Rebecca's Refusal

by Amanda Grange

  “And for Miss Marsden,” said the modiste, her head again on one side, “I think a shade of orange tawney.”

  “Oh, no,” said Louisa, flustered. “I don't think I could wear anything like that. A nice grey, with perhaps some kind of trim.”

  “Non,” said Madame Dupont decidedly. “The grey, it robs you of your colour. You put yourself in my 'ands?” she asked, but in such a way that Louisa did not like to disagree. “The orange tawney, it will bring out the gold flecks in your eyes and the highlights in your 'air.”

  “Highlights?” asked Louisa, bemused. “But my hair doesn't have any highlights.” She looked at herself in the mirror, trying to see what Madame Dupont was talking about.

  “Mais oui,” nodded Madame Dupont. “When the light falls on it, so, it 'as gleams of gold.”

  Rebecca glanced at Mrs Camberwell and the two ladies exchanged delighted glances. Madame Dupont had an eye for colour, and had spotted the highlights at once. Moreover, it seemed she was going to be able to persuade Louisa to wear something more interesting than her usual drab colours.

  Madame Dupont clapped her hands and one of her assistants brought her a piece of orange tawney silk. When the sample was draped over Louisa's shoulder, even Louisa was delighted.

  “Why, I look quite different,” she said.

  Rebecca gave her a kiss. “You'll be the belle of the ball.”

  Louisa, flustered, denied it, but when, the following day, Monsieur Toulouse had styled her hair, getting rid of the centre parting she had worn for many years and instead pulling her hair back smoothly over her crown and cutting it at the front so that it was possible to arrange it into fluffy curls, she gasped in amazement as she saw herself in the glass.

  “You look beautiful, Louisa,” said Rebecca. She added innocently, “I am sure Edward will think so, too.”

  Emily and Rebecca exchanged glances, then smiled as they realized they had both had the same idea regarding Louisa and Edward.

  Rebecca took advantage of Monsieur Toulouse's skill next, with Emily kindly waiting until last. By the time he left, they had all had their hair trimmed and styled in the most becoming way.

  “Monsieur Toulouse may not be able to attend us on the day of the ball, but at least we know what we are aiming at,” said Emily as she regarded her hair in the gilded glass.

  Well pleased with their morning the ladies parted, and Rebecca and Louisa returned home.

  They were just about to get out their workbaskets, after partaking of a delightful luncheon, when there was a knock at the front door.

  “I wonder who that can be?” said Louisa, eyebrows raised.

  “I have no idea,” said Rebecca. Privately she hoped it was Joshua. It was not impossible that he might call. He had told her he would let her know what had caused the fire when he knew himself, and she had been half expecting him to call all day.

  The drawing-room door opened and Betsy announced Mr Willingham.

  Rebecca tried to hide her disappointment, and was glad that Mr Willingham turned to Louisa first. It would not be polite of her to let him see she had been hoping for someone else.

  Mr Willingham was looking smart and confident. Not for nothing was he one of the most prosperous mill owners in the area. He bowed politely over Louisa's hand before turning and greeting Rebecca.

  “Mr Willingham. This is a pleasant surprise” said Louisa.

  “You were good enough to say I might call on you.”

  “Of course,” said Louisa. “Pray, be seated.”

  He settled himself in a heavy mahogany chair.

  “I have called to issue an invitation,” he said, after they had enquired politely into each other's health. “My mother is holding a dinner party at the end of next week and she would be honoured if you would attend. I have the card here.” He drew a gilt-edged card out of his pocket. “It is short notice, I'm afraid, but she feels she must make the most of the opportunity to get to know you, before you leave us again for Cheshire. She is eager to meet you,” he said, turning to Rebecca. “I have told her so much about you.”

  “Oh, the end of next week. How fortunate,” said Louisa, taking the card. “We have no engagement for that night. Yes, indeed, we would be honoured to attend.”

  “My mother will be glad,” he said. “And so will I.”

  “You will be going to Mrs Camberwell's ball, I take it?” asked Louisa.

  “Yes, indeed. I am looking forward to it. I hope I may beg the favour of the first dance?” he said to Rebecca.

  Finding she had no valid reason for excusing herself, Rebecca was forced to agree to his proposal. But she would rather have given her hand to Joshua, no matter how confused he made her feel.

  “Good. We mill-owners, Miss Fossington, must stick together,” said Mr Willingham with a smile.

  At that moment there was another knock at the outside door and a second visitor was admitted.

  “Joshua!” exclaimed Rebecca as she stood up to welcome the new guest.

  “Joshua! How delightful to see you,” said Louisa.

  “Marsden,” said Mr Willingham coolly.

  Joshua nodded. “Willingham.”

  There was a coldness between the two men that Rebecca could not fail to notice. Nevertheless she was glad of it, because when Louisa offered the two gentlemen refreshments Mr Willingham declined, saying, “Alas, I cannot stay. I came simply to bring you the invitation. I am delighted to be able to tell my mother that you accept.”

  And with that he bowed himself out of the room.

  “You will take some refreshment, Joshua?” asked Louisa. “I was just about to ring for tea.”

  “Yes, thank you, I would be delighted.” He settled himself in a Hepplewhite chair.

  Louisa went over to the fireplace and pulled the bell. Nothing happened.

  “These rented houses,” Louisa said. “There is always something that isn't working. Never mind, I will go down to the kitchens and tell Mrs Neville myself.”

  She had scarcely left the room when Joshua turned to Rebecca and said, “Invitation?”

  “Yes. Mr Willingham's mother has invited us to dine with her at the end of next week.”

  Joshua hesitated. “I would rather you did not go. Willingham's an ambitious man. His family own a weaving mill in Stockport —”

  “I know,” said Rebecca. “You are afraid, perhaps, that he intends to play on my lack of business experience, and you are worried that he will try to secure preferential rates for his family when buying cotton from Marsden mill?”

  Joshua laughed. “The thought had crossed my mind. But I see it had also crossed yours.”

  Rebecca smiled. “I am not my grandfather's granddaughter for nothing,” she remarked.

  “No, indeed.” Then Joshua's expression became more serious. “I may be maligning him, but Willingham seldom does anything without an ulterior motive and all I am saying is that I think it would be better if you were to decline his invitation.”

  Rebecca sighed. “I'm afraid that will be impossible. Louisa has already accepted.”

  Joshua frowned. “That's unfortunate. Still, what's done is done. But be on your guard, Rebecca. If Willingham strays onto the subject of the mill, try and turn him away from it. It isn't just that I think he may try to gain preferential terms from you, I think he may also try to find out details of the running of Marsden mill — what salaries we pay our workers, for example, or how profitable the mill has been in the last year. It would all be useful knowledge for a man who buys his cotton from us. No, I know you would never tell him,' he said, seeing that she was about to declare it, “but he is skilled at conversation, and may well have the information out of you before you know what you are about. You would not be the first mill owner to fall foul of his devious methods.”

  Rebecca nodded. “I sensed from the moment I met him that he was an ambitious man.”

  “But that's enough of Willingham,” said Joshua. “That isn't why I came here today.”

  “You have
found out how the fire started?” Rebecca asked.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  Rebecca sat down, and Joshua sat opposite her.

  “As I suspected, it was started quite deliberately,” he said. “A lighted flambeau had been left in the bottom drawer of the desk.”

  “To destroy the documents?” asked Rebecca.

  “I don't think so,” said Joshua. “That's what's so puzzling. You see, the documents are kept in a locked cabinet beside the door.”

  “So anyone wanting to destroy the documents would have tried to burn the cabinet and not the desk,” said Rebecca slowly.

  “Yes. If they knew where the documents were kept.”

  “And Hill? Does he know?”

  “Yes. He does.”

  “Which would seem to rule him out,” said Rebecca thoughtfully. “Because if he had been guilty of falsifying the documents then he would have made sure they were burnt, and to that end he would have placed the flambeau in the cabinet, and not the desk. Were any additional documents destroyed? When you checked them the morning after the fire?”

  “No.”

  “Then it seems unlikely that the culprit is Hill. It seems the arsonist is someone else.”

  “Most probably.”

  “But who?”

  At that moment the door opened and Louisa entered the room.

  “Tea is on its way,” she said.

  Rebecca bit back her frustration. She did not want to abandon her conversation, but now that Louisa had returned it was impossible for her to continue it. She would have to wait until she could have further words with Joshua in private, and who knew when that would be?

  Still, there was no help for it. She put her frustration to one side and joined in with Louisa's light-hearted conversation. And Joshua, no less frustrated by their lack of privacy, was forced to do the same.

  Chapter Nine

  Two new footmen soon found their way into Rebecca and Louisa's house. Fortunately Louisa accepted their appearance at face value, and was too polite to enquire into the origins of the broken nose of one and the cauliflower ear of the other. She was pleased that dear Joshua had sent the men along to add to her consequence and convenience, and expressed herself delighted with their presence.

  Rebecca was genuinely glad to have them there. So far she had not been threatened in any way, but if the unexplained attacks on Joshua were indeed connected with the mill there may come a time when she herself was in danger, and it was reassuring to have two large ex-Bow Street Runners, disguised as footmen, standing in the hall.

  Rebecca was reading in the drawing-room on the afternoon of the ball when Louisa came in looking flustered. “Oh, my dear, it is too vexing,” she said. “I have broken my fan. I don't know how it happened. I simply opened it to see if it would go with my new gown, and it snapped in my hand.”

  “Never mind,” said Rebecca. “It's still early. We can go and choose another one. Something that will go with your gown.” She closed her book and set it down.

  “It is a nice idea, but my legs are feeling a little stiff, and I fear if I go out this afternoon I may not be able to dance this evening.”

  Rebecca understood at once why Louisa was so concerned: Edward had claimed Louisa's hand for the first dance, and that dear lady had spent all week looking forward to it.

  “Then I can go on my own,” Rebecca said.

  “Oh, no, my dear, you mustn't think of it. You will be wanting to get ready yourself soon.”

  “Not for another couple of hours at least,” said Rebecca. “What kind of fan would you like? A lace one would go well with your dress, I think. Or would you like a painted fan? Or maybe one made out of ostrich feathers?”

  “Oh, no! Ostrich feathers would be far too flamboyant! A lace fan would be perfect — it would match the lace trim on my sleeves,” said Louisa. “But of course it is not important. I can do very well without.”

  “I would like a breath of fresh air,” said Rebecca, standing up and stretching. “I have not been out all day. An hour's shopping will help blow the cobwebs away. Don't worry, I can still be back in plenty of time to dress.”

  She had soon donned her outdoor clothes and then she summoned the carriage and was on her way. Accompanied by one of the new footmen she set out for Deansgate, where she hoped to purchase the perfect fan to go with Louisa's new gown. There were several shops that sold fashionable items, and she spent a pleasant half-hour browsing in them before selecting a delicate lace fan with ivoiy sticks. Feeling pleased with her purchase she returned to the carriage and made herself comfortable for the short journey home. Or at least, it should have been a short journey, but the streets were busy, and to make matters worse a cart had overturned ahead of her, shedding its load of vegetables all over the road. Urchins, drawn by the calamity, were stuffing their pockets with potatoes and carrots, whilst the carter was trying to alternately pick up the produce and shoo them away.

  Rebecca watched the scene for a few minutes and then her attention began to wander. It would take some time for the street to be clear enough for her carriage to proceed, and as her eyes drifted away from the main thoroughfare and down the narrow streets that led away from it she found herself wondering again about the poor housing that lay behind the fashionable areas. She was determined to help Joshua provide suitable housing for the workers at Marsden mill, and wondered whether any of the run-down buildings she could just glimpse might be suitable for renovation. As her eyes began to adjust to the gloomier conditions that prevailed beyond the main street she began to make out more detail: houses, pavements — and then something caught her attention and she sat up straight. There! Loping down the dingy back street was the man who had daubed the Luddite slogan on the wall of the mill!

  There could be no mistake. Although she had not been close enough to see him clearly on the day she had all but interrupted him at his work, and although it was too dark for her to see clearly now, still it was light enough for her to recognize his distinctive movement. There was something furtive about it, and at the same time something bold. It was such an unusual gait she knew she could not be mistaken.

  What to do? If she left the carriage she could easily lose herself amongst the maze of streets, but she would never forgive herself if she did not make an effort to follow him. Deciding quickly on a course of action she opened the carriage door and jumped out without waiting to use the step, calling to the footman as she did so, “Follow me!”

  Once free of the carriage she hurried down the narrow street, reassuring herself by a glance over her shoulder that the burly ex-Bow Street Runner disguised as a footman was indeed following her.

  Then she turned her attention back to the man with the loping gait. He turned down a cross street and Rebecca followed, pulling her cloak more tightly around her as she hurried along. The street was narrow, and when he turned again it was into an even narrower one.

  The houses crowded in on her but Rebecca did not intend to give up now. If she could apprehend the man she could discover why he had painted the slogan on the wall. And if he had been paid to do it, she could discover who had paid him.

  She saw him hesitate outside a mean house, and then, with a furtive glance in either direction, he went in.

  Rebecca had managed to shrink back out of sight when he had turned, but now she went forward again. She reached the house and turned round to signal to the footman — only to find he was not there.

  He had been following her, she knew, when she had left the carriage, because she had looked over her shoulder to make sure. But now he was nowhere in sight. Had he lost her after one of the many turns? It must be so. She stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do. If she waited for the footman she may lose the man with the loping gait: he could easily slip out of the back door of the house and be on his way again without her being any the wiser. But if she went in alone, she would be putting herself in danger. She felt herself torn in two directions. What should she do?

  She crept closer to th
e house, pressing herself against the wall next to the window. Perhaps she would be able to hear something that would help her decide.

  But she could hear nothing.

  She thought for a moment, and then decided that she must take the risk of following him into the house. But suddenly the door opened again and he came out.

  There was nowhere for her to hide this time, no shadows to shrink back into, no corner to turn.

  She was caught.

  “What the 'ell are you doing?” demanded the man, his foxy eyes boring into her.

  “I lost my way.” It sounded a weak excuse, even to her own ears, but at such short notice she could think of nothing better. “I was trying to find the Exchange Hall. Perhaps you could give me directions?”

  As she spoke she busily took in details of the man's appearance, in case she had to identify him at some future date. He was short — only an inch or two taller than she was herself, which put him at about five foot six. He had dark, lank hair and long side whiskers. His eyes were small and set close together. His lips were thin and his chin was pointed. His body, too, was thin — thin and wiry: though small, she guessed he would possess a great deal of strength.

  “Lost your way, did you?” he sneered. “Looking for the Exchange 'all?” His tone was menacing. “Pull the other one, it's got bells on.” Then his eyes became sharper and he stood up straight, “'ere, 'aven't I seen you somewhere before?”

  “I don't think so.” She began to back away.

  He made no move to stop her and she thought he was going to let her go. But suddenly his hand whipped out and caught her arm. His grip was like iron. His fingers bit into her, even through her cloak.

  “I know where I’ve seen you before,” he said, as realization dawned on him. “You were at the mill. Thought I didn't see you, didn't you? Slinking back into the shadows. Well you were wrong.” And opening the door behind him he made to drag her into the house.

  Knowing that if he managed it she would be lost, Rebecca kicked him hard on the shin. He let out a curse, but the pain only made him clutch onto her more tightly.