Laurie Alice Eakes - [Daughters of Bainbridge House 02]

by A Flight of Fancy

  He could not believe it. Surely God did not intend for a man and wife to have no attraction for one another. Miss Irving was beautiful, and her glances at him he recognized as appreciative. Their interest ran no further. They shared nothing except a relationship so distant the marriage laws would not prevent an alliance between them. If she answered to a suit from Whittaker, it would be for the title and nothing more. Nothing more than him answering to the siren call of her inheritance. He would rather live in a hovel like the shepherd’s cottage with Cassandra than in a manor house with Regina Irving.

  But if the Lord wanted something else from him, he should pursue it. He had pursued his own way for too long, and all that resulted was playing spy for the Crown by force, and disaster for Cassandra.

  Soaked to the skin, Whittaker entered his cottage. Warmth from the banked fire filled the single ground-floor room. He built up the blaze, made tea, and sipped it while his clothes steamed dry. By the time both were finished, he had made up his mind about what he would do next. First step came with his meeting that night.

  “This continual destruction gets us nowhere,” Whittaker began.

  “Aye, we’ve heard that from you before.” Rob yawned as though bored with Whittaker’s argument. “We’re trying to teach the owners a lesson about cutting our wages.”

  “Which they’re doing now to pay for the repairs,” Whittaker shot back. “And you damaged the Hern mill. That owner hasn’t lowered anybody’s wages.”

  Hugh leaned forward, a looming shadow in the dim room. “We heard he was going to now that he ain’t marrying money.”

  “Did you, now?” Whittaker made himself sit still and silent, afraid of what else he might let slip. A dozen questions crowded into his head. From whom? ranged at the top of the list.

  “That’s what we do to them who thinks they can rob a man of his honest pay,” Jimmy said, his voice as soft as the silk he wove. “It’s a warning like.”

  Whittaker shrugged. “I can understand that, but maybe we should look at the rumors and make sure they’re true first. If they aren’t, we could be the ones robbing men of their honest day’s pay.”

  “Hern was a mistake,” Rob conceded.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Hugh and Jimmy chorused.

  “Two of our men got shot,” Rob persisted. “No one warned us the place would be guarded so heavily.”

  “Or maybe someone warned them.” Hugh shoved back his chair with a rasp of wood against wood. “I’m wondering which one of you it were.”

  They all sat still and silent now. Even the taproom below seemed to hold its collective breath for half a minute. Whittaker fully expected the men to surround him and bind him, admit aloud they knew who he was, and hang him as so many of their own had been hanged for assaults on weaving shops and officers of the Crown. He braced himself, ready to bolt for the window. Slowly he lowered his right hand from his thigh in the hope that he could grab the knife shoved into his boot before they overwhelmed him.

  Jimmy moved first. He shoved back his chair hard enough to topple it backward. Whittaker grabbed his knife hilt.

  Before he drew the blade free, Jimmy turned on Hugh. “Maybe your informant ain’t so good. Maybe you led us right into a trap.”

  Whittaker relaxed infinitesimally. Jimmy was indeed protecting him, drawing attention from him. Perhaps even trying to learn who the true enemy was?

  “Are you accusing me of sommit?” Hugh surged to his feet as well. “’Cause if you are, just come out and say it.”

  “I’m saying you might not be gettin’ such good information,” Jimmy said.

  “Who was it?” Rob demanded, standing also.

  Whittaker lounged back in his chair as though entertained by a drama. The less attention on himself, the better.

  Hugh took a step backward. “I ain’t goin’ to say who. It were good information. I mean, the rest he’s given us has been. He must’ve made a mistake.”

  “That mistake got my cousin killed.” Jimmy never raised his voice, yet it slid across the room with the undertone of a threat. “More mistakes like that might get someone else killed.”

  Hugh leaned over the smaller man, his face inches from Jimmy’s. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Maybe.” Jimmy did not back down.

  “Then maybe I should—”

  “This is getting us nowhere either.” Whittaker rose and shot out an arm between the two men. “Back away, both of you. We gain nothing if we fight amongst ourselves.”

  “So what’re your ideas for makin’ things better for us weavers?” Rob jutted his chin at Whittaker. “Seein’ as how you’re so sure what won’t work.”

  “I wish I could say work only for those who pay fair wages,” Whittaker said with care, “but there’s too few of those.” His mill owner’s heart rebelled against what he suggested next, yet it was better than the destruction and the death the uprising had caused thus far. “If you stop working altogether without destroying the looms, the owners will have to pay more to get you back. They don’t make money if they have no weavers.”

  “And who will feed our families?” Rob asked.

  “Who’s feeding our families now?” Whittaker returned.

  Hugh snorted. “Them who pays the tithe tax—the landowners and the churches.”

  “And the mill owners,” Jimmy added.

  “Why should I work twelve hours a day for naught,” Hugh pressed on, “if someone else will take care of my wife and children?”

  “Have you no pride?” Whittaker held back a sigh of frustration. “Because I do, and it tells me that what we’re doing now is getting nothing but more men out of work and a lot dead.”

  “Then you ain’t with us no more?” Rob took a step closer to Whittaker. “’Cause if you are . . .”

  Whittaker held his ground. “I won’t take part in any more senseless destruction like at the Hern mills.”

  How he wanted to say he would take part in no more destruction at all. But the major’s threat still loomed.

  Whittaker sat down and drew his chair back to the table and the sour stench of the ale before him. “Let’s sit down and discuss what we do next.”

  “The Murdoch spinning mill.” Hugh returned to his chair, and the others followed as he laid out a plan for destroying the water-driven spinning machines that produced finer, stronger, and more consistent thread than did the hand spinners but were dangerous. At the same time, they put hundreds of spinners out of work.

  A touch of guilt stabbed Whittaker that he had thought of buying a spinning mill himself when the money became available. He felt guilty for how much his looms had put men out of work, though they had been there long before he expected to inherit. Yet if he sold the mills, a new owner might not be so generous, and Whittaker Hall would suffer, putting more men out of work on the farms.

  Lost in his thoughts, he barely heard the plans the men made. He did not need to know them. In the melee of an assault, no one noticed his absence, or had not thus far. All he needed to tell Major Crawford was that an attack was imminent. The military was supposed to take care of the rest. Sometimes they did. Sometimes they failed to arrive on time. What mattered most about the night’s meeting was that he had one more important sliver of information.

  Hugh was the key to learning who insisted on continuing the destruction, though the rebellion had died down in most other areas. If Whittaker could learn the identity of Hugh’s informant—misinformant—then Whittaker would give the major what he wanted and be free to go about his life, rebuilding the mills and Whittaker Hall, building a family with a wife and sons and daughters.

  The latter should look like Cassandra. But they would not. Could not. She did not want him for her husband, and he was beginning to accept that she might be right. Once upon a time, when he remembered to do so, he had prayed for God to provide the means to spare him from financial ruin and thus sparing the livelihoods of dozens of men and women. Then he met Cassandra, fell in love with her, and only later learned of th
e modest but so useful dowry. He would have her as his wife without it, and yet perhaps he would not after all, for too many would suffer without the infusion of money. Perhaps God was showing him another way to prosperity for those dependent upon his success to make their living.

  Tomorrow he would go home to court the heiress. With the Irving fortune, he could buy mills from owners who could not rebuild and needed the funds as much as did the weavers. He could do more good with a fortune than without. It was the right choice, surely a godly choice.

  As he made his way home through the night now free of rain, he wondered why, if this was all so right, he found himself praying that Regina Irving truly found him no more intriguing than he found her.

  25

  “Tomorrow?” Cassandra hugged her arms across her middle and smiled up at Philip Sorrells. “I can go up again tomorrow?”

  “Provided no more rain comes today.” Mr. Sorrells spoke in a hushed tone so as not to be overheard by the rest of the company, including the boys, their tutor, and Lady Whittaker, who were using the open end of the great hall to practice a badly performed version of Richard III, directed by Regina Irving.

  Cassandra had been more than happy to admit she could not act and to remain near the fire. Mr. Sorrells had joined her in the adjacent chair, as he had the day before. She had still been chilled from her walk through the garden and her wait for Whittaker in the woods, not only from the drenching she had taken but also from apprehension for his safety. He was not the sort of man to make an assignation and not keep it. Considering she had seen someone try to kill him, she knew reason for her concern.

  If she were not so excited about the potential to go ballooning the next day, she would have been praying he would get a message to her so she would know for certain he was safe. She had said a few prayers the day before and thanked the Lord no dead bodies had turned up along the way.

  Now, however, all her focus lay in Mr. Sorrells’s announcement that the balloon would once again be ready for going aloft if she was interested.

  “May I go alone?” she asked, then held her breath, waiting for him to be as protective as a nursemaid with a newborn, as Whittaker tended to be. He would say no without hesitation.

  Mr. Sorrells took several moments before he shrugged. “I don’t see why you can’t. Roger and I have gone up on our own, and it is a simple matter. Now that we know you need a little assistance, we can bring something you can use to climb up.”

  “Lovely. Lovely. Lovely.” If she did not fear falling on her face, Cassandra would have sprung to her feet and danced around the great hall in excitement. As it was, her voice rang off the stone walls and spread across the vaulted ceiling. The players stopped their action to turn and stare at her.

  And Whittaker walked through the door from the family wing. “Good afternoon, ladies, gentlemen.” He bowed to the would-be actors at the far end of the room, then turned his attention on Cassandra. “What is so lovely, Miss Bainbridge?”

  “Hmm, um, just some improvements to the balloon.” She tried to avoid his gaze.

  He would not let her. “Perhaps you can tell me about them sometime.”

  “Yes, if you—” Cassandra began.

  Miss Irving glided forward as though she possessed wheels instead of legs. “No boring balloon talk now. Lord Whittaker, you are right in time to take the role of Henry Tudor.”

  Cassandra expected him to decline with the excuse of estate or some other business. Instead, he agreed without hesitation and followed the heiress back to the makeshift stage.

  “A sturdy box will do.” Cassandra turned back to Mr. Sorrells as though their dialogue had not been interrupted.

  They continued talking about the flight. Cassandra even looked into Mr. Sorrells’s eyes a few times, admiring their clear, gray irises and direct intelligence. Another time, she dared touch his arm while she made a point about how often they should apply the sealant to the balloon silk.

  “It will evaporate, you know,” she concluded.

  Mr. Sorrells rose. “And now that you speak of evaporating, time seems to have done so. We have been invited for dinner and I must go change my attire.”

  “Yes, and my sister is determined there shall be music.” Feeling a little queasy, Cassandra held out her hand and Mr. Sorrells helped her to her feet.

  He continued to hold her hand. “But you won’t dance.”

  “No, I still cannot.” From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Whittaker watching her, and she extricated her hand from Mr. Sorrells’s—slowly. “Mrs. Dunstan is highly superstitious like the prince regent, and I would make thirteen to table so offered to not come.”

  “But Lord Whittaker is here now, which will make the table even,” Mr. Sorrells pointed out.

  “If he intends to remain home.” Focusing on happier thoughts, Cassandra said, “But I will be at the balloon bright and early.”

  “And so will we.” Philip Sorrells bowed, bade farewell to his host and hostess, and all but dragged Roger Kent from the house.

  The boys and their tutor headed up the steps for the schoolroom, and Honore swept down the corridor to her room with an exclamation about the bird’s nest of her hair needing repairs before she received guests for dinner. Miss Irving followed her young cousins upstairs with her own excuses of changing for the party.

  “Must go don my uniform,” said the major, who wore country garb of buckskin breeches and woolen coat. “Makes me stand out like a lighthouse beacon, but it is expected of me. Be seeing you shortly, ladies, Whittaker.” And he too left the hall.

  Cassandra stood beside her chair, irresolute. To get to her chamber, she must pass Whittaker and his mother. The former looked at her with sympathy, the latter with some confusion. Both would want to say something to her about the evening’s entertainment. If she said she did not care about not being able to dance, as a small country dinner party held no interest for her, she doubted they would believe her. What single lady of one and twenty did not enjoy a party?

  One like her, the bluestocking who disliked the vapid gossip.

  She had waited too long to make her exit. The Gileses needed to walk past her to get to their wing. Both of them stopped by her chair.

  “Do you not need to get yourself ready too?” Whittaker asked. “Not that you do not look charming.”

  “She does.” Lady Whittaker spoke a bit too brightly. “That pink suits her, brings out the natural roses in her cheeks, which have returned since she has been here.”

  Returned and now bloomed. Cassandra’s face heated. “You are too kind,” she murmured. “I should go see that Honore has everything she needs and allow the two of you to get ready.”

  “You are not coming to my mother’s party?” Whittaker asked.

  “I offered to stay away so Mrs. Dunstan does not have palpitations over thirteen to table.”

  “Surely you did not agree to this, Mama.” Whittaker narrowed his eyes.

  “I did not agree.” Lady Whittaker twisted her hands together. “But I had no idea if you would be home or not, and Mr. Danby could not come. And the Dunstans are our closest neighbors and we do not wish to insult them.”

  “Balderdash.” Whittaker’s jaw hardened. “I will not have one of my guests insulted in favor of a woman afraid of a number. I will be here for dinner.” He turned on his heel and stalked into his wing of the house.

  “I do believe,” his mother said, “he is coming into his role quite nicely.”

  “Which may be the greatest reason it is best we are not going to be wed.” With Whittaker had departed Cassandra’s warmth, and her throat felt tight. “I would not make a good countess.”

  “I thought the same when my father told me I was to marry Geoffrey’s father. You will learn the role.”

  Choosing to ignore the verb tense her ladyship used, Cassandra said, “I have no idea what to wear.”

  “Wear that gown with the silver netting you wore to dinner here the other evening,” Lady Whittaker suggested. “I
have rarely seen you look prettier.” She laughed. “Oh dear, that sounded rude of me. I meant that you looked prettier than you always do.”

  Cassandra laughed. “I am not the beauty of the family, I know. But thank you. I will do my best.”

  Cassandra could not wear the pearls with the white silk gown, with its overskirt of silver gauze. They were too creamy. But Honore produced some silver earrings set with diamonds that their parents had given Cassandra upon her twenty-first birthday.

  “Did you pack all my jewelry?” Cassandra could not help but laugh.

  “I knew you would forget.” Honore spun in front of Cassandra, sending her lace ruffles flying. “Will I do well enough? Do you think the major will wish to kiss me again?”

  “I expect he will wish to, but whether or not he should is another matter. You know you should not be kissing or even holding hands without a declaration of intentions from him.”

  “Says Saint Cassandra.” Honore pouted at her sister. “And I suppose Whittaker did not take you on the Lovers’ Walk at Vauxhall Gardens and kiss you three weeks after you met?”

  “Well, yes, but—” Cassandra turned away to hide her blush.

  “And what about you and Mr. Sorrells today? That was as near to hand holding as not.”

  “I do not think that was holding hands.”

  “Ha. Everyone else did. I thought Whittaker was going to land him a facer.”

  “Honore!” Cassandra shook her head at her sister’s use of cant. “Do not use such vulgar language in company, please.”

  Honore giggled. “You have gone so righteous of late. But you do not fool me. Your Bible has dust on it.” Shot fired, Honore swept from the room and allowed the door to close a little too loudly behind her.

  Cassandra glanced at the bedside table on which rested her Bible. A light coating of dust undisturbed by so much as a thumbprint marred the tooled leather cover. Other than a few quick prayers for Whittaker’s safety the previous day, she had not read her Bible nor prayed since thanking God for the healing of the infection in her leg. Not six months ago, she was certain God had control of her life. She still believed that—He had made marriage to the man she loved unthinkable. He had also punished her for her bad behavior, and for that she had abandoned the Lord as a parent bent more on her good appearance to others than on anything she wanted, as with her own father. So she rebelled, as she had so often rebelled against her father. She did not wish to stop rebelling. That might mean no more flying, no more experiments, no more Greek translations. It might mean marriage to a suitable man.