Jack of Hearts

by Marjorie Farrell

  “Ye were saying, lad?”

  “I was working all week, except I got sick late on t’day before Christmas Eve. And since we only work half day on t’eve, I stayed home. I had to; I couldn’t get out of bed, t’legs were so weak. And Nance can vouch for that, Sergeant.”

  “Sure and she would, wouldn’t she?”

  Ned wanted to punch the soft-spoken Irish bastard in the face. The more he implied, the stronger his brogue.

  “I swear to tha, Sergeant, I did nothing to harm Miss Heriot.”

  “For now, I’ll have to be takin’ yer word for it.” Suddenly Patrick’s voice grew hard. “But if I find ye had a hand in it, boyo, I’ll hang ye myself with the greatest of pleasure.”

  * * * *

  Patrick got home in time to get a few hours of sleep before his morning duties. When he brought the horses up to the door for Anne’s morning ride, she looked at him closely. “Did you get enough sleep last night, Patrick?” she asked sympathetically.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, I only have time for a short ride, anyway,” she said, although she was eager to take advantage of the good weather and ride up on the moors.

  She motioned Patrick next to her. “Did you discover anything in Shipton yesterday?”

  “I found out that Tom Gibson is a great drinker, miss.”

  “But what about Ned?” Anne asked impatiently.

  “I saw him. I must admit I have some sympathy for the lad.”

  “Do you indeed, Patrick?” asked Anne, her tone cool.

  “ ‘Tis hard to see someone ye love facing the poorhouse.”

  “He may have every reason to be angry, Patrick, but that does not excuse violence.”

  “I’m not sayin’ it does.” Patrick was quiet for a minute. “But he didn’t strike me as a violent lad, Ned Gibson. He was angry, but as he pointed out, and very cool he was about it, if something happened to ye, yer cousin would have even more power over them. Now he only has what ye give him. Though that has been enough to ruin Nance Hutton,” Patrick added.

  “I can’t reinstate her now, Patrick. Not after that attack. And if I had done so before, it would have looked as though I didn’t trust Joseph. If I do something now, then it means whoever did this has succeeded in frightening me.”

  “Yes, miss,” Patrick said flatly.

  Anne reined in her mare. “I know you think me unsympathetic to this woman’s plight. I am not,” said Anne, her voice low and strained. “It is only that I have never been confronted by this kind of situation before. It was so much easier just to see the mills on paper.”

  “And in an account book things are all black and white.”

  “The figures add up or they don’t,” agreed Anne. “I have always been good with numbers. My father took care of the rest.”

  “Maybe ‘tis time ye did some thinking of yer own, Miss Heriot.” And this time with yer heart, Patrick added to himself.

  Anne spurred her mare and for the next quarter hour rode as though the devil were after her. But on the way home, as they walked their blown horses, she turned to Patrick and said, “But could we find some way to help this Nance? Perhaps she could take in laundry for a local inn, or some such thing. We could arrange it anonymously and make it worth an employer’s while to hire her.”

  “That would be a generous thing to do, Miss Heriot. And I am sure I could find something for her.”

  “About Ned Gibson…”

  “He says he was home sick and that Nance will vouch for him, but he could have done it.”

  “But you can’t find proof. We will just have to be extra careful, then. Maybe hire another lad to keep watch on the stables. I am sure that this was just an act of revenge on Ned Gibson’s part. If Nance is taken care of, even if he doesn’t know it is by me, perhaps his anger will cool. And I will be in London soon anyway.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over the next few weeks, however, Anne found her thoughts straying to her conversation with Patrick, especially when she was working with the accounts. She had always been as precise in her recording as she was in her calculations, but as she carefully filled put the columns in her ledger, she did not find the same satisfaction that she usually did. It had always given her great pleasure to see how even her columns were. She loved filling in the clean white space with black ink and was an expert at keeping her pen sharpened so that it would never blot. She hadn’t had very many smudges in the books since she had started keeping them.

  Now she couldn’t look at the black and white without thinking of the gray that Patrick had spoken of. People weren’t numbers. Nance Mutton’s name might be crossed off the list of employees, but she couldn’t so easily forget about the girl’s existence.

  Nance had been happy about her engagement—so happy that she came in whistling. Was that enough reason to threaten her livelihood? What would her father have done? Anne wondered. The rules had been posted for years, but had they been as strictly enforced? Was Joseph harder than Robert Heriot?

  Finally one morning in late January, she left the accounts unfinished—something she had never done before—and went off in search of Sarah.

  “She had errands in town, miss. She said to tell you she would be back in a few hours, should tha want her,” Rosie told her.

  “Did she take the carriage, Rosie?”

  “No, miss. She had t’sergeant with her to carry her packages and all. He’d do owt for her. He doesn’t even look at me anymore,” Rosie added with a sigh.

  Anne wasn’t surprised at Rosie’s outspokenness, for she had always been somewhat lacking in decorum. To tell the truth, Anne had always enjoyed that about her. She was surprised, however, at Rosie’s suggestion that Patrick had developed a liking for Sarah, but she only said, “Why, Rosie, I thought you had an understanding with James?”

  “Oh, I do, miss, but t’sergeant is ever so romantic with his eye patch and his uniform. It makes a girl forget he is Irish.”

  “Yes, well, thank you, Rosie,” Anne said dryly.

  Too restless to go back to her accounts, she tried to settle down with her embroidery, but found herself pacing the rug in front of the French windows. Sarah and Patrick Gillen? She wasn’t sure she approved, much as she liked Patrick. He was a good and trustworthy man, certainly. And attractive, she’d have to admit that. But Sarah was the granddaughter of a viscount, no matter how poor her father had been. Anne had had great hopes for her after the Little Season, when Sarah had been accepted as much for herself as for her position as Anne’s companion. Surely she and Elspeth could have found someone—one of the older officers who kept Sarah’s dance card close to filled. Sarah Wheeler married to an Irish groom did not fit Anne’s plans for her in the least.

  She was at the window when they returned. Sarah’s cheeks were flushed a becoming pink, but that could have been from the cold or the exercise, Anne told herself. When Patrick handed over Sarah’s parcels, however, they lingered for a minute or two. Of course, it could have been innocent chatter, but that didn’t explain the way Sarah lifted her eyes to Patrick’s face and then lowered them quickly, as though she was shy about what he might read there.

  “Tha had better be careful, Patrick,” Anne muttered as he turned away. “If tha hurts Sarah Wheeler, tha will answer to me!”

  * * * *

  By the time Sarah came down to the morning room, Anne was settled calmly by the fire, intent on her embroidery.

  “Did you have a nice walk, Sarah?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did, and a very successful shopping trip as well.”

  “Rosie tells me Sergeant Gillen accompanied you. I am glad you had someone to carry your parcels.”

  “It is none of Rosie’s business who accompanies me to town,” exclaimed Sarah without thinking.

  “No, of course not. Although you usually bring James, don’t you? Perhaps she only noticed because of that.”

  “James was busy with the silver, and Patrick had some things he wished to pick up also.”


  Anne lifted her face and said blandly, “You have no need to explain, Sarah. I am glad Patrick was free to accompany you.”

  “Yes, so was I,” said Sarah, pouring the tea.

  “I like this new Darjeeling, don’t you?”

  “Especially for afternoon tea,” Sarah agreed, thankful that the conversation had turned to a more comfortable topic.

  “I need your advice, Sarah,” Anne said after a minute, with such seriousness that Sarah looked at her in surprise.

  “What is it, Anne?”

  “I am thinking of making another visit to the mill.”

  “Do you think that wise? What if Ned Gibson was the one who caused my accident? You might be putting yourself in danger.”

  “Not if he’s busy at his machine and Patrick is by my side.”

  “Why do you want to go back?”

  “I have not been able to stop thinking about the mill since I was there. When I was at the Astons’ I was very resistant to Val’s point of view, but he did make me think about things.”

  Sarah only looked over at Anne inquiringly and said nothing. It reminded Anne of when her friend had been her governess and would introduce a controversial historical topic and then wait to hear what Anne’s stance was.

  “You never were one for giving me the right answer, Sarah!”

  “I have always thought the questions we ask ourselves more valuable than the answers.”

  “One question I have been asking myself is why I have taken everything I have for granted and never given a thought to where it comes from. The mills have always been about numbers to me, Sarah, not about people.” Anne hesitated. “I have been asking myself whether my father enforced all his rules as strictly as Joseph does, or whether the sorting shed is safe for those children. Or what it would be like to lose your job merely for expressing joy?”

  “They are certainly challenging questions,” agreed Sarah.

  “What should I do, Sarah?” Anne pleaded.

  “I don’t have the answers, Anne. I think you need to find out for yourself, and so perhaps another visit would be helpful.”

  “This time, I will not tell Joseph. I’ll choose a day he is at market so that no one can control whom I talk to and what I see.”

  Anne poured herself more tea and then said more calmly, “I have asked Patrick to help Nancy Hutton find another position.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Sarah with an approving smile.

  If Sarah knew, it was because Patrick had told her. Anne could only hope that the relationship that seemed to be developing was simple friendship and not something more.

  The morning after Anne and Sarah’s conversation, the weather was wet and wild, and it ushered in almost a fortnight of bad weather. Finally, the first week of February, the sun returned and the road dried enough to make the journey.

  When Anne arrived at the mill, it was lunch break and some of the workers were scattered around the yard with their pails. Some of them watched her curiously, and a few gave her openly hostile looks. As she climbed the steps to the weaving loft, she could hear their voices buzzing behind her.

  Brill was in his office and looked up in surprise when Anne walked in.

  “Why, Miss Heriot, what a surprise. Joseph didn’t tell me tha was coming…” His voice trailed off as he stood there, clearly unhappy at her presence.

  “Joseph didn’t know my plans, Mr. Brill. I would like to interview a few of the workers.”

  “Tha would what?”

  “You heard me. As owner of the mill, I think it is important that I get to know my workers better.”

  “Why, of course. ‘Tis a good time, lunchtime. I’ll see that a few men are sent up.”

  “Oh, no,” said Anne, “I don’t want to deprive anyone of his break. Perhaps I might use the office? Would you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  * * * *

  Patrick, who was standing behind Anne, had a hard time keeping his face straight. Now that Brill had gotten over his shock, it was clear that he minded very much, but without Trantor’s authority, he was clearly at a loss as to how to stop Anne.

  “I would like to interview a few of the older workers—those who have been here since my father’s time, Mr. Brill,” Anne said as she settled in behind the desk. “And make sure at least one of them is a woman.”

  “All right.” The foreman’s face brightened for a moment, and Patrick realized that he saw an opportunity to monitor exactly what Anne heard and saw.

  “I’ll wager ye have records of the wages ye’ve paid over the years, with fines and such like,” put in Patrick. “Why don’t ye bring Miss Heriot one from ten years ago. Then she can choose whom she wants to see. Would that be all right, miss?” Patrick added with false obsequiousness.

  “Why, that is an excellent idea, Patrick,” Anne said, giving him an approving smile as soon as Brill was headed out the door.

  When he returned, Anne quickly picked out a few names.

  “Jonathan is dead, Miss Heriot,” Brill informed her solemnly. “But t’others are still here.”

  “Then send them in to me, one at a time.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  The first to be shown in was Bert Swain, a man of about fifty. His eyes remained expressionless as Anne greeted him.

  “Now that my year of mourning is over, Mr. Swain, I have decided that a continuing way to honor my father’s memory is to become more familiar with the workings of the mill. I have made one visit already, but I didn’t have a chance to speak with anyone. I understand you have been here a long while.”

  “Aye, onto twenty years.”

  “So you knew my father?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  Swain gave nothing away by his tone or expression, so Anne had no idea whether he approved or disapproved of Robert Heriot.

  “Are you satisfied with the present management of the mill, Mr. Swain?”

  Swain raised one eyebrow. “It isn’t for me to say, miss. ‘Tis more to the point whether tha art satisfied,” he added, the faintest trace of irony in his voice.

  “There are two things important in managing a mill, Mr. Swain. One is assuring the owner a profit. Joseph Trantor has done that for my father and is doing it for me. The other is making sure the workers are treated fairly.” Anne surprised herself by the strength of conviction in her voice. Over the past few months her concerns about the mill had broadened, and she realized that the token generosity of her initial visit had been transformed into something much deeper.

  “What was it like to work here when my father was alive?”

  “Ah, Mr. Heriot was a hard but fair man.”

  “I have seen the rules posted outside.”

  “Oh, aye, t’rules are pretty much t’same everywhere.”

  “They seem rather strict to me. No talking. No whistling.”

  “There has been some talking and some whistling in the past, miss,” Swain told her noncommittally.

  “Were the offenders dismissed?”

  “I’m still here,” he said, with a slight movement of his mouth that on anyone else might have been a grin.

  “So tha has done a little talking,” said Anne with a smile.

  “Not lately, miss.”

  “I see. Perhaps Mr. Trantor enforces the rules more strictly now that my father is gone?”

  “I don’t know as I’d want to say that, miss.”

  It seemed clear that Mr. Swain was not going to give her much more, so Anne thanked him and let him go. The next worker was a tall, thin man who had been at the mill for ten years. He was as resistant as Swain and could hardly speak for coughing.

  “It sounds like you should be at home in bed with that cough, Mr. Walters.”

  “Oh, no, miss, there’s nowt wrong with me but flint.”

  “The lint?”

  “Aye, tha breathes it in all the time. ‘Tis not as bad as coal dust, though. I’m very grateful to be in t’mill, miss. Under such fine management and all.”

 
; After he left, Anne turned to Patrick. “Patrick, that man sounds like a consumptive and it’s all from working here, and he won’t say a word against Joseph.”

  “ ‘Tis one thing ye can’t blame on Trantor, Miss Heriot. And Walters doesn’t want anything gettin’ back to his ‘fine manager’ for fear of losin’ his job.”

  “Even though it is making him ill?”

  “What else would he do?”

  Anne’s last visitor was Mrs. Martha Talbot, a small woman who looked to be in her early thirties.

  “There must be a mistake in the ledger, Mrs. Talbot,” said Anne with a smile. “You can’t be much more than thirty.”

  “Twenty-nine, miss.”

  “But it says you started working here twenty years ago.”

  “Aye, I started later than some. I were nine.”

  Anne thought of the children she’d seen in the shed. “Were you a sorter to begin with?”

  “Aye.”

  “It seems like a dangerous job for a child.”

  “T’machine makes it easier to get caught, miss. Sorting and carding were a bit easier when I was young. And ye have t’softest hands from pulling at t’wool,” she added with a quick grin.

  “I was here before Christmas, you know, Mrs. Talbot, but I didn’t have much time to talk to people.”

  “I wouldn’t think so, miss, not with Mr. Trantor keeping tha in tow. I was surprised tha made it to t’shed.”

  Anne gave a little sigh of relief. At last, here was someone who would speak to her openly.

  “Tha Christmas bonus was a great help, Miss Heriot,” Mrs. Talbot added.

  “I hope to be more of a help to the workers here, but I cannot do that unless I know what some of the problems are.”

  “Then I’ll be telling tha, Miss Heriot.”

  “So there are problems? Why would no one else speak frankly?”

  “If tha needs t’job, tha keeps quiet. I’ll be leaving t’first of next month. My George has got himself a small farm,” she announced proudly.

  “How have things changed since my father died, Mrs. Talbot?”

  “Tha must understand, no mill is a good place to work, Miss Heriot. Not one owner would listen to us, and t’Combination Acts got rid of those who tried to do something. That and t’troops.”