He had jumped to her defense automatically, his protective instincts aroused by Val’s attack. It wasn’t that he agreed with what she was saying, however. At some level he was disappointed in her unwillingness to see that Ned Gibson or her workers had any cause for complaint.
He had been a Whig before Spain, but his time with the guerrilleros had strengthened his radical tendencies, for most of his comrades were peasants, fighting for their land and livelihood. He had lived closely with them, and any notions he might have had about the supposed natural superiority of the upper classes had been dispelled early on. He’d known that one day he would inherit his uncle’s title, but he had not expected it to be for years. And since he did have to assume the privileges of birth and rank, he was determined to find ways to better the lives of his tenants.
So it wasn’t support of her ideas that led him to Anne Heriot’s defense. Perhaps it was his intuition that underneath her words lay the confusion she had just revealed to him.
He admired her for asking those painful questions. He liked her for it. Perhaps he was even beginning to love her for it. Bloody hell, what a ridiculous thing to have happened! Why was he becoming vulnerable to the one woman it seemed he couldn’t win?
Because he admired her straightforwardness and courage in coming to London without a father’s protection and setting out to get what she wanted. Because he couldn’t charm her! Because she was direct and honest about her own faults. Because she was both strong and vulnerable, hard and soft. And because when they danced, had he been able to pull her closer, she would have fit right against his heart.
Chapter Twelve
Anne left the next morning and was home by afternoon tea. She found Sarah in the drawing room, wrapped in a wool shawl, half dozing by the fire.
“Why, Anne, what are you doing home?” she asked.
“I came as soon as I heard what happened. I couldn’t leave you alone after such an experience. How is your arm?”
“ ‘Tis much better. I’m able to move it a little.”
“But you look tired.”
“I am. I think it is the aftermath of the shock. I slept late yesterday and today and find myself napping in the afternoon. But I am fine, Anne. You needn’t have interrupted your holiday, although I am grateful for your care.”
Anne sat down, and when James came in with the tea, she poured for Sarah and herself.
“How was your Christmas, Sarah? I hope not too lonely.”
Sarah blushed a little and hoped that Anne didn’t notice. “It was very peaceful…well, as peaceful as it could be after what happened. We—that is, all of us—walked into Wetherby for the mummers, of course. And yours?”
“I very much enjoyed being with Elspeth and her family. But there was one fly in the ointment.”
“Oh?”
“Lord Aldborough. I felt a little uncomfortable, of course.” Anne hesitated. “Patrick is sure it wasn’t an accident, that it was aimed at me.”
“I think he is right, much as I hate to frighten you. I went out and looked at the girth myself. It was definitely cut.”
“We got into a discussion of possible suspects, which led us to the topic of the mills.” Anne hesitated. “Do you think my father was an unfair master, Sarah?”
“Why. no, he was always very generous to me, in his own way.”
Anne gave her a wintry smile. “ ‘His own way’ was rather understated, wasn’t it?”
“It was. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard a servant complain in all the years I’ve been here.”
“And what of the factory?”
“I don’t know, Anne. I’ve never had contact with any of the workers. From all I could tell, your father was no worse than any other owner, and perhaps better.”
“I had a very uncomfortable conversation with Val,” Anne told her. “He was sympathetic to the workers because of his early years. I defended my father and Joseph, of course, but later I couldn’t help but think of what it must be like to work in the mills. Lord Aldborough came to my defense.” It was Anne’s turn to hope that the warmth of the fire was explanation enough for her reddened cheeks. “I told him I was very grateful, of course.”
“Of course,” Sarah said, keeping her tone serious, although she was tempted to smile. “You thanked him and then rushed right off?” This time she couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice.
“I couldn’t leave you alone, Sarah.”
“I am not precisely alone,” Sarah protested mildly.
“Should I not have come home to see how you were for myself?”
“Not at all. I am very grateful, and you know it. I was just teasing you a little. It’s only that your initial unhappiness with Lord Aldborough has seemingly been transformed into something else.”
“Yes, and I suppose I am confused by it. And by him,” Anne admitted. “Not that I have changed my mind about him, mind you.”
“Of course not.”
“Sarah, do stop teasing.”
“I am sorry, Anne.”
“As well you should be, for I am feeling very confused about a number of things that I was so sure of—the mill, Joseph, Lord Aldborough. He kissed me, you know.”
“Lord Aldborough kissed you!”
“Oh, it was only because of the mistletoe, and it was in front of half of Yorkshire. But I must confess that I enjoyed it very much.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider him, then?”
“No, I still prefer Lord Windham’s warm straightforwardness to practiced charm. Lord Aldborough may have been kind to me and he may give expert kisses, but it is just that expertise that I don’t trust. It is how he earned his nickname, after all!”
* * * *
Anne walked down to the stables early the next morning and found Patrick grooming Sarah’s mare.
“Good morning and welcome home, Miss Heriot.”
“Good morning, Patrick. Would you show me my saddle? I want to see the girth myself.”
Patrick pulled her saddle off its hook and hung it over an empty stall door. “See here,” he said, lifting the girth up.
Anne ran her fingers over the break. “It is too smooth to have just worn through, isn’t it?”
“The leather isn’t that old, and has been well cared for, miss. There is no reason it would split on its own.”
“I was sure you were right, Patrick, but I needed to see for myself. Now that I have, I am even more upset. Sarah could have been badly hurt.”
“Or yerself, Miss Heriot.”
Anne shivered. “I don’t like to think someone would hate me that much.”
“Well, if ye can spare me tomorrow, I’ll ride over to Shipton and see if I can get anyone to talk to me.”
“Ned Gibson was very upset when I didn’t offer to overturn Joseph’s decision. He showed no respect for my cousin and very little for me. I am sure he is the one responsible for this.”
“It would seem so,” Patrick said blandly.
* * * *
But as he rode over to Shipton the next day, Patrick had to admit that he preferred Joseph Trantor to Ned Gibson as the culprit. Not that he really knew either of them, he reminded himself. But the little he’d heard of Trantor he disliked. And inheriting a fortune was an even stronger motive than revenge.
When he reached the town, it was early afternoon and as he rode through, he was struck by the difference between the center and the outskirts, where the factory workers were housed.
He tied his horse up at the Hart and Horn and entered the dark taproom. He hadn’t shaved this morning and had dressed in his oldest clothes in hopes that he wouldn’t stand out too much. He would be obvious enough as a stranger.
The taproom was empty except for a very old man dozing by the fire, his snoring punctuated only by bouts of coughing that Patrick was surprised he was able to sleep through.
Patrick took his tankard of ale to the corner and sat there nursing it, wondering if the barkeep was a talkative sort. Then the door opened and a man walked in, heading straight
for the bar.
“Good day to tha, Tom. Wot’ll it be?”
“Tha asks me that every day, Ben,” growled the customer, “and tha knows t’answer: a pint of stout. And another as soon as I’m finished,” he added, slapping his money down on the counter. He drank the first pint quickly while standing at the bar. The barkeep stood there with his hand on the tap, and as soon as the last drop was drained, he started pouring another. The man took his pint and headed toward Patrick’s corner.
“Tha’rt sitting in my seat.”
“Am I now?” Patrick said mildly. “I’ll be movin’, then.” He’d come for information, not a fight, so he slid onto the next bench.
“Tha looks familiar. Do I know tha?”
“I don’t think so. But I have been in town before. Maybe ye saw me then. I work for Miss Heriot.”
The man slammed his pint down. “Tha has soom nerve, cooming in here.”
“Well, I have a day off, and I was curious about the mills my mistress owns.”
“Tha mistress!” the man said contemptuously. “A reet bitch, to my way of thinking, living well while her workers starve.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, but ye don’t know what starvation is,” said Patrick. “But I’ll agree she can be hard sometimes, the mistress. I’ll give ye that,” he added.
“Tha will, will tha,” his companion said sarcastically.
“I’ve heard that her father was a hard man, but a fair one.”
“As owners go. But seeing what owners are, that isn’t saying much. Is it, Ben?” he added, turning to the barkeep.
“Tom here fought with General Ludd,” Ben told Patrick.
“Ye did, did ye? From what I’ve heard, your boyos shared the same hatred of tyranny that our Whiteboys and Ribbonmen did in Ireland,” said Patrick, nodding his approval.
“I don’t know about t’bloody Irish, but in Yorkshire we almost won…till they started throwing us in jail for having a pint together. Isn’t that true, Ben?”
“Tom there, he went to jail twice for conspiracy.”
“And I’m proud of it,” Tom declared. “Another pint, Ben.”
“Let me,” offered Patrick, putting his hand on Tom’s shoulder as he started to get up. “I’ll take another one too.”
He waited until Tom had drunk half of his third pint before saying casually, “From what I hear, there’s still some good men willin’ to stand up to the owners. Why, the butler at Heriot Hall told me that someone walked all the way there to protest to Miss Heriot.”
Tom turned and looked at Patrick, suspicion in his eyes. “Did he tell tha t’lad’s name? Or his reasons?”
“No, only that Miss Heriot was gone the first time and sent him away angry the second. ‘Tis hard to know what to think, ye know, as I’m new to her service.”
“He’s a young fool, Ned Gibson, and I should know, because I’m his brother.”
Patrick didn’t have to feign his surprise. “Ye don’t say. But why do ye call him a fool?”
“For thinking he could get anywhere by talking. The only thing t’owners understand is action. But he learned his lesson. He knows now tha has to act to get attention.”
“And what was he wantin’ from Miss Heriot?”
“He’s going to get married, my little brother. And his fiancée, Nancy, coom into t’mill so happy after he asked her that she were whistling soom old tune. She were turned off in less than ten minutes, and her with brothers and sisters to support.”
“Just for whistlin’? Jaysus!”
“T’foreman is Trantor’s creature. And Miss Heriot will not question her cousin. Another pint, Ben, and one for my friend here. A corporal, were ye?” Tom asked, after looking at Patrick’s old uniform jacket.
“Ex-sergeant.”
“A sergeant! I never was in army myself, except for General Ludd’s,” Tom muttered. He looked up as Ben delivered the two pints. “We all thought t’lass would marry him.”
“Ye mean Nancy broke off her engagement to yer brother?” Patrick asked, confused by the turn in the conversation.
“No, tha idiot, Miss Heriot. Or maybe t’other way around. We all thought he’d be marrying her. Then Ned hears she’s gone south to buy herself a husband. I tell tha, Sergeant, it didn’t make Trantor any easier to work for!”
“Do ye think Miss Heriot knows how hard he is?”
“If she doesn’t, she should. Especially after hearing Ned. He’s a good lad, our Ned,” said Tom Gibson, the easy tears of the drunkard filling his eyes.
The old man by the fire started his coughing again, but this time it was such a long fit, it woke him up.
“Give Jed an ale, Ben,” Tom called out. “Coughing his lungs out,” he muttered to Patrick. “As we all will be soom day. ‘Tis from flint. Gets into lungs and tha can’t cough it out after a while. I have cousins up north who go down into pit, I used to thank God my father and mother moved here, but t’lungs go here, too—slower, but just as sure.”
* * * *
Patrick stayed for another half hour, nursing his second ale while Tom Gibson drank another and then finally passed out. Then he walked slowly toward the mill, a plan forming as he went. He could wait till closing time and hope that Ned Gibson came into the pub. But suppose he went to the mill and told the foreman he had been sent by Miss Heriot to talk to Gibson? That way, he’d have him alone and get a better sense of what sort of man he was and what sort of action he might be driven to.
For Patrick had to admit that he sympathized with Ned Gibson. Or any of the mill workers, for that matter. At least in the army, as hard and as dangerous a life as it was, you could defend yourself against your enemy. Here, the “enemy” might be the very man who was paying your wages and helping you feed your family.
He was able to bluff his way in by being every inch the master sergeant and staring the foreman down after he’d questioned Miss Heriot’s failure to send a written request.
“Sure and she didn’t know who could read and who could not, Mr. Brill,” explained Patrick blandly, but his posture told the foreman he wasn’t going to move until his mission was complete.
He had to wait only a short time for Ned Gibson to be shown in. Ned looked about ten years younger than his brother and a stone lighter, although he was by no means a slight man. He came in and gave Patrick a hard stare.
“Do ye want to sit down, lad?”
“I’d rather stand. Tha has a message from Miss Heriot?”
“I do, but first I have a few questions for ye.”
* * * *
Ned’s heart had sunk when the foreman pulled him away from his loom and told him there was a visitor to see him. The only time a worker was released from his work was to be let go or because of an emergency. But when Brill opened the door to the room where his visitor waited, he only said, “This is Sergeant Gillen, Miss Heriot’s groom.”
When the man offered him a seat, Ned refused. What on earth was he here for? If he was to be sacked, Brill or Trantor would have been the one to do it. What kind of questions could the Heriot groom have for him, anyway?
“I understand ye visited Heriot Hall twice this year?”
“Aye.”
“And what would have been yer purpose?”
“I went to ask Miss Heriot if she would consider rehiring Nance Hutton, my fiancée.”
“But Miss Heriot was in London,” said Patrick. “And lucky for me she was,” he added with a quick smile. “ ‘Twas there she hired me.”
Ned stared at him, not about to respond to the change in tone.
“But ye came back again, didn’t ye?” asked Patrick.
“I saw Miss Heriot in December,” Ned said stiffly.
“Did ye ask her about Miss Hutton?”
“If tha cooms from Miss Heriot, tha knows I did, Sergeant.”
“She refused to help ye?”
“Tha knows that too. Oh, she made sure that Nance got her Christmas bonus, but she was not about to overturn her cousin’s rules,” Ned responded
with bitter sarcasm.
“So ye’re angry with her?”
“I’m angry with myself, that I expected her to have a heart.”
“And didn’t she show some generosity in givin’ a bonus to someone no longer workin’ for her?” Patrick asked mildly.
“T’bonus will only keep Nance out of the workhouse for a little longer. She needs her job.”
“But she broke the rules?”
Ned snorted. “T’rules against whistling! T’rules against being human.”
“I saw them posted,” Patrick said slowly. “They’ve been up for years, haven’t they, lad?”
“Oh, aye, but Mr. Heriot’s foreman would never have reported Nance. And if he did, Trantor would probably not have dismissed her. He’d only have fined her, were Mr. Heriot alive. He was a fair man, Mr. Heriot. He knew all his workers. He knew Nance was a good girl, never the sort to make trouble.”
“Unlike yer brother,” Patrick said quietly.
“What does tha know of my brother?”
“Mr. Heriot put him in jail twice, from what I’ve heard.”
“Aye,” Ned admitted slowly. “T’damned Combination Acts. All t’owners were using them against their workers.”
“So ye have some good reasons to hate the Heriot family.”
“They ruined Tom, that’s the truth. But I think there is a difference between righteous anger and hatred, Sergeant. I don’t hate Miss Heriot.”
“Ye wouldn’t be wishin’ any harm on her, then?”
Without thinking, Ned gave something between a snort and a laugh. “If owt harmed Miss Heriot, what good would it do me or any of us? Tha must know Trantor would get everything and we’d be even worse off!” Then Ned fully took in what Patrick was implying. “Art tha saying Miss Heriot’s been hurt?”
“Not Miss Heriot, for she was away from home for Christmas. Something ye may not have known. But her companion had a riding accident, which could have been much worse than it was.”
“And tha thinks that I had something to do with this?” Ned asked incredulously.
“Ye’ve got a grudge against her, so I couldn’t help but think it, lad.”
Ned wasn’t about to get pulled in by Patrick’s quiet tone. “And when would I have a chance to do anything? I was here working.” Ned’s voice trailed off.
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