Whisper of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  Twenty-five

  “It is early yet. Would you like to visit the mill?” Erran inquired after they’d taken a single room under an assumed name at the inn.

  Celeste had not seen the point in wasting Ashford’s money in taking two rooms when she didn’t wish to sleep alone. She would pretend she was a lady once she returned to the city, but for now . . . She wanted Erran’s arms and reassuring presence for one night more, before she had to learn to be strong again.

  She was surprised by his question. “We are allowed to visit?”

  “The town is proud of their industry. They don’t know who we are. A little reconnaissance mission might be enlightening. But I’ll understand perfectly if you’d prefer to rest. It’s been a long day.”

  Even after a day’s travel, Erran looked every inch the gentleman and more. His square jaw, high forehead, and strong cheekbones depicted a man of intelligence and character. His wide shoulders and straight stance held authority. And his tailored coat and expensive linen . . . Celeste smiled. Those were vanity.

  But as far as she could tell, his vanity only ran to his clothing. He did not seem to understand that a man of his integrity was a rarity to be treasured. She reached for her bonnet. “A stroll before dinner would be healthy, I’m certain.”

  His slow smile was such a glorious event . . . she wanted to throw off her bonnet again and steer him toward the bed. The knowledge that she could do just that with a man of his character was thrilling, but it was time she thought of someone other than herself. She could wait awhile longer.

  She took his arm and let Erran lead her through the inn and down village lanes until they reached a hulking ugly building on the outskirts of town. The walls appeared to be no more than tin, and she shivered just imagining what winter must be like inside. She did not pity her own circumstances when faced with that of other people like this.

  Her traveling skirt trailed in the mud as she walked across a stream on thin planks. The stench of sewage carried, and she thought it might be best not to look for the facilities.

  The double doors were open to let in light and air, she supposed, although the late hour was chilly and there was no heat inside. They strolled through the entrance without anyone greeting them. The entire ground floor of the building seemed to be filled with rattling, bumping . . . looms . . . she thought. Each machine was run by a woman who sat with head down and gnarled hands feeding thread into wooden bars, peddling them back and forth, up and down. Not one looked up for fear of losing their rhythm.

  She couldn’t imagine how they saw what they were doing. It was dusk and the only light came from windows high in the walls. The air was full of dust, and she had to pull out her handkerchief to sneeze. How could they work without sneezing?

  She watched, appalled, as small children wriggled on their bellies beneath the heavy lumbering cogs to gather balls of wool dust. “How do they keep from losing their heads?” she whispered in horror.

  “They learn to be quick,” Erran whispered back. “Or they end up like the two you took into your house. They need to eat, and this is the only way they can put potatoes in their pot tonight.”

  An officious, large-bellied man in open vest and rumpled linen hurried toward them. “Sir, madam, how might I help you?”

  Celeste darted a glance at Erran when he did not reply. From the tightening of his jaw, he was fighting anger . . . and his voice. She hastened to speak for him. “My husband claims this is one of the finest old mills in the kingdom. I am quite fascinated by the . . .” she searched her brain. “By the machinery,” she added weakly.

  Her vocalization apparently soothed the mill manager. He nodded knowingly. “Amazing what the new technology has wrought, isn’t it? In times past, it might have taken these women months to produce just one bolt of cloth. Now we can do it in days.”

  Celeste had never used her voice in anger. Charm and seduction were her strengths. She didn’t know what would happen if she said what she thought right now. She bit her tongue, feigned a smile, and nodded.

  “That . . . child . . . seems ready to give birth,” Erran said in a low voice throttling any emotion. He gestured toward a reed of a girl with a big belly working with less speed and more difficulty than the others.

  The manager shrugged. “They pop them out and are back to work the next day. I dock their wages if they can’t keep up the pace. Teaches them not to dawdle with the layabouts in town.”

  The last time Celeste had screamed, she’d shattered glass. There was no glass here, but she feared screaming would cause harm in other ways. “I think you should tell that poor child to go home,” she said in her most winning tones, burying her fury so deep that she nearly choked on it. “And that you’ll pay until the babe is born. That is what any gentleman of morals would do.”

  She watched the fat toad struggle between his greed and her siren call. She caught Erran’s arm when he seemed prepared to force the matter.

  “Do be a dear and help that poor child up before she gives birth on the floor,” she called in a voice that would reach the first row of machinery. She didn’t care who responded, just that someone did.

  To her surprise and delight, every woman within hearing, plus the toad, hurried to help the startled girl from her seat.

  Beside Celeste, Erran chuckled. “I don’t know what you will do with her, but I concede your method works better than me punching the pig in his snout.”

  “I don’t think I should stop here,” Celeste whispered, amazed at the notion that had materialized full blown in her head. “You may want to run.”

  For the first time in her life, she recognized the strength that her gift offered. This amazing man had given her the opportunity to learn, although he didn’t know it yet—and probably wouldn’t appreciate it since he thought her voice evil.

  Erran looked startled at her suggestion, then narrowed his eyes as if about to give warning. Refusing to be stopped, she strode toward the women helping the frightened girl. Even the toad-pig was smiling that he’d done as she’d asked—or not fought it.

  Raising her voice, Celeste applied every ounce of charm she’d ever possessed. “Thank all of you so much. This is how you should work together and help one another. Why don’t all of you stand up now and walk out? He cannot run his shop without you. Do not come back until he agrees to cut your hours and double your wages. You are human beings, not oxen!”

  Smiling as if she was strolling in the park, Celeste let the girl lean on her arm as she led her toward the doorway. The toad-pig still watched with approval, although his smile was starting to fade under a frown of bewilderment. The full effect of her words hadn’t registered, just her charm. Ahead, Erran was struggling for dispassion. She couldn’t tell if he wished to shout at her or kiss her.

  He merely offered his arm to the girl and leaned down to whisper in Celeste’s ear, “Don’t look now, but they’re all starting to stand.”

  She could hear the rustle and murmur behind her and felt the butterflies flapping anxiously in her stomach. But the charm needed confidence to continue working. She couldn’t weaken now. She pasted on her smile, kept her shoulders straight, and spoke as if she’d done nothing singular.

  “What’s your name, my dear?” she asked of the girl stumbling along on their arms.

  “Annie, miss,” the child said, responding to Celeste’s tone instead of her obvious fear. “What will happen to us, miss?”

  The murmurs were louder. Chairs scraped. Feet shuffled along the wooden floor. Children piped up questioningly. Celeste stepped outside, into the fading sunlight. Erran nearly had to carry the girl down the steps and over the filthy planks.

  “You will go home and have that babe, Annie,” Celeste replied reassuringly. “And the others will find a few good leaders to speak with the fat toad-pig. What is his name?”

  “Myron, miss.” The child didn’t hesitate over Celeste’s description but answered with a touch of amusement. “He won’t pay us if we’re not working. We’ll go h
ungry.”

  Now that she was across the planks and in the road, Celeste dared to turn around. Erran’s arm circled her waist as they studied what she had wrought.

  Drab gray-faced women of all ages streamed through the double doors as if their shift had just ended. Dozens of undernourished children tagged along. They all lifted their faces and blinked at the sunlight. Once realizing what they’d done, they began whispering nervously to each other and casting glances over their shoulders.

  Myron wobbled in the doorway, looking as if he wished to shout but unable to do so.

  “Better speak up,” Erran warned. “You’re losing them.”

  He was encouraging her! He believed she could do this. Celeste swelled with pride and relief and let another of the women support Annie.

  Clenching her fingers into fists, she fought down the butterflies. “Why don’t all of you go home, rest, and think about who you want to speak for you tomorrow? I’m sure Myron will be agreeable, won’t you, Myron?” she asked as the manager stumbled after them, looking lost.

  “Madge is a right ’un, miss,” Annie murmured. “She’ll know what’s to do.”

  Celeste nodded and hoped the child was right. “Madge, could you speak to the others? You need to all agree on what you want before returning to work. Myron has no other choice but to listen, but you must be reasonable.”

  A tall, grim-looking woman of middle age stepped from the crowd. “I’ll take Annie to her ma.” She turned and scoured the crowd with her glare. “Tilda, Mary, come along with me. The rest of you, take the babes and go home. We’ll be by in the morning.”

  Celeste nearly sagged in relief as the commanding Madge took over her charge. “I leave them in your good hands, madam. Make certain you demand time off to have your children. It may be a long time before we can make that a law, so it’s in your hands.”

  Madge nodded curtly. “I don’t know what trouble you’ve brought on us, but it was time, so I thank you.”

  Silently, Erran caught Celeste’s elbow and dragged her away.

  “I’m shaking with rage and admiration,” he admitted once they were down the road. “I would have caused riots if you had not acted with such courage. But what you just did . . . is almost as dangerous. And I still can’t believe I’m saying this. I must research Mesmerism. Is it possible to mesmerize a crowd?”

  She knew nothing of Mesmerism, but Celeste started to shake at her temerity. She feared her knees would give out from under her before they reached the inn. “I had no idea . . .”

  Erran caught her waist and practically carried her down the street. “And you had probably best not have more ideas any time soon. I’ll arrange to keep you out of mills for a while. If anyone learns who did this today . . . It will not be pretty for you or your siblings. But I still applaud what you did. And I want to emulate it but can think of no way of doing so when all I do is intimidate.”

  Hearing his anger and fear, she smiled weakly as they entered the inn. “I think a form of madness took over me. I cannot imagine ever doing such a thing again.” But as she climbed the stairs and recalled the horrid conditions of that mill, she regained some confidence. “It had to be done. I wish I could do it everywhere.”

  “ That is a horrifying notion and one with which you’d better not tempt any of us again,” he warned, opening the door to their room. “You saw the riots in town. England would end up in bloody revolution like France.”

  “England will end up there anyway,” she argued, “if wealthy aristocrats do not stop stepping on the necks of free people. At some point, workers have nothing left to lose and start fighting back in the only way they know how—with fists and weapons. It’s up to the educated to offer reform and help those who cannot help themselves. I fear the same will happen in my home if the slaves are not freed. Blood will be shed and people will die, and I cannot bear the thought.”

  A tumult of shouts and running feet penetrated the thin glass of the inn windows. Leaving her to seat herself, Erran crossed the bedchamber to look out.

  “Are they coming to burn us at the stake?” she asked shakily.

  He laughed. “No, the women are marching through town, waving brooms at the men who are shouting at them. You’ve fed their anger. I suggest we sneak away very early in the morning, before the magic wears off, and they all wonder what hit them.”

  He turned and his eyes smoldered in a way that left her weak with need. “I’ll have our dinners sent up, shall I?”

  “Tell them to take their time,” she murmured daringly.

  ***

  Watching the woman in his bed sleeping in the moonlight, Erran struggled with possessiveness, pride, and a horror of losing her to the impossibility of revolution. She had handled the mill today with amazing aplomb, keeping the situation under control with the serenity of her commands.

  With experience, she could lead armies of workers on strike. That terrified the hell out of him.

  Her voice could lead insurrections. The French had shown the disaster of that sort of upheaval. Britain had been fighting off the fear of revolt for decades. It was the whole reason London had finally agreed to a police force after centuries of fighting against the notion. This beautiful, intelligent woman would be despised and reviled by every person in society, should she persist in this new direction.

  She would shatter the cautious life of reason and justice he’d been trying to build, and he couldn’t even voice a good argument to stop her—because he had wanted to do what she had just done.

  He wanted to march into Parliament and shout them into reform.

  Celeste could be carrying his child. He’d always used precautions before. As far as he was aware, he’d not left a string of bastards across the countryside. But this time . . . he’d dishonored a lady. What the devil had overcome him?

  If his Courtroom Voice was evil, then he’d have to say the devil made him do it. But he wasn’t the one who had used the voice in the mill. Celeste had. And he was pretty damned certain the devil worked for the abusers and not the abused.

  Fighting his conscience and cautious nature, Erran spent the night watching from the window for angry men to storm the inn. He’d prefer to wake up the woman in the bed and make love to her again, but he wasn’t selfish enough to put his needs over her safety.

  Small groups of men formed on the street, gesticulating angrily, but one by one, their wives came to drag them home. Several groups of women formed, glancing up at the inn with confused frowns, but they, too, gradually returned to their homes. He saw Myron enter the inn. Erran checked that his pistol was loaded, but other than drunken arguing below, no one stormed up the stairs.

  Whatever magic Celeste had used may have worn off, but no one had associated the sweet-talking, polite lady with the walk-out. She’d simply left the village confused. How long would that last?

  And would the women go back to work in the morning and forget everything that had happened? He didn’t intend to take chances and find out.

  Before dawn, Erran was up and ordering their post chaise. He had breakfast carried out in a basket before Celeste had time to don her cloak. He carried down their boxes and helped the postilion to tie them on back to speed the process.

  They were on the road as the sun came up—before the villagers comprehended what had hit them.

  “Will we ever know what happened to those workers?” his witchy lady asked as the horses thundered down the road to the safety of Newport and their waiting ship.

  “Only if anarchy explodes,” Erran said, stifling his voice to a mutter for fear all his emotions would erupt with the same devastation as a riot.

  “Perhaps we need better communication between mill workers.” She crossed her gloved hands and seemed to be considering this madness. “Each location shouldn’t have to reinvent the wheel.”

  Erran tried not to groan aloud. “I have created a monster. Isn’t training workhouse inhabitants sufficient aid to the public good?”

  Her bonnet prevented him from se
eing her expression as she spoke. “That is Lady Aster’s and her aunt’s project. I am happy to help out for so long as I might. I suppose I cannot plan anything until I know whether or not we are staying in London. Our people at home really must come first.”

  Erran congratulated himself on not ripping the hair from his head. If she had to choose between returning to Jamaica and a possible slave revolt or staying in England and creating riots among millworkers . . . “This is the reason women shouldn’t be allowed out of the house,” he grumbled.

  She prodded him with her elbow as if she thought he was jesting.

  He could only undertake one obstacle at a time, Erran concluded. First, he must confront Lansdowne with Lord Rochester’s will. That should cause riots of a different sort.

  Twenty-six

  Their sailing return to London was uneventful. Even Mrs. Lorna managed to knit and chatter through their journey. Erran spent most of his time in the engine room, discussing machinery, Celeste assumed. He’d returned to his tight-lipped, grim state, and she had to admit, he had reason to do so.

  He thought he had to marry her. She supposed she ought to agree. But she was just discovering who she could be on her own. She didn’t really want a man shutting the door on her world again, especially if she would soon have the means of supporting herself.

  But the child deserved a father—if it survived. Celeste was well aware that many babes were lost in the first few months. Her own mother had lost several. And she could have just been dreaming that strange night when the spirits had walked the halls. She shouldn’t act in haste.

  She tried to smile normally when the ship docked and Erran came to fetch her—she needed to remember to call him Lord Erran now that they were back in society. His frown as he assisted her and Mrs. Lorna into a coach helped her keep her equilibrium.

  It was dark already, and the docks were unlighted except for the lanterns hanging outside taverns. She swallowed her fear when Erran held his pistol in his hand as the coach traversed back alleys on the way to the main thoroughfare. Even her companion sat silently until they reached the better lighted districts.