Nat loved his father. To the pit of his heart, he loved him. But the man tended toward simple in his thinking sometimes. It was more than the bricks and mortar, and the implements that made the product. Nat knew it, and it appeared that Mrs. Duckett did, too.
“It’s the distributors, Dad,” he said. “Mr. Dyer has put them off. And the pubs. They know Duckett and Company makes hog swill—no offense, madam. They don’t want to buy something they know their customers don’t want to drink. You not only have to fix the product, you have to convince people to give it another try. You’ve got to make amends with the suppliers that don’t want to sell us no more because they’ve been cheated. It’ll be an uphill climb for the next little while, and you lot best hope you don’t stumble along the way.”
“Oh.” Joseph Cotter’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, I s’pose that is much to handle.”
“It is, Mr. Cotter,” Mrs. Duckett agreed. “But it does not follow that I’m not willing to start climbing.”
To Nat, she said, “My difficulty, Mr. Cotter, is that I am not a natural talker. I can no more convince a pub to take my ale than I can my mother to stop searching for my next husband. You, however, have a gift. A way with words that I do not have. I saw it the night you came to visit me to give me a piece of your mind, and then again today when you encouraged the men to share their ideas. I don’t know how you do it, but you are persuasive. The men listened to you. I’m sure other men will listen to you, too.”
Joseph Cotter chuckled with pride. “A golden tongue, he has. Don’t know where he got it, but the good Lord was smiling down on my Nat when he gave it him.”
“Indeed, Mr. Cotter,” Mrs. Duckett indulged with a sincere smile. “And an ease about him when he uses it. Whether he is trustworthy or not, I do not know. But he makes one believe he is, and that is what’s important.
“I admit I did not know exactly how I would expect your son to help me when I came to visit your home, and I told you both as much. But I do now. You, Mr. Nathaniel Cotter, will be my mouthpiece. You shall be the one to repair the relationships my brother has wounded. At all levels. Suppliers, distributors, public houses. Customers, even, if it comes to that. I shall employ your golden tongue, as it were.”
She paused then, and let her dark eyes rest on him. “Will you accept?” There was apprehension in her voice. Excitement. Anticipation.
Nat couldn’t help but find her enthusiasm infectious. It was true that persuasion came naturally to him, but it was never something he set out to do. Like that day on the docks when he persuaded Mr. Slattery to take both him and Bill on. He had not designed to be persuasive; it was only that he knew of the incoming shipment from Duckett and Company and saw the opportunity. He was not at all certain he could use his talents deliberately, when his job demanded it of him.
But then again, Mrs. Duckett had not been certain she could turn the brewery around. But here she was, facing more than thirty men from the company she’d inherited for the first time. Here she was, willing to try. As Nat looked at her hopeful face, he felt a funny little clutch in his chest.
If she was willing to try, then so could he.
He leaned forward, and stuck out his hand for her to shake, like a proper business transaction.
“I believe I shall, Mrs. Duckett.”
“Isobel, please, Mr. Cotter.” She put her hand in his.
He gave her dainty arm a firm pump. “Nat, please, Isobel.”
Chapter Seven
The next morning, Isobel stood before her dressing mirror. She tugged ineffectually at the hem of her waistcoat while Stott, on hands and knees, buttoned her boots.
“Do I look all right, Stott?” she asked her lady’s maid’s reflection in the glass.
“You look lovely, madam,” was Stott’s placid reply.
“I don’t want to look lovely. I want to look capable.”
“Anyone who knows you knows you are capable, madam. Given time to get to know you, your employees will see that.”
God love Stott. No matter what the situation, she always kept a cool head. She was rational to a fault, and sometimes, when all Isobel wanted was sympathy for her fretting, Stott’s frank, placid manner always kept her in check. The woman was as dependable as a stone. Isobel was grateful she had her to lean on.
But no sooner had Stott left than Isobel was fretting again. She’d made an impression on the men yesterday—at least she thought she had. What would happen, though, when she arrived at the brew house and proved to them all (including herself) how woefully out of her depths she was?
She could hardly remember what the place even looked like. She’d only been there once before, and from what she could recall, she hadn’t thought much of it then. Whatever love she’d found for it was because Andrew had loved it so, and Isobel loved Andrew. It was listening to him talk about the company at the end of the day that encouraged her enthusiasm. When he died, the reason for Isobel’s enthusiasm had died, too.
As it turned out, Nat Cotter’s unexpected visit had done more than saved his father’s job. It had woken Isobel up to what she had—and to what she would lose if she didn’t start working for it. And even though she was nervous, she was also excited.
To have somewhere to go in the mornings was a new and invigorating prospect. To do something with her time, to be someone, to make an impact on the world—however small—was what had been missing from her life, and she hadn’t even known it.
It was a curious phenomenon, Isobel found as she ate her breakfast, that time seemed both to drag and fly by. One moment she thought that the minute hand on the clock over the mantel must be moving backwards, and the next it had jumped ahead by five minutes. She had all the time in the world and yet no time at all to contemplate whether she was ready to face the day.
And then she was out of time all together. Willcox was at the door to the dining room, announcing that the carriage had been brought around and was waiting for her. She was helped into her cloak, helped into the carriage, and with a jolt it was off and rattling towards Spitalfields.
All the while, Isobel was not entirely certain this wasn’t all just a dream, and that she was really tucked up warm in her bed in those hazy moments between dreams and waking.
Was she really doing this? Taking on a business about which she knew virtually nothing?
“I don’t even drink ale,” she told the windowpane.
Despite her misgivings, she was at least able to appreciate that it was a lovely day and to enjoy the passing scenery. The air was crisp and clear, with a scattering of white, wispy clouds in the cerulean sky. It helped her some, this fine morning. It was as if God were telling her that all would be well, that she would be perfectly fine.
At least that was how she was damn well going to interpret it.
By the time the carriage arrived at the brew house and Isobel disembarked, she was feeling more put together. She looked up at the great, red-brick building that had been built by Andrew’s forefathers, and nodded several times.
“I am ready for this,” she said aloud to the structure. “I am. Yes, I am ready… I think.”
“You’ll blow them out of the water, madam,” assured her coachman.
Isobel glanced back, surprised. The man, whose name was Bolton, rarely spoke two words to her. She smiled.
“Thank you,” she said earnestly.
Emboldened, she marched through the iron gate and into the small courtyard beyond. The heavy scent of malt settled over the cobbles and dirt, clinging to her clothes and hair. The courtyard was only the length of perhaps two men lying down and as wide again, but it seemed to mark a barrier. On the other side were a set of heavy wood doors. They were the definitive line that would change her from passive bystander to business owner.
Isobel took one step. Then two. Then two more, and two more again, and soon she was inside.
She was greeted by a few tentative head bobs from those men who had been at her home yesterday, and curious stares from the rest. No one seemed
surprised to see her there. That was a relief. It meant she wouldn’t have to make a second appeal to twice the number of men. The first one had been taxing enough.
Tugging her waistcoat once more, Isobel crossed the brewery floor. At the back of the building was a flight of stairs that led to the administrative offices. Andrew’s office—her office now—looked out onto the work floor from a wide bank of windows. She could not see up into the office very well, but standing in that office and looking down, she would have a full view of her employees at work.
As had the captains of industry who had come before her.
What would they think of her, a woman, running their business, she wondered? What would her employees think?
She observed them as she made her way across the brewery floor. They all looked skilled and busy. In fact, each man here looked as if he were a vital component of a well-oiled machine. Indeed, the brewery must employ seventy or eighty men on the floor alone, not including the casual labour brought on to assist when large shipments of goods were going out or coming in.
Good Lord, she had let nearly forty of them go. That was almost half her labour force. How could Mr. Entwhistle think that the brewery would run with half the men gone, when to her untrained eye it looked as though each man were sorely needed?
As she neared the stairs, she spotted the elder Mr. Cotter. The man beamed when he saw her, and pulled his cap off his balding head.
“Mrs. Duckett. We’re so glad you’ve come today. Now, don’t you fret. We told them boys what to expect, and they’re pleased to show you around and point out some of the problems we’ve had, as you said.”
“Very well,” Isobel answered. She craned her neck, looking around at the other faces glancing curiously at her. “I don’t see your son anywhere. Will he be coming in later?”
“Oh, Nat’s been here long before the rest of us. Up with the crows, that one. He’s back in the storeroom with old Finnegan, helping him to sort through the stock. They’re getting it all laid out so you can inspect it.”
He grinned knowingly when Isobel’s eyebrows raised.
“Don’t be fooled, missus. My Nat may not have had a steady job until now, but he’s a hard worker. If he ain’t got any mouthpiecing to do, as you’ve said his job will be, then you can best bet he’ll be putting his hand in with the other lads.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I never doubted him for a second.”
The statement wasn’t exactly true, she reflected as she left the elder Mr. Cotter. Not that it was a lie, either. But based on Charles’s account of the men, they were lazy. If they did their jobs, they did only their jobs and not a lick more.
Yet another example of how inept her brother was. Not one man on that brew floor that Isobel could see looked lazy.
The rear of the brewery, where the storeroom was located, was divided into two rooms by a short corridor, at the end of which was the loading dock. As to which of those two rooms was the storeroom, she didn’t know, so she made a guess and turned left.
A wrong guess, as it happened, but not an unfortunate one. Left brought her to the landing of the steps that led down to the fermentation cellar. Realizing her error, she could easily have turned around and gone right instead, but Isobel was curious about her new surroundings. She descended the steep wooden steps cautiously, holding onto the damp railing with one hand and lifting her skirts with the other.
She couldn’t see much when she reached the bottom, and knew she’d made it only when her feet touched down on the dirt floor. There were no windows down here, and no other source of light. Yet she was not frightened. The smell of damp earth, mildew and fermenting grain was not unpleasant. Neither was the cool, clammy air. The whole cellar gave her a sense of peace, one which she certainly had not expected to find in the middle of a busy brew house in the East End of London.
The soft glow of lantern light spread across the cellar, casting shadows among the barrels. Someone was coming down the stairs. Isobel turned to see who it was.
“Mr. Cotter,” she said.
“I thought we agreed you were going to call me Nat,” he teased.
She liked his easy manner, the effortless, uninhibited way he spoke to her. She was glad for the darkness, for he would not be able to see the blush that crept across her cheeks.
“Nat. Yes, I’m sorry. It’s funny, I have been thinking of you as Nat all morning in my head, but the minute I open my mouth, ‘Mr. Cotter’ comes out.”
“I s’pose those formalities are tough to get rid of. You’ll likely be hearing me call you ‘Mrs. Duckett’ from time to time meself.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment before Nat broke the silence.
“So you found the cellar.”
“I was looking for the storeroom, initially. When I saw the stairs here, I thought I would come down and take a look.”
“Is that so? You’re not frightened of dark places?”
“Not unless I’ve reason to be. I wouldn’t want to go lurking around Whitechapel’s dark places at night, for instance. But a cellar? In a busy brew house? No, rats and ghosts do not frighten me.”
“You impress me, missus—Isobel, I mean.”
She grinned at the slip. “I must admit, though, I feel like I’ve done something naughty. Like I should not be here.”
Nat shrugged. “You’ve more of a right to be down here than I do, and I don’t feel as though I’ve done something naughty. It’s your company. Your building.”
“Yes, I know. But it’s not really mine, is it? I mean, I do not come to this place and work every day like the men do. I know neither its nooks nor its crannies. I don’t even know my way around, as I’ve been reminded just now.”
“Not yet, you don’t. But it will feel more like yours as you get used to it.”
She glanced at Nat in the steady lamplight, admiring his confidence. “I wish I could feel as certain about that as you sound.”
A small, knowing smile played on his lips. “That’s the trick of it. If you sound certain, no one knows that deep down you’re not. Do it enough, and you can even make yourself believe you’re certain about a thing.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s me motto. The words I live by.”
“Well then, Nat, I have high hopes for that motto of yours.” She looked around the large, long space with its rows of wooden barrels. “I suppose I should get to know what is in here, shouldn’t I?” Pointing to the far wall, she asked, “For instance, what’s in those barrels, how are they stored, and for how long.”
“You and me both,” he quipped. “I should know what I’m to be peddling, I think. But for today, I’ve made a start in the storeroom with old Finnegan.”
“Why don’t I join you, then, and Mr. Finnegan can teach me as he’s teaching you?”
“I think that’s a fine idea.”
Together they ascended the staircase. Nat followed close behind Isobel with the lamp held high so they could both see.
The staircase, an old, rickety contraption, swayed under the burden of their combined weight. “Perhaps we should go one at a time in future,” she noted when they reached the landing.
“Agreed.”
He flashed a charming grin at her that made her heart give a small, unbidden flip.
Let us hope that charm works as well on the men as it does on the women, she thought wryly.
Old Finnegan, as the men appeared to call him, was a lithe, thin little man who had the distinct look of one that lurked in dark alleys at night with a sharp blade. At first, Isobel was uncomfortable under his keen gaze, and her first instinct was to shrink away from him. But as she became accustomed to his mannerisms she regretted judging him so quickly. Though ill-educated, as all the workmen were, Finnegan was not unintelligent. He explained the inner workings of his job with the passion of a man who enjoyed what he did, and made sure she understood what he was telling her before moving on. She appreciated his straightforward manner, and that he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind.
/> “Here, missus,” he said, pulling open one of the burlap bags for her to see. “You takes them like this, and you smells them. Go on.”
Isobel scooped up a handful of the dried hop flowers he was showing her and breathed hesitantly. The smell was heady and distinct. Sharp and slightly sour.
“Is this a good quality product, then?”
“Well, t’ain’t so bad. But it’s not as good as we had under Mr. Andrew. In his day, we brought in the hops from Kent. Kent is the best place for hops, did you know?”
“Is that right?”
“It is. It’s the… what do you call it, when the weather’s like a way all the time in a place?”
“Climate?”
“Yes, the climate. It’s perfect in Kent for growing the hops. The mild air, and the breezes coming off the Strait of Dover. These,” he ran his fingers through the hops in the bag. “These ain’t from Kent. Don’t know where these come from.”
“You know quite a bit about hops,” Isobel noted.
“I do.” Finnegan straightened proudly. “Me granddad was a hops farmer. Dad moved us to London when he died, but I remember what Granddad taught me and me brothers. That kind of thing never leaves you.”
“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”
“But here,” Finnegan went on. “This is what I wanted you to know. Smell again. Do you smell the damp in them?”
She leaned over the bag again and breathed in longer this time. Indeed, Mr. Finnegan was right. There was a mustiness coming off the dried hops that she suspected shouldn’t be there.
Finnegan watched her. When he saw that she detected the odor, he nodded. “There, you do see.”
“How does that happen?”
Finnegan lowered his head and glanced furtively towards Nat. “Well, missus, as I was telling young Nat here, the damp’s getting into the store room over there.” He pointed to the far corner of the room.
“How long has it been getting in?”
“Too long, missus. I’m sorry to say, but I told Mr. Dyer about it two years ago. And he had some wood put up over it. But wood’s no good for keeping damp out, missus—begging your pardon for saying so. Wood rots, and that wood what Mr. Dyer put up rotted through last spring and now the damp is getting in again.”
The Christmas Blend Page 5