
“And does the brewery have a month or two, do you suppose?”
He lowered his eyes.
“Mr. Entwhistle, I think we can both agree that I did what I had to do. The country home was paid for by the brewery. Every brick that was fired, every stone that was quarried, every stick of furniture that decorates it. It was all bought with proceeds from the brewery. Which do you think Andrew would have wanted me to give up first?”
She paused, letting her words sink in. “The servants will stay on at the house. The only difference is that they will have a new lord or master or self-made merchant paying their wages. But for the men of the brewery, I don’t imagine the transition will be so easy. I did the right thing, I am certain, and I am not sad about it. Or at least I imagine I will be less sad in time.”
“I daresay it was a bold move,” he said admiringly. “And it may just be enough to keep the business running long enough to save it. But I must caution you, Mrs. Duckett, that you must not rest on this achievement. The funds you’ve raised today will clear most of the debts, but you must remember that the debts are there for a reason. I am not quite certain what that reason is, why the business is not as profitable as it once was. You have much work ahead of you to determine the cause of the brewery’s decline.”
“Yes, I do intend to stick my hands into the muck, as it were. No longer will I entrust Charles with my business. It is mine to run now.” She rubbed her hands together excitedly. “And on that note, Mr. Entwhistle, I need you to do two things for me. Please send a messenger to the homes of all the men who were let go yesterday and tell them they have been re-hired. I will bear the expense of course, just tell me how much is owed. Have the couriers tell them also that they are to report to my home in Eaton Square promptly at noon tomorrow, if they wish to resume their employment at Duckett and Company.”
“At your home?”
“At my home.”
“But why not at the brewery? Would that not be a more appropriate place to meet your workers? They’re dirty, most of them. And some might be of questionable character. I do not know whom Mr. Dyer has hired since he assumed control. I could not vouch for any new men that were not there when Mr. Duckett passed.”
“Nor do I expect you to,” Isobel responded. “But my Andrew and his father before him treated their employees like family. In days past, as I’m sure you recall, there were luncheons and gatherings at our home when it belonged to Andrew’s father. Those workers were invited into their lives then, and my workers shall be invited into my life now. If anyone should turn out to be of questionable character, we can decide what to do with him at that time. But for now I need them to be invested in turning the brewery around with me if this is to work.”
“And what is the other favor?”
“I need you to find the address of a Mr. Nathaniel Cotter immediately. His father was one of the men let go yesterday, and he came to see me at my home to give me some harsh words. I wish to find him and confront him.”
“Confront him? Are you sure?”
“I am sure. I will go today.”
“Oh, Mrs. Duckett, I do not like this. You must have a chaperone, surely. A guard. That part of town is not for a well-to-do lady to be on her own.”
Isobel pressed her gloved palms into her lap. “Mr. Entwhistle,” she said with a patient smile. “I appreciate your concern. But I’m going. And I’m going today. I have some of my own words for Mr. Cotter, and I must get them out while there is still fire in my belly. The address, if you please.”
Twenty minutes later Isobel had what she wanted, and her coach was on its way to Spitalfields.
What a surprise visit this would be.
Chapter Five
It was dark by the time Nat came home from the docks. There had been plenty of work that day for all, and Nat, who had been one of the first to arrive, landed a prime task. But the full wage packet in his shirt pocket did not provide the satisfaction it normally did. As he dragged his tired feet homeward, he was not fulfilled by a day’s hard graft. And he certainly didn’t feel like stopping for a pint at the pub. Not when he was now the sole wage earner for the household, and every ha’penny was needed.
Hopefully Father would be able to find a job soon. One wage, and an unreliable one at that, would not hold them for long.
At least Oliver’s fever had broken. Nat had spent much of the night sitting up with him. He sponged his brother’s forehead, coaxed him to take water, and re-tucked his blankets when he kicked them off, all so that Rose could get some much-needed sleep. That, too, was a reason why his day’s hard graft gave no satisfaction—he was going on a mere three hours of sleep.
After what seemed like forever, he reached the familiar cluster of streets and crossed the narrow laneway to his tenement. A hot cup of tea consumed his thoughts, so much so that he nearly tripped over Mary, who was sitting on the front step with his neighbour, Mrs. Tate.
Alarm bells sounded in his head. Was it Oliver? Had his fever returned?
Nat breathed, reminding himself to remain calm.
“Is something wrong?” he asked Mrs. Tate.
The mother of five who, like all women in Spitalfields was older than her forty-odd years, gave him a reassuring smile. Deep wrinkles marred her forehead and the creases in her eyes, but they were kind eyes. Full of love that the hardship of poverty could not dim.
“Not to worry, Nathaniel, dear. It’s only that—”
“You’ve got a toff here to see you,” Mary jumped in, grinning impishly.
The bells in his head chimed furiously. That hog swill Charles Dyer hadn’t tracked him down, had he? Or one of the other rich and useless gentlemen who had been at Mrs. Duckett’s home that night?
But what could they possibly do to him, even if they had? No, Nat reasoned, he had nothing to fear from them. He couldn’t be in any kind of trouble; he hadn’t done anything wrong.
“A toff,” he said to his sister teasingly. “I s’pose I’d best go see what it’s all about, shouldn’t I?”
He bent and planted a quick kiss onto the crown of Mary’s head. Then he climbed the three flights of stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the landing outside his door. Breathing once for courage, he fixed his features into a neutral expression then pushed the door open to greet whomever was inside.
It certainly wasn’t Charles Dyer on the other side, or any of his nob gentlemen friends. In fact, it was the last person he would have expected. Seated in one of the wooden chairs which had been pulled next to Oliver’s cot was Mrs. Duckett herself. She was in the middle of telling the little boy a story from memory.
Oliver lay tucked snugly in his blankets, with his dark head resting on his pillow. Though he was clearly exhausted from the night’s ordeal, he watched the woman with wide-eyed interest, entranced as much by her melodic voice as by the story itself.
When they heard him, both pairs of eyes glanced in his direction.
Nat stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind him. Father was seated at the table with his hands folded neatly in front of him. He looked awkward, as though he were trying to display what he thought of as highborn manners, but wasn’t entirely comfortable doing so.
In front of him there were two cups of tea. One was his, and the other, Nat assumed, belonged to Mrs. Duckett. Rose sat by the fire with her mending, trying not to stare at the lady. Her fingers moved deftly with the needle, even though she was looking at her work only half the time.
Knowing his sister as he did, Nat suspected that she instinctively wanted to resent this other female who had invaded her domestic territory, but was simply too awestruck by how wealthy Mrs. Duckett obviously
was.
Wealthy and attractive, if he was being objective. Not beautiful, but alluring in the fresh simplicity of her delicate features.
But cor, what was he thinking? She’d fired his father. She was still just like the rest of them toffs.
“Ah, Mr. Cotter,” Mrs. Duckett exclaimed. She said it friendly enough, but her face betrayed nothing.
“Mrs. Duckett,” Nat responded, equally as guarded. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
Her composed features cracked slightly. She was amused by the hint of derision Nat put on the word “pleasure.”
“I have come to see you, actually. Well, you and your father both, but you more particularly. However, I’m sorry to tell you that you shall have to wait. There is a rabbit and a stork who were here first, and they are most anxious to have their story told.”
At this she playfully skittered her fingers over Oliver’s ribs. The boy giggled weakly, and scrunched himself tight against her tickling.
Eyeing their guest warily, Nat crossed the room and took a seat beside his father while Mrs. Duckett finished her story.
“And so the stork flew high into the air with the rabbit clutched securely in his feet. Below him the rabbit saw all the destruction he had made of the farmer’s cabbages. And didn’t the rabbit feel awful? So the next night, when the farmer was asleep, the rabbit busied himself repairing the fields. He planted new cabbages, and carrots and lettuce, too. Within a month, those cabbages were as big as sheep’s heads, and the lacy tops of the carrots and the lettuce were three times as tall as he was standing on his hind legs. Well, the farmer was so grateful that he planted a special selection of vegetables just for the rabbit. And they all lived a jolly life together, forever more.”
“I like that story,” Oliver said. His small voice was even smaller than normal. The poor thing was so tired.
“It’s one of my favorites,” Mrs. Duckett agreed. “Now you get some rest while I talk to your papa and your brother. Dream of rabbits and storks and cabbages as big as sheep’s heads.”
The Christmas Blend Page 3