‘What?’ Eppie asked, mystified.
‘Hmm?’
‘What if you had your way?’
‘Yes, tell us, Uncle,’ Rowan urged.
‘Pay the mill workers decent wages, that’s what I’d do.’ He slapped his wooden hand upon his knee, reveling in their enthusiasm. ‘I would cut working hours. Construct comfortable houses, clean and dry. Give them gardens and allotments. Build almshouses for the infirm.’
‘If only, Mr Grimley,’ Eppie said enthusiastically. ‘Tell us more.’
‘More?’
‘How’d it be? Would you build a school for the children?’
‘There’s a thought. Why, yes. And I would refuse to employ children younger than ten.’
‘No more truck store?’ Eppie asked.
‘Absolutely. I would open a store for the benefit of the workers. Buy at wholesale prices and sell at retail prices. The profit, after allowing for the cost of running the shop, would be shared amongst the members, the very workers who shop at the store, in proportion to the amount of purchases each of them makes. Everyone will benefit. Capital will grow.’
‘There’d be a decent cup of tea for my mam every day?’
‘Without question. And, to cap it all there’d be no more Lord du Quesne. The man’s profit mongering is evil. He attempts to put himself higher than God in the way that he controls his workers, whether they toil in the mills or plough the earth.’ He drifted into a mood of despondency. ‘However, reality, my girls, into that we are irrevocably sunk. Ideals are fine, but we live in a world where we must, daily, tackle the problems facing us. Up at the woollen mill, workers are going down like flies from a sickness that surpasses all conception. Warts breaking out all over their bodies. No one has the slightest conception of the cause.’
‘D’ya reckon it might have o’t to do with the beetles?’ Eppie asked.
‘Beetles? What beetles?’
‘Crawling in the sheep fleeces. After Grump’s sheep died in wheelbarrows, Gabriel twiddled with them. He liked learning about their skeletons and pudding bits. Once, when he showed me the horses’ skulls in the threshing barn, he said there might be a connection between the beetles and the sickness that woollen workers suffer.’
Eppie dragged herself through the following week’s work and was listlessly leaving the mill on the Saturday evening when Mr Grimley hailed her.
‘That matter, about the beetles. Fleeces burnt. Seems to have done the trick.’
Treading towards the chapel, she gazed thoughtfully at the moon glowing mysteriously through sweeping ebony branches. ‘If some small action could help lessen the burden of the poor, what more might be done?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
THURSTAN’S DISCOVERY
Six years crawled by.
Eppie, Martha, Lottie and Fur no longer lived in Rotten Yard. They had moved to the second floor of a house that overlooked the corn merchants, though they shared the room with another mill family.
With a recently purchased steam-driven engine powering the spinning machines there were now work shifts, day and night. Investing heavily in other enterprises, du Quesne had also introduced shearing frames and power looms to speed the textile production.
Eppie, Martha and Lottie stepped warily into the yard, startled to see red-coated soldiers pointing muskets into the crowd. Crumpton was shouting at jostling workers. The air smelt stagnant with smoke.
A pained expression upon his face, Thurstan was listening to du Quesne’s ramblings, outlining the repercussions of his latest technological ventures. ‘It is in my veins, being a shrewd judge of when to step ahead and when to pull back. I have always sought to expand, to keep ahead of my competitors. Compare me to Bulwar. He has stuck to farming. What good has it done him? Diversification. That’s what you need. Get in where the money’s being made. You’re late, Grimley. What’s the matter, man?’
Mr Grimley puffed as into a holed paper bag. ‘Been up half the night. Pains in the nether regions.’
A notice was pinned to the office door. Knowing that Eppie could read, since she presided over the Sunday school at chapel, the workers pressed around her. Children clung to her skirts as she read the poster to baffled onlookers. ‘Following the recent installation of steam-driven machinery in these mills the employment of unskilled men and all boys over the age of eleven is no longer required. This is, therefore, a notice of termination of their employment.’
‘Oi’m being sacked!’ Fur cried, bewildered.
‘My, what an astute observer,’ Thurstan scoffed. ‘Indeed, I cannot imagine why my uncle would choose to dismiss a man of such stupefying intelligence. Miss Grimley, I am gratified to see that you have returned safe and well. I hope that during your stay in London you contemplated my proposal?’
A worker shouted at du Quesne, ‘Have you given a thought to what it’ll mean putting us out of our jobs? How’s we gonna manage, what with the cost of bread an’ ‘taties going through the sky?’
Mr Grimley, aware of Thurstan forcing his unwanted affections upon Rowan, came to stand protectively beside her.
A disgruntled look on his face, Thurstan shoved his way back to the soldiers, eager to deal with any skirmish.
‘Uncle, did you know about the workers losing their jobs?’ Rowan asked.
‘Not in the least.’
The truck store manager sidled up to read the notification of dismissal.
‘It ought to be you who’s being sacked,’ Mr Grimley grumbled, ‘especially after my maid made the grave mistake of acquiring that joint of gammon off you.’
‘What I sell is quality merchandise.’
‘That’s what you call it, is it?’ Mr Grimley took Rowan by the hand. ‘I will escort you home, my dear. Events may turn nasty.’
Loomp’s eyes narrowed. ‘In that, Mr Bigwig, you are not mistaken.’
‘No man can stem the tide of progress,’ du Quesne said. ‘Increasingly, efficient machinery is transforming the nature of work into mere supervision, work that can be carried out by any child or feeble woman.’
Wilbert Hix pushed past Eppie. ‘Feeble woman, I like that. Seen any toads recently?’
Several weeks ago, Wilbert had come to work alongside Redgy Dipper as engine-hand, his job demanding no great skill, chiefly to oil the gear and ensure each screw and bolt performed glowingly.
Ignoring him, Eppie stared bemusedly at Thurstan who, amidst the grumbling and shouting, was trying to catch what Loomp was telling him. Having overheard the threat that the truck store manager had made against Mr Grimley she guessed trouble was brewing.
Skirting the enraged workers, Thurstan and Loomp entered the office.
Eppie sneaked to the window and witnessed Longbotham being forced up the stepladder, whereupon he fetched down the secreted copy of the book of misdemeanours. Thurstan pinned the clerk against the wall. It was clear from his fierce facial gestures that he was uttering threatening words to Longbotham.
‘Innovative machinery decreases the cost of production,’ du Quesne enthused. ‘I am able to supply larger quantities of finished products at lower prices. You will all be able to buy goods more cheaply.’
Eppie was not convinced. ‘It will take years for these results, for the drop in prices to follow.’
Du Quesne’s ears were deaf to her reasoning. ‘Reduced prices will cause such an increase in consumption that those of you who are jobless today will quickly find full employment in newly-founded factories.’
‘What factories?’ Eppie asked. ‘They haven’t even been built.’ She peered through the office window.
Seated in du Quesne’s revolving chair, Thurstan was glancing from one book to the next, engrossed in comparing the entries.
‘Will us women get higher wages to make up for the loss of our men’s money?’ asked Isabella, one of the women who worked alongside Martha.
‘I intend for there to be a cut in the women’s wages to that of the rate paid to the children,’ du Quesne answered. ‘The impudence o
f you women here today has ensured this. If any of you are not content with the situation let me assure you that there are hundreds of unemployed women and children ready and willing to take your places.’
At these final words, the workers knew they were defeated.
CHAPTER SIXTY
MUTTON STEW
Plucking the head of an ox-eye daisy, Rowan nervously tugged out its petals. ‘It must be over an hour since Thurstan accosted my uncle in the study.’
It was Sunday afternoon. She and Eppie were weeding the flowerbeds.
Eppie felt miserable because Fur had left on a ship bound for Canada. He had seen little prospect of work in England. Few trusted the Irish and many ended up doing menial tasks, such as carting muck.
Rowan was in an equally unhappy mood, tired of Thurstan pestering her because she had not given him a reply to his offer of marriage. Now he was trying another tactic, wheedling for her uncle’s permission. ‘Goodness knows why he’s so infatuated with me. Every time I see him, he complains about my lack of grace and insists that, once we are wed, I take instruction in etiquette and elocution.’
‘See reason, Grim,’ Thurstan said irritably. ‘You have to admit that this is no fit place to bring up a handsome woman like Rowan.’ He ripped a dangling lump of plaster from the wall. ‘The house is riddled with wood beetles, and falling down around your ears. Everywhere I tread there are buckets catching drips.’
‘You’re one they missed.’
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing. Anyway, what does it matter where Rowan lives, when what I give her is infinitely more important.’
‘And pray, what might that be?’
‘Love.’
‘What is the worth of love? I offer her wealth and social standing. So stop dithering, you peevish man, and give me your word.’
‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’re after.’
Thurstan laughed, but reservedly. ‘To what do you imply?’
‘I know. That is sufficient.’
‘You know? My, we are overflowing with outlandish suppositions.’
‘I know, I tell you, though I will not speak of it. Not yet. I stand firm. You shall not marry Rowan, not with my blessing.’
‘I had hoped to speak with you on cordial terms. Now I see I will have to twist your arm, though that might prove difficult as you seem to have mislaid it.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Miss Agnes Clopton informs me that you are a regular visitor to the poorhouse, frequently taking in packages to favoured members of her establishment.’
‘What of it?’
‘It is a little matter of how you procured the funds to purchase such niceties. Recently, it has come to my intelligence that you have been embezzling monies from my uncle’s business. As I also understand it, you have been pilfering my uncle’s revenue to cram your cellar.’
Mr Grimley averted his eyes from Thurstan’s penetrating stare. ‘I deny these accusations.’
‘I would not recommend it. A neck is a delicate thing, even one as flabby as yours.’
Mr Grimley stared through the window. Grey clouds were massing.
‘What will my sweet Rowan say when she discovers that she has a dishonest uncle?’
‘I only did it to help those in calamitous circumstances. I admit that I buy liquor cheaply off smugglers, but I give most of it away to prisoners like Jim Quips who stole potatoes because he was starving. I am not dishonest.’
‘I do not think that my uncle will agree when I inform him. So you see, my waspish fellow, you have no option other than to agree to my proposal.’
‘I will think what is best to be done,’ Mr Grimley answered gruffly.
‘Do that, only don’t take forever, I am ravenous, and so want Miss Grimley to hearken your good news.’
Quitting the house, Mr Grimley passed before the study window.
Once he was out of sight, Thurstan methodically opened drawers, drew out papers and scrutinised them. Catching a fleeting glimpse of the occupants of a cart which rattled below the window, his malicious grin fell.
Rowan spotted Thurstan stepping along the garden path in search of her, a glass of Madeira to hand. He looked livid.
Sweeping Turnips off his paws, she and Eppie scurried behind the shrubbery, and managed to get indoors without Thurstan having noticed them.
Priscilla knelt before the range, her face flushed with the effort of trying to get the fire to blaze. ‘Where is that girl? It’s her job to tend the fire.’
‘Have you seen uncle?’
Priscilla hung up the bellows. ‘He was having a row with Mr du Quesne. I heard the front door slam. I hope he won’t be long; dinner’s almost ready.’
‘Thurstan has invited himself to dine with us,’ Rowan told Eppie. ‘You’ll stay and keep me company, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
Rowan peered into the copper hanging over the fire. ‘Not mutton stew again?’
‘We have to discourage Mr du Quesne from calling so regular, that’s what you keep telling me,’ Priscilla said. ‘I’m sure his French cook prepares him finer fare.’
‘Good thinking.’ Fitful flames burst from the slate-grey smoke. ‘Why is the fire smoking so?’
‘Your uncle refuses to spend a farthing on the house. I can’t remember the last time the fire was swept. It’s asking for trouble, especially with this house mostly timber.’
A girl was heard singing the lyrics of Neptune’s Raging Fury: ‘When the mainmast started, it give a dreadful stroke. In our starboard quarter, a large hole did it broke. The seas came battering in, an’ our guns overflowed-id …’
Loafer drained his glass. ‘I’d have thought Hix would’ve finished swabbing the decks by now.’
‘That’s not Sukey Hix, by any chance,’ Eppie asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach, recalling her years of bullying by the girl.
‘Why, yes,’ Rowan answered. ‘Do you know her?’
‘She used to live down our lane in Little Lubbock.’
Priscilla set off along the hallway to check on Sukey’s progress. ‘She’s only been here a few days and already I’ve had so much trouble with her. But what else can you expect on the wages your uncle pays? Since last summer I’ve had to dismiss five girls.’ She pushed open the door to the poop deck and stood with her hands on her hips.
Eppie and Rowan peered around her.
Sukey lay on the window-seat in the sunshine, her face covered with a duster. Oblivious to her audience, she continued to sing: ‘Haul in – haul two – haul belay …’ Beside her stood a pail of water and a mop, both untouched.
‘Sukey, you idle girl!’ Priscilla upbraided. ‘I told you to scrub the floor, not sing about it.’
Sukey shrieked, startled at her discovery. She sprang to her feet and smoothed down her blue and white check dimity. ‘A’m doing me best!
‘And I suppose doing your best includes putting that cheese cradle in Mr Grimley’s bed instead of his stomach warmer last night, and ripping up the best linen for dusters? Leave the floor now and come and help me in the kitchen. Quick about it or we’ll never be done. Mr du Quesne expects to dine in a few minutes not a few weeks.’
Sukey cast Eppie a sidelong, dour look as she departed, dragging her feet.
Eppie and Rowan settled on the window-seat, its daisy-patterned cushions dimmed from past summers’ warmth.
Loafer came to raid the drinks cabinet, and returned to the kitchen.
Tasting the stew, Priscilla pursed her lips. ‘If Mr du Quesne isn’t to guess that we’re purposefully giving him a slapdash dish to get rid of him I’d better put something in it to liven it up.’
‘One of my boots?’ Loafer asked sourly.
Priscilla chuckled at his pert suggestion. ‘Fetch some garlic, Sukey.’
For Sukey this demand was too good to be true. Stepping into the larder, she was overcome by the delicious aroma of bake-meat pies. The storeroom was next to the poop deck and so she easi
ly caught every word spoken between Eppie and Rowan. Plunging a finger into a meringue pie, she hooked a strawberry, quickly following this down with a slice of veal pie.
‘Wouldn’t it be simpler to tell Thurstan that you don’t want to marry him?’ Eppie asked Rowan.
‘I’m afraid of annoying him. What I would really like is to tell him the truth, that I love Gabriel. Not that he has asked me to marry him.’ Desolately, she added, ‘Eppie, it is so dreadful, even if Gabriel asks me to marry him I cannot accept.’
‘That doesn’t make sense, surely if you love him …?’
‘Uncle told me not to confide in anyone, even to Priscilla. Sometimes, though, I feel I will burst from keeping my secret. Gabriel is your friend, so I know you will understand. Shortly after I was born, I was forsaken. A note was sent to the poorhouse and a man came to fetch me. He found me, lying in a basket, beneath a rowan tree.’
Eppie was astonished by Rowan’s words. ‘Don’t you know who your parents were?’
‘I know nothing about them. My uncle regularly visits those confined at the poorhouse. That was how I met him. As a young girl I was sent away to work in a seamstress’s garret. I worked long hours in a cramped room with other girls, stitching lacy shirts and fine garments for the gentry. One evening, Mr Grimley turned up. He told me that he had been searching for me, and brought me here. You must think me a scoundrel for having kept this from you.’
‘Not at all. Everyone has their secrets … even I. But you must not be afraid to tell Gabriel about your upbringing.’
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