“There is no strike yet.”
“Just the threat is enough to stop a manufactory from buying. They can always pick it up at the last moment.”
“Unless you are out.”
“Right. Then they are shut down again, and blame me.”
Men carrying oversized bales of tightly packed cotton made a steady stream out the barn-wide doors. Nash directed Maddie to a smaller door to the side.
They entered a wide, deep, open space, bathed in brackish light from the canvassed windows. Wooden crates taller than she was lined the far wall, with those of assorted sizes marching toward the front.
“We keep the most perishable items closest to the doors, and the most popular.”
“What is moving today?”
“New cotton from Virginia. Many of the manufactories want the cotton already spun, so I’ve had to engage the work of spinners. The spinning machines aren’t dependable.”
They skirted around the crates back toward the front of the building. Nash must have a dozen people working for him.
“You are a large merchant?”
He turned back to wink at her. She blushed at the double entendre.
“Just a supplier, but I’m the largest in town, by volume. The manufactories are king, though. I’m but a prince.”
Up the stairs at the corner, and they were on a balcony that ran the length of the warehouse. The wooden rails were swept clean.
They paused in its center. Nash leaned his elbows on the railing. Maddie gripped it with both hands.
“Afraid of heights?”
“Prudent is all.”
A man passed behind them, carrying jars of some sort. “We keep small batches, oils and perfumes, up here. Careful, man,” he called out. “You’re spilling some.”
“You carry oils and perfumes?”
“Very little. Overseas trades often are uneven, and rather than cash or receipts, which aren’t easy to exchange, the difference is made up in other items. Once I received a family of monkeys.”
“They were part of the trade?”
“One was; it was caged. The others were a surprise. Perhaps a family that didn’t care to be separated.”
“What did you do?”
“I gave them to the London zoo.”
“You sold them, you mean.”
“Gave. And they inveigled a donation from me for their upkeep, as well.”
“A merchant with a soft spot?”
“Don’t let it get around.”
As the lean man passed by again, Nash stopped him to ask about the oils.
“Mebbe hairline crack. Checking t’others.”
They followed him into a small room lined with shelves of coarsely hewn planking. Strong scents fought for dominance of the air; cinnamon seemed to be winning. The floor under the set of urns was slick. Nash found the culprit, a jar on the top shelf, and handed it to his man. “Olive oil. And good, too. Take it down and see if we have another pot for it.”
He hoisted it onto his shoulder and turned to go.
“Hold the handrail,” Maddie couldn’t help but exclaim.
Nash chuckled. “Want to smell the perfumes?” He led her across the way to a shelf of mismatched glittery vases and pitchers. “None carries much value.”
She reached for a deep emerald jar, like one she’d pictured with reading the Arabian Nights. “Are they all perfumes?”
“And potions, and magical creams. We don’t usually sell them, although some do go to perfumeries. I mainly use them for gifts.”
“You give a lot of gifts?”
“To customs agents, merchants’ wives, magistrate’s daughters. They buy me a bit of goodwill in a country where businessmen who trade overseas are looked at askance.”
Before Maddie could ask more, they heard a breaking like crockery, then a shout and a sickening thud.
“Man overboard.” Nash ran toward the door. Maddie followed, but crashed, softly, into his back at the doorway.
“Stay still. The walk is slick.”
“Where is your man?”
“Fell. I’m going to go the other way. You stay here.”
He turned and ran to the other corner of the building, taking the stairs two at a time. Eyes on the boards, Maddie stepped onto the walk, reaching for the rail and gripping it hard before she looked over.
The image swam before her eyes, then she swallowed her vertigo and the edges sharpened. The man lay on the floor, his eyes closed, face drawn up in pain. One of his legs was bent the wrong way, and the white of bone peeked through a tear in his pants.
Maddie’s vision blurred again, but she forced herself to be strong. Nash and another, older man had reached the porter. Nash patted down the man’s arms and good leg, and then touched the broken one on the thigh. The man’s soft groan echoed through the warehouse. All other activity had stopped.
The gray-haired man stood and turned so fast he almost dislodged his spectacles. Nash looked up and called for water. He bathed the man’s face, and then started talking to him in a matter-of-fact tone.
She couldn’t hear the words, but his voice seemed to carry a dull magic. The porter’s moans grew softer, his eyes fluttered closed. Two men carried up a folding cot. Nash hoisted the lanky porter, who though thin must weigh ten stone, as if he were nothing, setting him gently on the cot.
Not two minutes later, the spectacled man returned, with steaming water and cloths, and a doctor. Maddie strained to hear him. She followed Nash’s path down the stairs, though far more slowly and carefully, and was soon at the scene.
The doctor stood, his handlebar mustaches drooping. “Have to amputate.”
Nash crossed his arms belligerently. “There’s little chance of gangrene. Why don’t we set it first and see what occurs?”
“Longer course of treatment, and it still may not work. You’ll pay for the upkeep?”
Nash nodded yes. Maddie hated that medical care was always a question of who would pay.
“Then find me two sturdy pipes and binding cloth.”
Nash nodded, and his men scurried to search out the tools. He saw Maddie by the couch and scowled, but didn’t say anything.
He did take her arm, though, and none too politely. “You know what to do, doctor? Splinting, not amputation.”
“As you say.”
Leaving him to it, Nash pushed Maddie under the walkway and through a door into an office, and then kicked the door shut.
She spoke first. “Why didn’t you listen to the doctor?”
“Why didn’t you listen to me, when I told you to stay put?”
Maddie huffed. “You don’t always know what’s right.” She hadn’t hurt anything or interrupted anyone.
“But I am the master here. In the warehouse, you do as I say. Understand?”
His eyes were stern, mouth set hard. He was serious, Maddie realized. He wasn’t just playing the merchant while his men ran the business, as Deacon had told her.
“Understood,” she whispered.
He pushed out a breath and released her arm. She rubbed it absently.
He touched her hand. “Sorry if I bruised you.”
“I’m not that fragile,” she shot back.
“Right. About the doctor, his answer to nearly every ailment is amputation. I think he would have had my head off last winter when I had the cold, if it wouldn’t have killed me. And losing a limb is just about as fatal, for a man who earns his living as a porter.”
“Why does it cost more?”
“The physician will need to return, and there are more supplies to purchase. But the end result can be far better.”
He set his hands on his hips. “That railing was supposed to hold. Jem must have had oil on his hands, so when he grabbed for the rail, he slipped under.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “At least we didn’t lose him.”
“You know the names of all your workers?”
“I try. I can’t pay top wage, but I try to treat my men fairly. Jem took a pay cut to wo
rk for me. He said it was worth it to know he was guaranteed work at least forty weeks a year, and to be treated like a man.”
“Will you pay for his care?”
“Aye. Once he can maneuver again, I’ll set him to work in the office until he returns to full strength. I’m lucky, for he can read and cipher a bit. Unlucky for you, though.”
“Why?”
“I was thinking of offering that bit of work to you. You said you wanted something to do.”
“Wouldn’t that hurt your reputation? In Society, I mean?
He tilted his head, considering her. She liked the way his hair swung over his eye. “I thought you wanted to be a useful wife. Not just ornamental.”
“I do.”
“Then who cares what Society thinks? You’re a wife helping her husband. What is more natural than that?”
Maddie looked about the office, a counter and two stand-up desks with tall stools, a window with a view of the courtyard. She could be here with him? Wanting shimmered from her belly, rising to her throat.
She swallowed it back down. She would never want to take the food from a working man. “Does Jem have family?”
“A wife and two babes. Perkins is going to collect her and prepare the house for the invalid. It’s bad news, but it could have been worse.”
The spectacled bookkeeper had returned. “The wife is weepy but ready. Did we lose much inventory?”
“Damn the inventory. Sorry, man,” Nash put a hand on his shoulder. “Perkins here is supposed to ask that sort of question. No, just a pot or two of olive oil.”
“At an hundred pounds a pot.”
“What is it, compared to a man?”
“Depends on the man.” Mr. Perkins’s face creased into a grin.
“For Jem, threescore pots of oil.” Nash said, matching his grin.
For the next few hours, Maddie sat in the corner watching as Nash and his bookkeeper sorted out the bills and charges. This part was both familiar and strange. At the girls’ school, she’d had the books to herself. Here they seemed to need to talk about the transactions. She ached to be the one Nash had to talk to.
She remained within the office as Nash went out to treat with the merchants arriving to buy his bales and bolts and jars.
He seemed to be friendly with everyone, from the driver coming to pick up a missed box to the owner of the biggest manufactory, a Mr. Malbanks. Through the open doors, Maddie watched a slice of life she had never seen before. It was a man’s world. The only other woman she saw inside the warehouse was the cook who had brought the bandages for Jem.
Too soon, Nash declared it was time for luncheon. “Sales are done. When we return, we’ll package the items for tomorrow, deliver the ones for today, and call it a day.”
“How often do you get a shipment in?”
“Every day, small shipments. A big one once or twice a month, depending on the seas and the speed of trade in Liverpool.”
They left by way of the front door, avoiding the horses and hubbub. “Thank you for showing me this.”
“I’m sorry you had to see Jem’s fall. We haven’t had such an accident before. The last thing I need is a reputation for carelessness and danger.”
They walked home, which Maddie discovered was less than fifteen minutes from the warehouse. The hack ride had taken nearly that long. “Why didn’t we walk this morning?”
“I wasn’t sure you could take such strenuous activity.” She cast a sidelong glance at him. He shrugged. “We don’t know much about each other, do we?”
“I know I could do what Mr. Perkins was doing,” she ventured. “And that he would rather be at the castle. Where Mrs. Perkins is.”
“You know all that?” He took her arm, protecting her from a less-than-cautious curricle.
“Take me on as a test. If I pass Mr. Perkins’s muster, would you consider it?” She held her breath.
“A wife in trade? Heywood’s lady might think less of you. Then again, she might not.” He rubbed his upper lip with a knuckle. “Why not?” He held out a hand for her to shake, all official. “Welcome aboard.”
Despite the growing overcast of the day and the usual dingy air, in Maddie’s vision, there were sunbeams.
{ 17 }
Over the next few days, they started to build a steady pattern to their lives. While Nash rose at cock-crow, Maddie slept another hour, her eyes protected from morning’s light by the loosely tied bed curtain. At mid-morning, she joined him at the warehouse, easily stepping into Mr. Perkins’s shoes. The man already was talking about returning to the castle by Pentecost.
For Maddie, the bustle of the warehouse, as seen through the open office door, wasn’t so different from the humming of a well-run school. She knew she should soon be forced to cut her afternoons short to start paying her afternoon social calls, but as she had no society to speak of, she hadn’t started doing it yet. That would change tonight, when she attended her first formal supper in town, hosted by the Heywoods.
The hack carried them on a roundabout route. Market Street and Deansgate bustled even at night, rows of small theaters and halls brightly lit. Most of the houses, though, were two-storey or three-storey, similar to theirs. They turned a corner, and she saw a stretch of homes palatial in comparison.
“Mosley Street. Many of the manufactory men, mill owners, and advocates have homes here. The richest also have home farms outside town.”
“The magistrates, as well.”
“No. None live in town.”
“Will we ever live here?”
“Do you wish it?”
Her first impulse was to say yes. Who wouldn’t want to look out the window to a lovely park across the way and another mansion beside it? But she paused. “What would I give in exchange?”
“Freedom, for one. This is a closed society, even more than a girls’ school. Flexibility is the other. If I wish to gamble on a ship from the Indies, but I know I have the weight of a household such as these, I’d think again. That is, were I a rational man of business.”
The houses, with their manicured lawns and large-paned windows, seemed to wink at her. How hard could it be to gain one?
“How do these men do it?”
“A few, like Heywood here, married money and use the wife’s portion to run the household. I used your dowry to seed the Netherlands deal. It wouldn’t have brought much more than the outbuildings on this property, though.”
“The others earned their places?”
“The majority fell in love with the pomp and circumstance. Their homes are the spoils of mercantile wars.”
“So long as they are happy at home.”
Nash laughed. “You’re right to sound doubtful. One of them told me he must keep a large property simply to be able to avoid his wife in its halls.”
He sobered as they stepped up the stair to the door of the middle house in the row. “That is also why some of them are so dead set against any of the workers’ demands. Any slice taken out of their pie puts them at risk.”
“And you?”
“I can withstand most troubles, I believe. Anything that lasts more than a month or two would set me back.”
The largesse of the exterior was matched by the interior, with its vaulted entry hall and candles in sconces that it would take a ladder to reach. The underbutler had an underbutler, both in the multilayered uniform better suited to a duke’s residence. But their shoes were wrong, not dainty slip-ons but sturdy heeled shoes.
“Nash, darling, we had all but given up on you.” A pretty woman with upswept hair and a voluminous carat-folded gown called down to them from the balcony. Twin sets of stairs wound up from the edges of the hall to meet in a rounded balcony.
Nash followed Maddie up the stair. She slowed at the top, and he stepped easily to stand beside her at the top.
“Mrs. Heywood, allow me to present my lady wife, Madeline.”
Maddie dropped into a curtsy, and then raised her eyes. Mrs. Heywood had her arm out, as if she had expecte
d to shake hands. Maddie wavered, then mid-bend, stuck her own hand out. The woman took it, smiling as she pulled Maddie gently back up.
“We’re nowhere near so formal as all that. And we are so louche as to drink ale with our cheese course.”
“I hear the Duke of Bedford does the same. Perhaps you set the trend.”
Mrs. Heywood patted her arm. “Nonsense, love. We are safely a step behind. Let the tall men like your husband blaze the trail. Those buttons are lovely. I see he’s already made a merchant’s manikin of you.” She winked.
Mrs. Heywood crinkled as she led her into a sitting room drenched in yellows. “Like my crinoline? My William has a stake in the manufactory that makes all the lady’s drawers for miles around.”
“But he only ever wants to get in yours.” A hatchet-faced woman rose to greet them. “I can see why, with all the folderol the young misses think of to talk about.”
“Mrs. Quinn, this is Mother Blayney, my parent. Mother, Mrs. Madeline Quinn.” Maddie didn’t know whether to curtsey or hold out her hand, so she did nothing. Apparently that was what the lady expected, for she continued without censuring Maddie.
“Your maiden name was Wetherby, if I am not mistaken.”
“Yes.” Maddie paused, and the lady’s gray feathered brows shot up. She knew she should say more, but what? Yes, but they weren’t my parents? Yes, they were my adoptive parents?
Mrs. Heywood stepped in. “Such a tragedy. I mean, to lose both parents at once like that, and a brother. You must have been heartbroken.”
“It did change my life.”
“And Ellspeth’s. Let us hope this trip to London sets her straight. An earl! The presumption.”
“To be sure.” Mrs. Blayney scowled. Maddie reflected for the first time how fortunate she was that Nash’s mother was neither harpie nor virago, and how perhaps her having no living relations might be seen as an advantage to a prospective husband. Perhaps that’s what sold him on her.
“Look about you, Mrs. Quinn. Do you catch my meaning?” Mrs. Heywood waved her hand, gilded by a white gold bracelet. “There is Mr. Malbanks, whose cravat is the finest Mancunian lace, and his coat a coarse but more expensive weave. Mrs. Clayton, there, shows on her sleeves and that lovely front panel the best Mr. Clayton’s mill workers can do. As for me and Mother Blayney, it’s crinolines and leathers.”
An Untitled Lady: A Novel Page 13