Hugh Malbanks, sitting at the far end of the table, owned the most profitable cotton mills in town, though he had just passed thirty years of age. Gray-lipped and stern, he drove the hardest bargains and wasn’t above threatening his workers if it would get the job done. His trading with Nash was fair enough though, and he was one-third partner in the consortium Nash had drawn up to bid for steady work from the Netherlands. The first, trial, supply was due to ship in less than two months.
William Clayton had some two decades more experience than Malbanks, but his cotton operation was only half as extensive. Heywood had introduced him as “the professor,” and he did carry a rather abstracted air behind narrow-rimmed spectacles. He sat to Malbanks’s right, but lost his seat to a new arrival when he got up for another draft.
The others on the committee Nash knew by name or sight, excepting the Reverend Ethelston of Cheshire. Four of them seemed to be taking their afternoon doze.
Heywood cleared his throat, a mighty roar, and they staggered awake. “Old business. I see the ban on singing has been proclaimed.”
The recitation was a formality, but Nash couldn’t let that one go. “I do feel safer now.”
“You weren’t there.” Malbanks spread his palms on the table. “Those men stood one step away from insurrection. We don’t need a reprise of the business of Seventeen.” Like then, Manchester’s workers were grumbling strike, and the manufactory owners needed to nip that in the bud. As a supplier, Nash’s livelihood depended on steady need. Even a week of work stoppage would overflow his warehouses. And if the ship from Boston made Liverpool on Thursday, as expected, he would need to erect a new warehouse out of thin air by week’s end.
Heywood stroked his beard. “I don’t recall song being part of the incitement to riot in Seventeen. Press the men down too hard, and they’ll rise up out of plain orneriness. We do have your fine yeomanry to keep the town serene, after all.”
“The workers are girding for battle,” Malbanks said. “I see it in their eyes.”
“When do you get close enough to a worker to see his eyes?” Clayton shook his head, and then had to readjust his glasses. “Someone is going around painting frightening pictures, but they don’t represent our town men.”
Nash’s ears pricked up at that. “Saboteurs?”
“Don’t use those Frenchified words at me, sailor boy.” Clayton winked. “Aye, Trefford’s house had mud thrown on it. But was it the men, or merely their children?”
“His workers are merely children,” Nash said.
“We did have to raise our first workforce.” Trefford seemed little taller than a child; seated at the far end of the table, his legs didn’t touch the floor. “But they’ve all grown up now. Adults make better workers.”
Malbanks lifted his hands and crossed his arms. “But they surely aren’t as docile as children anymore. What we need is a constabulary force, a standing police.”
“You can’t be serious. A standing army of policemen? In Britain? Never been done.” Heywood had to take a drink just to stop his flow of talk.
The man from Cheshire piped in. “We have a standing army, potential policemen, just miles out of town. What is the difference?”
Malbanks glared at him. “We would have control over a civilian policing force.”
Nash crossed his own arms. “Who is this we? The merchants? Or would London step in again and order us about?”
“If London will not pay to help us, I don’t see how they can give the orders,” Malbanks said.
“What we need is representation,” Nash shook his head. “Who argues for the interests of industry? No one. We need a member of Parliament from Manchester.”
“Two members!” Clayton’s shout did not help Nash’s argument.
Suffrage had not kept up with the times. When boroughs had been assigned, Manchester was merely a meadow by a river. The two members of Parliament from Lancashire, more than fifty miles away, represented all the people of the county, and did a ramshackle job of it, in the opinion of Manchester’s men.
“We need the help now,” Malbanks said. Heads nodded, and he continued. “I propose calling up special constables. We would disband them, Mr. Heywood, when summer marching season is done.”
“See that you do.”
Malbanks nodded. “I know many of the innkeepers, bakers, and the like, eager to ensure the peace. If they can’t afford the horseflesh to join the yeomanry, this will do for them.”
Nash wasn’t convinced. “An armed, untrained military force, charged with keeping the peace?”
“At least we’ll know innkeepers won’t be as drunken as the yeomanry,” Clayton said, glasses precarious on his nose. “They won’t care to deplete their wares.”
Heywood rose, and the meeting was ended. Nash followed him down the stairs and grabbed a pint. They settled at a table by the only window in the place.
Nash couldn’t keep quiet. “Why didn’t you knock them down? Constables. What idiocy.”
“It’s a distraction and a comfort. These are trying days for men who aren’t fortunate enough to have contented workers. Let them have their toy soldiers. It will keep their minds off greater mischief.”
“I can’t like it. We need to steer clear of smelling like an army. My own men seem happy enough, but for my going missing in the middle of a working day. Why have this meeting at mid-day?”
“Because that’s when the owners are at leisure. That is, the ones who can ever afford to be at leisure.” Heywood quaffed his half-pint and smacked his lips. “Speaking of mischief, I hear congratulations may be in order.”
“You disapprove?”
“You’re free to marry any girl you fancy. A mighty short fancy, I might notice. I hear that money may have sweetened the deal.”
“I do not marry for the money.” Nash sat back, frowning. How did Heywood still know so much of his family’s business?
“Strong protest indeed for a man newly endowed as partner in our new enterprise. I must remind you, the woman brings nothing to this marriage, no connections save those that could harm. You could do better.”
“You know of her family?”
“I wrote the contract, remember? I know they agreed never to claim her, nor seek her out. In exchange, we agreed to keep her out of their way. The mother is buried at St. Mary’s, of all places. He wanted her interred, and I knew the vicar there wasn’t so choosy.”
“Is the vicar still there?” Madeline might wish to speak with him. “Perhaps he could perform our ceremony.”
“Too late for that; he’s gone to his maker. I’m still a deacon there, though; if you want it, consider it done. I must warn you, Quinn: A bad wife is far worse that a bad business deal. Don’t do this out of some false vision of family honor.”
“It isn’t false.”
“It isn’t honor. Setting up some chit to marry Shaftsbury. What was the old man thinking?”
“Perhaps that the girl would be a good match.”
“Didn’t he choose his own bride, and that fell out poorly? Why did he think he could choose any better for his sons?”
Nash frowned. “Sons? Do you think there is some young thing training herself up to be my bride?”
Heywood laughed, the roar streaming out the door and echoing into the street. “A bride for the lost little lamb? I should say not. We all thought you would come out of the Navy buggered.”
“Blasphemer.”
“That’s not blasphemy, it’s slander. But tell me true, do you feel anything at all for this woman?”
Nash tried to sound out his feelings. Dormant so long, they were hard to read. “There is something between us, something that could be kindled. I intend to kindle it.”
Heywood lifted his mug to him, and drained the last of his bitters. “I’ll tell my lady wife to set up a decent supper for her, then. She’ll need all the help she can get.”
* * * *
Maddie paced the small track from bookshelves to window in the small study. She’d sp
ent much of these past three days here, finding an outlet for her nerves by organizing the chaos of the castle’s accounts and paperwork. Shaftsbury found her just as she was turning away from the cloud-soaked view outside.
“Thought I’d find you here. The carriage is come round.” Dressed in hunter and gold, Lord Shaftsbury looked like a Gainsborough painting come to life. His smile was wider than Mr. Quinn’s, or what she could remember of his. She hadn’t seen him since the morning after she’d accepted his offer. He’d returned to town for some meeting and never come back. At least he’d sent two letters, short as they were. In one, he’d made the biggest concession she could imagine.
He’d written that he’d found the churchyard in Manchester where her mother was buried, and that if she wished they would wed in that church rather than the castle’s. Her mother’s name was Mary Moore. Reading the words, Maddie had nearly fainted, right there in the chair in her bedroom. It was surprising enough that he would seek out that hallowed ground, but that he would both consider her wants and dreams and place them ahead of the raft of his own family’s traditions made her head spin.
As it did his mother’s. At news of the engagement, Lady Shaftsbury had first sulked, but relented under Shaftsbury’s gentle prodding. She’d even offered to allow Maddie to wear her own wedding shawl as the “something borrowed.” When the venue changed, so did Lady Shaftsbury’s mood: She had refused to attend.
“Looks like rain,” Maddie said. “Your mother made the right decision.”
“It will hold off. It’s been such a sunny spring. I’ve seen you enjoying the gardens; aren’t they grand? As for Mama, she’s changed her mind again.”
“She’s going to Manchester?”
“She’s taking my place. Says that’s more appropriate. She’s such a stickler for everything proper.”
Was it proper that an earl not attend the wedding of his only brother simply because he was marrying a nobody? Maddie held her tongue.
Shaftsbury turned to the shelves. She’d made short work of the ledgers, which hadn’t been touched since Perkins left four months before. “Hard to believe you did all this in a matter of days.”
“I like doing the accounts, making the columns come out right.” Tidying up the world, at least the arithmetical part of it, as Miss Marsden put it.
“Might I offer you some advice? As well as your license, since Nash never showed up to take it off my hands.” He pulled out the folded paper, signed by the local archbishop, and handed it to her; without it, they would have had to wait weeks before marrying. “You know you don’t need to wed so quickly. For as much as he despises autocratic behavior, my dear brother practices it almost daily.”
“I do want this.” She saw him staring at her hands, which were crushing the vellum. She loosened her grip, and tucked the license into her bag.
“Rushing you into a hastily planned wedding is the least of it. Stand up to him from time to time, if you’re able. You might suggest you help Nash with his accounts, as well.”
“He has trouble with maths?”
“Not with maths, no. With making space for people in his life, yes. My brother tends to forge ahead and forget to look back to see if you’re following, if you get what I mean.”
She wasn’t sure she did. Shaftsbury’s smile grew crooked. “Not too clear, am I? You’ll figure it out. And you might see if he’ll release Perkins. The castle needs him. I was an idiot to send him away.”
“A generous admission, my lord.”
“Merely the sad truth. But I must say you look beautiful this morning, a radiant bride. Look, you even blush. No, no, somebody needs to fawn over you. Nash will forget, and Mama,” he paused, “well, she’s probably at the carriage now so we’d best make haste.”
As he handed her into the carriage, and she settled next to her soon-to-be mother-in-law, Maddie finally felt her heart ease. So much had happened so quickly, but it was turning out all right. Perhaps even better: There would be no extended engagement, as she’d expected when she believed herself the earl’s bride. She would be a married woman—part of a true family—far earlier than she’d dreamed.
PART TWO
{ 13 }
It was supposed to be a mid-morning wedding, but that was before the sudden downpour, the trouble with the front axle, and the driver’s having forgotten that Saturday was produce day, plunging them deep into the throngs along Market Street.
Trying to avoid the crowd, the driver got turned around again, taking them on a sodden tour of Manchester, a dank town reeking of wet cinders. Already, Maddie missed the open, warm fields of the country. When they finally landed at the church, shortly after one o’clock, Nash’s face wore a rictus welcome. Of course, he’d been on time.
He’d said not a word to her on the church steps and even in the sanctuary, even during the ceremony his “I do” was more a grunt. He’d even signed the register in silence. Finally, outside the church, he spoke. “I must return to the warehouse. Mama will escort you home.”
To say Lady Shaftsbury was displeased at that information was an understatement. She did not hide her further displeasure when Maddie did not immediately follow her into the carriage but instead sloshed about the cemetery in search of her mother. She could wait; Maddie wasn’t about to leave empty-handed.
Back along the far wall, she found it a simple white slate with Moore in capital letters, and below it Richard, 1777— and Mary, beloved, 1780—1799.
No death date for her father meant he must still be alive.
She touched the stone. Cold and slick, it offered little comfort, it was solid, and permanent, and she had found it at last. Her secret mother. At least there could be no more surprises now.
She unclasped the gold necklace her Wetherby father had given her. Kneeling, but careful not to soil the dress, she tucked the gift into the clay dirt beside the marker. It was all she had to give. She’d received a new one from Nash as a bride gift, a single black pearl on a white-gold chain.
She turned away from the grave. It needed ornament, perhaps some lilies. She’d arrange for it. She needed to arrange for pin money and discover how Nash managed his household’s expenses.
Trudging across the muddied path, she smiled grimly to herself. She’d need to learn to live at the whim of another stranger. It wasn’t as if she’d never done it before.
Lady Shaftsbury had spread her skirts across the entire bench of the carriage. “Found your old Mama? I’ll be your new Mama now.”
Maddie settled on the back-facing bench. “I appreciate any advice you wish to give me.”
“Ask away. But be quick about it. Deacon tells me we depart for London on Monday next. Of course, you may write me. Once a week is plenty.”
Maddie touched the solid band on her finger, a slight weight that suddenly seemed to grow heavier. “What would make him happy?”
The duchess didn’t smile, but her blue eyes shone kindly. “Don’t aim too high, my dear. He’s chosen to live in this noisome, sooty town, amongst its poorly dressed, ill-mannered citizens. The best you can hope for is contentment. Relieve him of his worries and cares. He always chooses the heaviest burden.”
Like you, Maddie heard, though the the lady hadn’t say it aloud.
* * * *
Maddie had not seen many detached houses as they drew into the town. Most of the folk in this gloomy, wretched place seemed to live in a darker cousin of the rowhouses she'd grown up among in Bath. But there were no seaside prospects here, and precious few hills. As they turned away from the river, the stench from the tanneries beside it seemed to chase after them. They had passed the worst of the smell by the time the coach came to a stop.
Lady Shaftsbury rolled down the glass on the carriage door to get a better look, and shuddered. “As I remembered. I'll say my farewells here. I'm sure you'll wish to have your new home in order before playing the hostess.”
Maddie's throat burned. The woman was deserting her on the doorstep, like an unwanted infant? As the outride
r turned the latch, Lady Shaftsbury leaned over to pat Maddie's knee. When the door opened, she leaned back quickly, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve to drape against her nose.
Maddie stepped from a spray of the lady’s talcum powder into a sooty drizzle. The red-brick house before her had at most three stories, two main floors, a cellar kitchen, and perhaps an attic. At least it was on the end of the terrace, so the door could be set to the side, allowing the windows to be in alignment. Maddie wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this.
The slick cobbled street was quiet at mid-afternoon, save for the Shaftsbury coach clambering away back to its gargantuan home. Maddie stood at the base of the five steps leading to her new front door, and turned away. This prospect was slightly better. The soldier’s row of housing did not face another regiment, but a small meadow housing a miserly flock of sheep. The roadway was not dirt but stones, and there was a sort of walk on the side for pedestrians.
This would never be mistaken for a neighborhood of great houses. Nash Quinn was not the man high in business she’d been led to believe. And Mrs. Nash Quinn, while not a nobody, was not so great a somebody, either. She would need new clothes.
She heard the door open behind her. “Mrs. Quinn, ma’am?”
“Mrs. Willis?” The housekeeper, small and tidy, carried a worried frown, but at the sound of her name, the creases beside her eyes and mouth deepened in displeasure.
“Oh, dearie, come in. Just like him, that is, depositing you like a bag of grain. Mr. Willis said a carriage come, but I was up in the back with your trunks. You’ll be used to his ways soon enough, I expect. Oh.” As if she’d just remembered, she bobbed a proper curtsey for someone who had rheumy limbs.
The dried-apple face pursed its lips and scanned her as she came up the stairs. Maddie imagined her counting the extra hours it was going to take to keep her linens white. Mrs. Willis wore cream and gray. “We’ll be sending out to laundry, I expect.”
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