“Your boots are gorgeous. Such a rich color.” Maddie had never seen boots dyed to match an evening dress.
“My father’s shop, rest his soul. Blayneys are boot makers to royalty. You must allow my brother to make you a pair. He measures your foot in six places.”
Mother Blayney harrumphed. Now Maddie could see the odd thick ribbon trimming her dress was superfine strips of leather. “You, Mrs. Quinn, had the good fortune to marry a man who trades in all goods. You’ll never grow tired of just wearing leather.”
“Nor find yourself unable to sit because the style is to overstarch one’s crinoline.”
Maddie held out her arms. “Today it’s buttons.” She plucked at the pearled ornaments running along the underside of her lower arms.
“They make the sleeve look the part of a fancy lady’s glove. You might start a trend.”
“I believe that’s the idea.” She was glad she’d talked Mrs. Willis out of sewing them up the back of the dress. Not only would they have competed with the laces, but she would have had to turn her back on everyone to show them to advantage.
“Your new husband also makes a handsome manikin.”
Maddie followed her hostess’s gaze to the knot of men beside the tall front windows, and caught her breath. Nash had looked well in the simple dark suit he wore for their wedding, but in his dinner finery he shone. His smart midnight blue jacket, and a lighter blue vest, complemented her dress. The crisp white of his shirt and deceptively simple cravat offset the dark browns of his already curling hair and steamed brown of his eyes. His dark trousers slid into a pair of what must be Blayney short boots.
“Lucky woman,” her hostess breathed. Then, at a signal from a servant, she clapped her hands to call them all to supper.
They did not follow any precedence Maddie understood on their way into the dining room. What was the proper precedence here?
Everyone talked across the table, and Mother Blayney seemed to talk down to everyone equally. Maddie felt the loosening of proper society’s strictures as a form of freedom. When the conversation turned to business and politics, she listened attentively rather than making small talk with quiet Mrs. Clayton. Mr. Clayton noticed her attention, and turned to her, his spectacles sparkling in the good candlelight.
“So, Mrs. Quinn,” He twirled one of his moustaches. “What do you think of our Manchester?” Maddie weighed her words.
“I have seen only a little, but I do rather like it. It does seem odd that Mr. Quinn must cover the windows of his warehouse, though.”
Clayton laughed, hiding his mouth with his hand. “Don’t get me started on the follies of London, ma’am.”
“London?”
“We are the biggest manufacturing city in the nation, but have no direct representation in Parliament. So we must solve our troubles on our own, with our hands tied behind our backs. Inane machinations and unreasonable taxation are inflicted upon us by Government and Commons alike. Taxing a man’s windowpanes! Incredible.”
“Come now, Clayton.” Mr. Heywood signaled for the next course. “We all support the Government here.”
“To be sure. But who speaks for our interests? And don’t men of business always shoulder the blame for all manner of ills, from childhood deaths to bad water?”
Mr. Malbanks set his fork down and cleared his throat. The shortest man, and the finest dressed, he seemed to command their attention at will. “They blame manufactories for the smoke in the air, when everyone cooks with coal. And the measures to prevent it only succeed in making criminals of all the owners. No one can follow the law, or he’d be out of business in a month. And now we must work in the dark, or pay a tax on the sun.”
“Is that why the workers must see their pay cut?” Maddie’s skin goose-bumped as the air in the room seemed to ice over. She wished she could take the words back. One did not speak of cutting pay, but reducing costs.
Before she could incinerate in mortification, Nash spoke. “The problem isn’t capital, it’s trust. Government and manufactories. Merchant, master, and man. How does one build trust where none exists? It’s hard enough man to man. Between classes of men, it’s nigh impossible.”
Clayton nodded. “Yet it must be done, or we’ll all sink. These are hard times.”
“I’ll not sink, and I thank you to leave my men out of this.” Malbanks took a moment to drink from his wine glass. At the fourth course and on at least his fifth glass of the stuff, his cheeks blotched tomato. Maddie hoped the Heywoods had not adopted the society habit of offering a full ten courses.
Clayton pounded him on the back as if he were choking. “Think you’re safe from the strike? Yours is the only trades group that has even set it to vote.”
“To vote, as if they were deserving of suffrage.” Malbanks rolled his eyes. “At least habeas corpus was reinstated.”
Maddie frowned. Clayton leaned closer to her, his moustaches dancing. “Means the government can hold a man as long as it likes without trial. Suspended this winter, that and the meetings act stopped both workers and owners from gathering in groups larger than us at this table. The Government feared the mob, as if English peasant stock were no better than the French. Nothing came of it, nothing but the odd riot foisted on those soft-minded weavers who fell for Oliver the Spy.”
Nash nodded. “If the crown had not planted the spy, it wouldn’t have had its foment, its blanketeers, its cries of revolution. A more cynical man might call it a presumptive attack.”
“Prevention is nine-tenths of the law,” Clayton quipped.
“Radicalism is treason in disguise, whatever shape it appears in.” Malbanks nearly slammed his glass down. “If we cut it down as the snake is a’borning, we need not fight it when it’s a full-grown adder.”
Mrs. Heywood tapped her own glass, a bell. “Peace, Mr. Malbanks. You’ll spoil our taste for the next course, and Cook is rightly proud of her eel pie.”
Maddie didn’t feel as out of place as she had feared. If these nouveaux riches liked to behave beyond their station on the social ladder, why not? These people lacked for nothing. Their want was not intellect, energy, or even education. It was only standing, under the feudal system of government they had all inherited. And if they did rattle on about commerce, who could blame them? It made for interesting conversation.
After dinner, the men did not leave the ladies for long. Soon, it was time to take their leave.
“We married men can’t stay out too late,” confided Mr. Heywood in a loud voice to Maddie.
Mrs. Heywood took the bait. “Married to the manufactory, more like. That’s why you need rise so early.”
“I thought you liked my rising early, Mrs. Heywood.”
“It’s whether you can stay up all day that’s the question.”
Maddie tucked her arm into Nash’s; the Heywood’s ribald laughter followed them down the stairs and onto the street.
“I like your friends.”
“They will make a good start for you.”
They found a hack immediately, and were soon home and washing for bed. This part of the day was becoming a comfortable habit, as well. Maddie washed her face, neck, front, back, arm, arm, midriff area, leg, leg, feet, and hands. The well-choreographed routine took about ten minutes.
Nash spent the last five sitting up in the bed watching her.
“Did you not wash this morning?”
“I get dirty during the day.”
“How? You barely go outside.” He pushed down the sheet so she could get in. She slid on her backside and down before he could grab her. He slid down to meet her.
He kissed behind her ear, then lower, near her neck. She sighed into him.
“You’re tired.”
Her spine stiffened. Did he want more? He should. Could she give it to him this time? What if she couldn’t? How could she call herself wife, if she denied him his rights as husband? Mrs. Heywood kept her husband happy, all too obviously. Could they tell that she was failing at this?
He blew warm air down her neck, tickling the tiny hairs and easing her thoughts. “I’m not complaining. I’m a bit tired, too. And I like to hold you like this.”
She sighed, snuggling deeper into him. A living blanket, his warmth stirred peace into her skin.
“I don’t know why you are afraid of me, Maddie, afraid of what we might do in this bed. It is wonderful, nothing at all to fear. But we will wait until you feel it’s right.” He chuckled. “For my sake, though, don’t let it be too long.”
{ 18 }
Not everything in Manchester was new plate and flash. The church that guarded Maddie’s mother was a vertical gothic structure, stone walls and razor spires. Protected by a wrought-iron fence and a small lawn of headstones, it looked out of place, as if the bustle of town had surprised it sleeping.
Maddie went through the gate and took the roundabout path, lazily twining through the graveyard. Nash didn’t know about these regular visits, on her way to the warehouse. He turned cool whenever she spoke of her first family. She couldn’t help herself, though. She had decades of proper daughtering to catch up on.
The church clock read five of ten; already she was late to the warehouse, and she’d do anything not to lose that position. She loved working with numbers, but it felt so much better doing it for him. Even when the figures showed ill for the day, he smiled when she served them up to him. She was the prettiest bookkeeper he’d ever had, he’d say for the dozenth time, and still it would set her insides glowing.
She carried that glow through their genial walks home, as they read each other parts of the day’s papers, as they went to bed and he continued his gentle lessons in the mysteries of their bodies. Far and away, the best was the sleeping. Most nights now she slept without those awful dreams, and without waking. Something about Nash set her soul at rest.
It couldn’t be his body, all strong lines and sharp angles. Nor the musk of his arousal. Perhaps it was the sound of him, his regular breathing, the soft murmurs he made when she started to wake, shifting position in the night. She prayed she kept him half as content.
The path took her to her mother’s grave from the back. Maddie touched the curved headstone, sending a prayer to heaven for her mother’s soul, and for the souls of the Wetherbys, her families forever tangled in memory. It wasn’t until she’d raised her eyes again that she saw the flowers.
Three daisies and two ferns, tied with string, at the foot of the front of the stone. Maddie nearly dropped her own small bouquet, a half-dozen lilies.
Somebody had been here. On purpose, to visit this grave, this one alone. She saw no other posies near any other marker. Could it be a friend who remembered Mary Moore’s birthday? Maddie had no idea what day her mother had been born. Was it a child playing a game, choosing a pretend lover to mourn? She never saw children in this garden.
Or could it be her father, truly, who still mourned his wife, taken from him too soon?
Maddie swayed on her feet, dizzy with imagination. She scanned the yard again, but she was still the only living soul. The flowers had wilted, as if they had been left yesterday. It had been a working-man’s holiday; perhaps that’s why he had time to come. He might want to visit every day, as she did, but was prevented by work. If he was a worker, that is.
Mr. Heywood would not tell her of her father, saying that no contact was the terms of the adoption agreement he had signed. She had signed no such agreement; she never would agree to such a thing. She could contact him.
Once the idea came to the front of her mind, it grabbed her with talons. He might come back. She would need to change the timing of her visits, to see if he came at different hours. She would alter her habit of taking walks at mid-day, and take them throughout the day instead. But Nash would notice that, and Mrs. Willis would worry.
Perhaps she could hire a boy to stalk the graveyard. But what boy would wish to do that? Nonsense, she scolded herself, she had no proof he came regularly. She should learn the workers’ calendar and plan her visits around that timetable.
The ground-thrumming of the morning bells made her jump. Ten o’clock already, so late she would need an explanation. She’d need to work hard to hold I’ve found my father! He lives! behind her lips.
She laid her bouquet behind the smaller one, nesting like spoons. As she hurried down the straight path she thought her lungs would burst, or her heart. She had never felt so happy.
Something good would come of this. Something wonderful.
It must.
* * * *
The Starr Inn did not improve on acquaintance. Nash inhaled the bitter foam of his ale to mask the sour-mash odor of the place. He should be at the warehouse, where Maddie was, not jawboning again with these special-committee blowhards. Nothing had changed but their tempers.
“We need martial law,” Malbanks declared. “After Oldham and Stockport, there can be no doubt we have revolt on our hands.”
“Nonsense.” Nash set his ale down on the mightily scored trestle, trying not to inhale too deeply. “Peaceful marches, both. A day of speechifying and no mayhem—unless you count our volunteer constables.”
“They were right to take offense at talk of sedition.”
“Again, there was no loss of life or property.” Clayton took off his glasses to clean them on a none-too-clean handkerchief. “Even the letters from London say watch and wait. If London does not fear imminent revolt, why should we?”
“London is days away,” Malbanks said. “The battleground is here.”
“There’s been no violence here, despite the talks of strike, and the hungry men,” Clayton said, resetting his spectacles.
Heywood held up a hand. “Malbanks, you are close to the constables. Do Nadin and his crew see trouble brewing?”
“Not directly.” The man looked angry at his admission.
“Not at all, you mean.” Nash tried to tamp down his own anger. Why had they all been called in just to argue this point yet again?
“No, there is some evidence.” Malbanks pursed his lips, as if having to explain himself left a bad taste in his mouth. “Many of the villages have trimmed the size of their rushcart parades, siphoning money and attention to flags and carts for these public meetings.”
“I would think you’d approve of that,” Nash said. “Fewer drunken bumpkins on carts on Sundays.” While the purpose of the rushcart parades was to bring clean rushes to line the floors of parish churches, they also included a weeklong pageant of revelry that could get out of hand.
“Instead they preach sedition at one another. Scarcely an improvement. And Nadin says they are far better organized than back in Seventeen.”
Clayton rubbed at his spectacles with a finger. “And how does our chief constable know that?” Malbanks’s glare sliced through the grime on Clayton’s glasses, and the other man flinched.
“The question is a good one.” Nash easily countered the man’s grimace with one of his own. Their gazes locked with a near-audible click. Malbanks looked away, back to Clayton.
“The meetings are public, and these so-called reformers let anyone listen.”
“Even our spies? Brave men, after Seventeen.” Clayton patted Nash’s hand. “You were at sea then, but those poor reformist souls stood no chance. The crown knew their every step, and swept them up and off to prison like leaves.”
Nash never took his gaze from Malbanks. “I heard that most of the brouhaha was fomented by the spies themselves.”
Malbanks shrugged. “What if it was? They would have done it anyway; we just set it up that they did it on our schedule.”
“Gentlemanly of you.”
Malbanks returned Nash’s glare with new ferocity. “This radicalism is no mewling cry for reform. It’s a cloak for conspiracy and rebellion, and we must stamp it out.”
“To be sure.” Heywood’s soothing tone acted as a balm, easing them all back into their chairs. Malbanks even took a sip of his claret as Heywood carried on speaking. “It is telling, though, that there has been no voice
of rebellion in these meetings. That is unlike Eighteen seventeen.”
Malbanks choked the wine down. “It merely means these rebels learned their lesson. They’ve gone further underground.”
Nash had had enough. “So having no proof of rebellion is now proof of rebellion? Your evidence of conspiracy is a complete lack of evidence?”
Malbanks pressed his fine lips tight. His man, Trefford, spoke up. “They outsmart us, is all.”
“Unschooled weavers and spinners, outsmarting the cream of Lancashire? It’s laughable on its face.”
Heywood rapped the table. “Enough. I do not see agreement at this table to declare martial law. We’ll meet again next week. I hear there is to be another meeting in your town, Trefford. Perhaps you will have a clearer reading for us then.”
Malbanks pushed to his feet, a bantam used to outpunching his weight class. “The longer we dawdle, the more the danger builds. I might point out to you, Mr. Quinn, that with this new consortium scheme of yours, any delay at all would sink you.” He strutted out of the room.
Heywood leaned back in his chair. “You took that round, boy. But the spread is growing tighter. Watch that you don’t drop your guard.”
* * * *
Maddie liked working with Jem Smith. The warehouseman’s leg was much improved, though he still needed the crutches to walk. To appease Lord Shaftsbury and please Mrs. Perkins, Nash had sent Perkins back to Shaftsbury Castle, leaving Maddie to manage the bulk of the office bookkeeping, with Mr. Smith standing in on those afternoons she paid her social visits. His hand was as neat as hers on the ledger lines, a relief from Perkins’s hen-scratches.
With Nash out at another committee meeting, Mr. Smith was back in the warehouse proper, overseeing the loading and unloading. His time in the office had shown her husband Mr. Smith’s qualities. She hoped Nash would make the warehouseman his second in name as well as deed. With another skilled overseer to hand, he might allow himself a day off.
Maddie needed less than a week to comprehend the general operation of the warehouse. An astounding amount of materials came in and went out, and very little was retained as profit. The intricate balance between suppliers and customers was difficult to maintain, especially as the stock was so changeable. She didn’t know how Nash managed smiling at men who would badmouth your product just to buy it for a few pence less.
An Untitled Lady: A Novel Page 14