by Stella Riley
‘Let us not be hasty, Mistress Neville. When you hear the details you may feel differently.’
Lydia shook her head.
‘I won’t. The answer will still be no.’
Mr Hetherington looked down at the paper in front of him and sighed.
‘The gentleman is offering a very generous price. If I might just --’
‘Money is neither the issue nor a consideration. I own the Duck Lane premises outright and have a favourable lease on those in Strand Alley. Stephen also left me a thousand pounds a year and a twenty percent share in the pewter business – regardless of whether or not I remarry.’ She paused. ‘I don’t need money … and the lorinery isn’t for sale.’
‘I take your point,’ said Mr Hetherington unhappily. ‘But this really is an exceptionally good offer. I would be failing in my duty if I did not urge you to at least think about it. And your own situation should not be discounted. Since Mr Neville’s death, there must have been occasions when you have missed his support.’
‘I miss his support every day, sir – but that doesn’t change anything. I’m afraid you will have to tell Mr Philpott that I won’t sell.’
‘And that is your final word?’
‘Yes. In truth, I wouldn’t sell the lorinery to anyone. But I particularly won’t sell it to some nameless person who, for all I know to the contrary, may decide to put my people out of work.’ She stood up, her expression pleasant but firm. ‘I know you mean well, Mr Hetherington. But my mind is made up.’
* * *
On the walk home, Lydia thought long and hard about the mysterious offer.
It could be from a competitor – though, if that was so, she didn’t see any reason why the would-be buyer should wish to remain anonymous. It might have come from one of the saddleries she currently had dealings with but that didn’t seem very likely either because both the Saddlers and the Loriners Guild actively discouraged a combination of their respective trades. And that left just one other possibility that she could think of.
Despite all their nagging over the last six months, Joseph and Margaret had failed to persuade her to dispose of the lorinery. Lydia supposed they might have decided to try a different tack. Indeed, if Mr Hetherington hadn’t been so impressed by the offer-price, she would have been certain of it. But since most of their ill-feeling derived from – in their opinion – the overly-generous provisions Stephen had made for her in his will, Lydia couldn’t quite see them pouring more money into her pocket just to be rid of the lorinery. She rather wished now that she’d let the lawyer name the figure. Knowing just how much money was at stake might have answered her doubts one way or another. But for now, she decided to say nothing to either Joseph or Margaret. She would bide her time and see what, if anything, happened next.
* * *
For the next week as March roared in like a lion, nothing especially unusual happened.
In Duck Lane, a couple of burly and perfectly able-bodied individuals turned up seeking work. Mr Potter informed them that he didn’t need extra hands at present but, being reluctant to take no for an answer, the men argued a great deal before being persuaded to leave. Two days later, the foreman unhesitatingly took on a sailor who’d lost half of his left leg … and, within hours, the belligerent pair re-appeared with loud and resentful demands. At this point, realising that they must have been watching the premises, Mr Potter was finally forced to point out that Mistress Neville only employed men whose disabilities made them unable to get work elsewhere. This, inevitably, did not go down well; and, faced with behaviour that was becoming decidedly threatening, the foreman summoned reinforcements from the workshop to eject his unwelcome visitors from the premises.
In Strand Alley, Lily Carter asked Mistress Neville to join her in interviewing two new applicants. Agreeing that both women seemed respectable and the samples of work they had brought with them were of an acceptable standard, Lydia offered the pair the usual month’s trial period and thought no more about it.
Then, a few days after the scuffle at the lorinery, Lydia arrived there to find visitors of a different kind.
A well-dressed and pleasant-looking young man lacking his left arm was being instructed in the finer points of harness-making by Tom and Nathan while, further down the main room, another man, one hip perched on the work-bench, was provoking three of her most long-standing employees into gales of laughter.
As soon as he saw her, the young man stood up and bowed.
‘Please forgive us for intruding unannounced, Mistress Neville. Your foreman said we ought really to have asked permission but … well, here we are.’
‘So I see,’ replied Lydia dryly. ‘And, since you are, I’ve no choice but to forgive you, have I? However … you seem to have the advantage of me, sir.’
He grinned and bowed again.
‘Nicholas Austin – very much at your service.’
Lydia curtsied slightly and said, ‘May I ask why you are here?’
‘Actually, I’ve wanted to visit your workshop for quite a long time – ever since I first learned of it, in fact. I think what you are doing is remarkable. And, as you can see,’ he gestured lightly to his empty sleeve, ‘had my circumstances turned out differently, it’s a place I might have been glad of myself.’
Lydia found that strange. Appearances could be deceptive, of course. But he neither looked nor sounded as if he came from the kind of family which would leave him on the street.
She said, ‘So what has prompted your visit today?’
‘My friend over there. He learned that some of his former troopers worked here and wanted to see how they were getting on – so I took the opportunity to join him.’
She looked across at the other man of whom, since he had his back towards her, she could see nothing but a pair of well-formed shoulders and long, mahogany hair.
‘The gentleman is a soldier?’
Nicholas nodded. ‘A colonel – though currently tied to a desk. May I introduce him?’
‘That,’ agreed Lydia, ‘would be a very good idea.’
Abandoning his casual pose as soon as he became aware of their approach, Eden appraised Sir Aubrey Durand’s sister without seeming to do so. She didn’t bear any great resemblance to her brother and was also, since Stephen Neville had apparently died recently at the age of sixty-seven, much younger than he had expected. She was small and slender with delicate features and silvery-blue eyes, fringed by extravagant lashes. But her expression was shrewd, her chin set at a determined angle and her spine, ramrod straight.
Nobody’s fool, he decided. And, at present, mildly annoyed and just a touch suspicious.
‘Mistress Neville – my friend, Colonel Maxwell,’ said Nicholas. And then, in a mock-conspiratorial whisper, ‘I suspect the lady is not pleased with us, Eden, so best mind how you tread.’
‘I always do,’ came the negligent reply as he bowed formally over Lydia’s hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Mistress. Troopers Collis, Buxton and Hayes have been singing your praises in solo and chorus ever since I arrived.’
Lydia met a quizzical hazel gaze and, whether due to that half-smile or the thin white scar marring his left cheek, heard warning bells.
‘Really? And the laughter I heard as I came in?’
‘That was my fault, I’m afraid. Trooper Hayes and I were describing our undignified progress across the bridge at Upton a couple of years ago.’
‘’Twere right funny,’ said Dan Hayes, still wiping his only eye. ‘It ain’t every day you see an officer hopping across a plank on his arse – begging your pardon, Miss Lydia.’
She smiled to show she wasn’t offended but before she could speak, the Colonel murmured, ‘It wasn’t funny at the time. I recall having nightmares about it.’
‘Reckon we all did, Colonel. But you got us to the other side, all right – and out of that burning church after.’
Lydia decided it was time to put an end to this before her only hard and fast rule was breached any further. She sa
id, ‘Colonel Maxwell … might I have a few words in private?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you. We’ll borrow Mr Potter’s office for a minute or two.’
Eden followed her, wondering whether she knew about her brother’s activities or whether she had something entirely different she wanted to say. Then, when the door was closed behind them, Lydia turned to him saying pleasantly, ‘You wouldn’t be aware of it, Colonel – but we have one very important rule here. It’s necessary because we make no distinction between those who fought for the Parliament and those who fought against it.’
‘And your rule?’
‘The men here are asked never to talk about the wars in specific detail. Not the side they fought for or in which battles or under which commanders. It is instrumental in keeping the peace. And though I appreciate you showing those men they haven’t been forgotten --’
‘None of the men who fought under me are forgotten,’ interposed Eden blandly. ‘But, of course, I take your point and beg your pardon.’
‘There’s no need for that. As I said, you weren’t to know. It’s just that the conversation seemed to be …’ She stopped and spread expressive hands.
‘Heading in an inappropriate direction?’ suggested Eden, helpfully.
A hint of colour warmed her skin but she continued to look him in the eye.
‘Yes. I know how such a rule must look to you but --’
‘The word that springs to mind is ‘sensible’,’ he said. Then, ‘How many men do you have working here?’
‘Nineteen, at present. Of course, it’s not possible to employ every crippled soldier or sailor reduced to begging on the street – though we do take in any particularly needy cases that come to our attention, even if we don’t always have work for them. But as our order books grow fuller, we increase the work-force accordingly – which is fortunate as the war with the Dutch was sending fresh casualties our way.’
He nodded and then asked curiously, ‘What made you start this?’
The expression that crossed her face told him that this was a stupid question and her next words confirmed it.
‘Have you spent much time in London over the past few years, Colonel?’
‘A fair amount, yes.’
‘Then you must know the answer to that. My reasons are on every corner and have been for years.’
‘Reasons most people seem to have no difficulty in ignoring,’ replied Eden provocatively.
‘Yes,’ she said bitterly. ‘And there’s my whole point. If the various governments we’ve been subjected to recently had ever dealt with the problem effectively, our little enterprise here wouldn’t be necessary.’
He noticed with interest how she always said ‘we’ and ‘our’ but, instead of commenting upon it, chose to ask whether her ‘enterprise’ was financially viable.
‘It wasn’t back in ’48 when we started – but fortunately my late husband agreed with me that something must be done and didn’t mind absorbing the cost.’ A tiny glow of pride touched her face. ‘Now, however, we’re breaking even and have hopes of going into profit within the next few months.’
Eden saw with sudden clarity how honestly passionate she was about what he recognised was a very real achievement. The men he’d spoken to in the work-shop were cheerful and relaxed and, above all, confident. He’d seen too many others who were none of those things, thanks to shattered limbs, sightless eyes and – worse than either – a future of being regarded as useless. He also remembered how long it had taken Nicholas to become accustomed to managing with only one hand … and wondered how much will-power had been needed to enable Tom Grey to sit at a bench, similarly handicapped and link bridles to bits.
‘I congratulate you, Mistress Neville – and wish you every success. But now, since I’m sure you have a great deal to do, I should leave so that you can get on with it.’ He opened the door and followed her through it. ‘Perhaps – if I promise to remember your rules – I might be allowed a parting word with my old comrades-in-arms?’
‘By all means.’ Then, a shade crossly, ‘And there’s only one rule. You needn’t make it sound as if we have more regulations than a cheap lodging house.’
Eden looked down at her, a very slow smile curling his mouth.
‘I beg your pardon. One rule. Of course.’
Lydia had the feeling he wasn’t apologising at all and that, not for the first time, he was deliberately provoking her. She also mistrusted that smile which was a lot more charming than any smile had a right to be and was making it very difficult not to respond.
Keeping her own expression as severe as she could, she said stiffly, ‘And don’t pretend I’m chasing you away. If you wish to spend a little more time with --’
Her words ended in a yelp as a large brick came flying through one of the windows.
Mercifully, it didn’t hit anybody but shards of glass flew in all directions.
In the space of a heartbeat, Colonel Maxwell had seized Lydia’s arm and flung her down behind a work-bench, before taking off at a run, closely followed by Nicholas Austin and the only four of her employees who had two good legs.
Lydia sat on the floor for a moment, breathing rather hard and looked up at a circle of anxious faces.
‘Are you hurt, Miss Lydia?’ asked one.
‘No.’ There was a cut on her hand and bits of glass were dropping from her hair. ‘Is anyone else?’
‘A few scratches, Miss. Nothing to worry about.’
Mr Potter appeared, holding the missile. He said, ‘There’s something wrapped round it.’
She scrambled to her feet and reached for the paper.
‘Let me see.’
The message was dirty, ill-written and brief.
Cripple-loving bitch. We’ll get you.
Despite the shiver than ran down her back, Lydia crumpled the note in her hand and managed a careless shrug.
‘It’s nothing. Some foolish apprentice boy, I should imagine – or perhaps a drunk. Whoever it was, they’ll be sorry if our visitors catch up with them.’
‘They will that,’ agreed Dan Hayes. ‘The Colonel will knock seven bells out of ’em.’
At that moment, the Colonel and all those who had followed him with the exception of Nicholas reappeared in the doorway.
‘No sign,’ said Eden tersely. ‘I imagine he, or they, will be well-away by now – though Nick is still looking.’ His gaze skimmed over Lydia. ‘Your hand is bleeding. I hope my rough treatment wasn’t responsible?’
She shook her head. A moment ago, keeping her voice steady hadn’t been too difficult. Now, as shock and a tiny tremor of fear took root, she didn’t dare trust it.
The Colonel’s eyes narrowed and he advanced on her.
‘What do you have there?’
She tried, belatedly, to hide the paper in her skirts and said, ‘It’s nothing.’
Behind her, the men exchanged glances before staring meaningfully at the foreman.
‘It’s a note, Colonel,’ said Mr Potter firmly. ‘It was tied round --’
‘Stop this instant!’ Lydia spun round, her face furious. ‘It’s neither your business nor his!’
‘Begging your pardon, Miss Lydia,’ remarked Will Collis, ‘but we reckon it is. Only you wasn’t going to let us see it, was you? And somebody ought to.’
‘Quite right.’ Eden advanced on her and held out his hand. ‘If you please, Mistress Neville?’
‘No.’ She backed away, shaking her head. ‘It’s a stupid note, meant for me and nothing to do with anyone else – particularly not you. You – you are exceeding your authority here.’
‘And you are exceeding my patience,’ he replied, stepping forward to take her wrist in a firm clasp and calmly twitching the paper from her.
Lydia watched him smooth it out and read it. She didn’t know whether to scream or hit him. Then he looked up, frowning, and said, ‘Has there been anything like this before?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’
/>
‘No. For God’s sake – it’s just a bit of spite, not worth the paper it’s written on.’
‘Perhaps.’ He paused as Nicholas returned, dishevelled and sweating. ‘Anything?’
‘No. Too many places to lose yourself around here. Sorry.’
The Colonel’s attention returned to Lydia.
‘I gather you visit the workshop most days, Mistress Neville. How do you get here?’
‘How do you think?’ she snapped. ‘I walk.’
‘Alone?’
‘No. I bring a maid, three footmen and a very large dog.’
Though Eden’s mouth quivered with something that might possibly have been amusement, his voice remained coolly impassive. He said, ‘You’ve been threatened, Mistress Neville. Sarcasm is both misplaced and unhelpful – as is pretending it didn’t happen. I suggest that, in future, you ask your brother to escort you.’
Lydia scowled, instantly suspicious. ‘How do you know I have a brother?’
He shrugged, annoyed at the slip and prompt to hide it.
‘I thought someone mentioned him – but perhaps I misunderstood. Did I?’
She stared mutinously back at him and took her time about answering. Had it not been for the clutch of over-protective nursemaids behind her, she’d have lied. As it was, there was no alternative but to simply say, ‘No.’
‘Good. Then you’ll be sensible and enlist his assistance for a time.’
‘And if Sir Aubrey’d walk you here of a morning,’ volunteered Jem Buxton helpfully, ‘one or more of us’d be happy to see you home again after. Just following along behind, like. No need for you to be seen with us.’
‘I’m perfectly happy to be seen with you,’ she shot back. And then, recognising her mistake, added, ‘But you’re all talking as if someone’s out to murder me. It was a brick through the window and a nasty note. That’s all. And I will not have my life ruled by it.’
Eden looked round the faces behind her and suddenly grinned.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I rather suspect that you will.’
* * *
Lydia wasn’t happy when Dan Hayes insisted on following her home. She was even less happy when, an hour or so later, her brother stormed into her little office saying, ‘You weren’t going to tell me, were you? And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. One of your workers was waiting for me.’