Veil of Honor

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Morgan held up his hand. “A moment, Bridget. You must start at the beginning if you wish me to follow along.”

  Bridget drew a breath, calming herself. Then she explained the day she and Lilly had spent in Inverness and the ideas the visit had generated.

  As was his way, Morgan took his time responded. He considered both of them, his eyes narrowed. “You are proposing starting a business, Bridget? Making and selling yardage and garments?”

  Bridget blinked. “I had not considered it that way,” she admitted. “Is that what I am doing?”

  Morgan smiled. “You are proposing a scheme that has the intention of making more money than it spends to make that money. So yes, you are considering a business. There are some obstacles that will defeat you, though, if you go forward on the lines you are suggesting.”

  “It all sounds rather simple to me,” Will said.

  “It is. That is the problem,” Morgan replied. “Women are not permitted to own property. A business is a property in the eyes of the law.”

  Bridget shifted on her chair, indignation building. “You mean because Mrs. Barr must sell her services as a seamstress in order to eat, she is breaking the law?”

  “Technically, yes,” Morgan replied, his deep voice low. “No one applies the law over a few shillings a week earned to pay for rent and food. You, though, are proposing these ladies band together to not just cover their daily living but to make a profit from their activities. That is a different matter altogether.”

  Bridget bit her lip, staring at her lap. Then she lifted her head. “A bigger business then.”

  Morgan shook his head, puzzled.

  “All the ladies, instead of having their own business, could work for me. Then they are not breaking the law.”

  Morgan’s frown smoothed out. “Only, you are a lady, too,” he said gently.

  “Damn…” Bridget said softly.

  Morgan gave a snuffled laugh, shock lacing it. Will, though, just smiled.

  She sat up straighter. “Will could own the business,” she said. “That is permitted, isn’t it? It is Will’s business and I would manage it.”

  Will’s smile faded. “I? Own a business?” His expression was blank.

  “You already own businesses,” Morgan said. “The investment in the sugar-beet farm was one hundred percent. It is yours, completely.”

  “Yes, but that is an investment,” Will said.

  “If you are about to point out that the upper class do not dirty their hands with business,” Morgan said, “I would remind you in turn that Jack has been in business since he graduated from Cambridge and no one looks down their nose at his money-grubbing ways. In fact, they trip over themselves to hire him.”

  Will looked unhappy. “I don’t have the head for business,” he muttered.

  Bridget understood what he was not saying. He was considering all the administration and paperwork that came with business and recoiling at the thought of having to deal with it all. “You won’t have to do anything, Will,” Bridget said. “I would take care of all of it.”

  “Not quite,” Morgan said, his tone one of warning. “Will would have to sign all the official documents.”

  Will scowled.

  Bridget caught Morgan’s eye. “Is that all he would have to do? Just sign documents?”

  Morgan frowned, looking from one to the other of them. “Will’s role in the business could be kept to that minimum, yes,” he said slowly, as if he was thinking hard.

  Will cleared his throat. “Being in trade…I don’t know how society might feel about that. We have one child and perhaps another later. We must think about their futures and their place in that society—”

  Morgan held up his hand.

  Will contained himself and waited.

  Morgan dropped his hand once more. “You are not aware of it, Will. Most men are not. The way of life of the upper class is in its last decades. Industry will end it. The factories that have drawn millions to London to earn a living are springing up in the north, now, too. The working class will become the driving economic force that changes everything.”

  Will stared at him in disbelief.

  Morgan nodded. “I know it is hard to stomach, the idea that this life your father and grandfather and generations before them have lived could ever change. Yet it will change, Will. I studied this in Cambridge and I have spoken to men wiser than me, who all see it coming, too. Trade is the lifeblood of society. Trade with each other, trade with other countries and colonies. Making things to trade will be where the fortunes of the next generation are derived. Whether she knows it or not, Bridget’s idea to build a business making textiles for trade in London and anywhere else she can manage is extremely forward-looking. It could well be the savior of your family’s future, Will. Your children will have a solid financial base to build upon.”

  Will’s scowl slid back into place.

  Morgan, perhaps divining more about the nature of Will’s reluctance than Bridget had revealed, added; “I think I must stay and accept your offer, Will. Someone must oversee your family’s growing concerns and I find the prospect of helping shape a new business an interesting one. Change is always interesting.”

  Will let out his breath slowly. He nodded. “Very well. Thank you, Morgan.”

  Bridget drew in a breath that sizzled, happiness and hope flooding her.

  * * * * *

  While she arranged with Bakersfield to set up rooms for Morgan and an office space he could use, Morgan waited patiently to one side. He interrupted when Bakersfield suggested one of the formal rooms at the front of the house be cleared out for Morgan’s use.

  “I seem to remember that there are two rooms connected to each other, just off the ballroom,” Morgan said.

  “Those two rooms are used to serve supper during balls,” Bakersfield said stiffly.

  “And when was the last ball?” Morgan asked, his tone polite, his gaze steady.

  “Years ago,” Bridget said shortly. “Please set up the two rooms Mr. Davies is referring to, for his use.”

  “One room is for me,” Morgan said. “The other is for you, Bridget.”

  “Me?”

  “You are to manage the business. I am to manage the family estate. You will need the desk,” Morgan said gravely. “If I am to guide you in the running of your business, you will need me to be near at hand.”

  “Connecting rooms…” she murmured. “I see. Please take care of it, Bakersfield.”

  Bakersfield’s eyes were large as he absorbed what they were saying. He made himself nod and hurry away to see to it.

  Morgan touched Bridget’s arm, then looked over his shoulder to see if anyone could hear them. “I must ask, Bridget…” He hesitated. “Will is not clinging to old ideas about a gentleman and business because he truly thinks that way, is he? There is something else that causes him to resist.”

  Bridget weighed Will’s privacy against Morgan’s concern. She sighed. “There is something else,” she agreed.

  “Something that makes him reluctant to deal with papers…” Morgan said softly. “Only, he can read and write. I have seen him do both.”

  “It is…difficult for him,” Bridget admitted. “Numbers in particular.”

  Morgan shook his head. “How long as he been this way?”

  “Always.”

  He let out a deep breath. “That explains much about Will that has always puzzled me,” he said softly. He smiled reassuringly at her. “Thank you for telling me. I will keep it to myself.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “I am even more glad now that I accepted Will’s offer. This should be kept in the family.” He straightened. “You should enjoy a quiet evening, Bridget. It may be one of the last for quite a long time. I am about to stir up this old house in ways that will astonish you.”

  He walked away, his long legs swinging.

  Chapter Twelve

  Morgan did stir up the household. Bridget added her own share of changes. Even Will, in his way, added to the
staff’s consternation by demanding this and that, or flatly ordering they do as Morgan or Bridget requested.

  Will returned to his daily walks about the estate. “Someone must keep up with the old affairs while the new are being built,” he told them. “Sheep still need shearing and fences mended. Tenants must be placated, too.”

  “Oh, Will, we should buy our tenants’ wool for the business,” Bridget said, her heart leaping.

  Will rolled his eyes. “When you have a business to use the wool, we can talk to them then,” he told her.

  While Will saw to his usual concerns, Morgan and Bridget set up their offices. Bridget arranged appointments with Mrs. Adair and Mrs. Barr to discuss the new business and to draw her plans about how the weaving and garment business would work.

  Having her own desk from where she could plan and deal with matters was a secret delight. Bridget found it easier to manage the household with a desk of her own on which to spread budgets and expense reports. She could take notes while Bakersfield and Mrs. MacDonald made their reports, sitting on the chairs that gravitated from the ballroom to stay permanently in front of Bridget’s desk.

  She could also spread sheets of her notes about the desk, absorbing all the details at once, while she considered options and choices and possibilities.

  In the evenings after supper, Morgan and Will did not disappear into the library for brandy and cigars. Instead they stayed at the dining table with Bridget and discussed business and made decisions together.

  It was Morgan who resolved the family’s credit with merchants. “It is a matter of trust as all financial matters are,” he explained. “Even the money we use and store in banks is an illusion based on trust. A pound note is simply a sheet of paper with writing on it. You trust, Will, that when you present a pound sterling note to the Bank of England that you will receive a pound in sterling silver in return. As long as you trust that will happen and as long as everyone else trusts that the note will be honored, then everyone is happy to exchange their goods for that money. All financial transactions are based on this trust.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed. “Failing to pay back debts at the club is considered a far worse sin than bedding another man’s wife,” he said thoughtfully.

  Morgan laughed. “I do not know that personally as I’ve never belonged to a club, although it does not surprise me in the slightest.”

  “Because gambling debts are a matter of trust,” Bridget murmured.

  Morgan nodded. “The merchants in Brighton lost that trust. They no longer believed the account balances would be honored. Therefore, you must win their trust back.”

  “And how does one do that?” Will asked.

  “Show them good faith,” Morgan said. “For now, pay them in advance. Set up accounts in credit, for however much you think will cover your parents’ expenses for, say, a quarter or a year—and I can give you those numbers once I have gone through the last of Mr. Stephenson’s bank records and files. Deposit the money on account and tell them that if the balance draws too close to zero for their comfort, they can request additional deposits. Later, when they have learned you will honor debts once more, they will revert to the normal way of billing and payments.”

  Will frowned. “They would be fools to revert to the old way, once they have the use of the money for a year or more before it is used. I will be forever paying in advance.”

  Morgan nodded. “You might. Consider it the penalty you must pay for Stephenson’s negligence. It is a small price, Will, if it lets your mother purchase on account with her reputation intact.”

  Will’s frown smoothed out. “Yes, I see. Very well.”

  Morgan waved toward Bridget. “Bridget has a way with words. Have her draw up a suitable covering letter explaining it the merchants. I will write the cheques.”

  Will’s brow creased as he looked from Morgan to Bridget. Bridget kept her expression serene.

  Will relaxed. “A sound idea, Morgan. Thank you.”

  Will seemed happy to be involved in their discussion as long as all he needed to do was talk and think. He shied away from documents and paper, although his ability to think was not at all stunted by his inability to see numbers.

  He returned from one of his daily walks one afternoon and strode into Bridget’s office, shedding his overcoat and stomping mud onto the parquet. “You said you were in need of a factory, Bridget, yes?”

  Morgan got up from behind his desk and came over to the archway separating their office and leaned against it, his arms crossed.

  “We need somewhere to set up looms, where the women can work. A sewing room, too,” Bridget said. “Although the sewing room can come later. For now, we must pull the looms from the front rooms of their homes and give them space to live and space to work, too.”

  Factory space was proving to be one of the harder problems to solve, for Inverness was an agricultural town, a concept Morgan had to explain to her. London, on the other hand, even though it was a city, was a center of manufacturing. Large buildings with open floor space didn’t exist in Inverness as they did in London.

  For now, it would be reckless to invest the money needed to build a factory to their specifications—not until the business proved sound. Alternatives like the warehouses on the docks in Inverness were too small and already used.

  “What about that bloody great hay shed in Malcolm Divvy’s north field?” Will said. “I pass by the thing every day. I don’t think he’s stored hay in it for years.”

  “A hay shed?” Morgan said and laughed.

  “I know the shed you mean,” Bridget said. “It’s certainly big enough and it has a huge door that will let equipment and the looms be moved in. It would be cold, though.”

  “A brazier or two would take care of that,” Morgan said.

  “A good stove would be better,” Will said. “The women can warm their lunch on it or boil water for tea. It is a hay shed, so you know the roof will be sound. Some plaster will seal the walls and it will be warm enough to strip to shirt sleeves.”

  “Would Malcolm Divvy rent the shed to us, Will?” Morgan asked.

  Bridget shook her head. “We’re five miles from Inverness. We can’t ask the women to walk ten miles every day just to work here.”

  Will scowled. “Hire the charabanc from Teague, in town. Bring them all out and drive them home at night. They will consider it an advantage of working for you.”

  “No, put Teague on retainer,” Morgan said. “If he has a reliable monthly income, he won’t be tempted by another fare to leave the ladies stranded one day. And offer Malcolm Divvy an annual stipend for the use of the shed. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it is that Scots are always willing to earn money. An annual figure will make his eyes brighten.”

  Will raised his brow and looked at Bridget. “Would you care to draw up agreements for them? I will speak to Divvy and Teague tomorrow.”

  “I’ll help you with the phrasing for the agreements,” Morgan added.

  Bridget went back to her desk, her heart thudding. This was really going to happen.

  She was a woman in business.

  * * * * *

  Six weeks after Elizabeth’s birth, Dr. McNalty examined both Elizabeth and Bridget. As he was closing his medical bag, he said gruffly, “Ye’s good and fine to meet ye marital duties, Lady Rothmere.”

  Bridget could feel her cheeks flaming. She clenched the wrapper about her more firmly, her heart racing, waiting for McNalty to leave. Then she called for Brooks and set about dressing for dinner, considering and discarding options.

  How to tell Will? She couldn’t just blurt out the news with bald words, for despite their newfound cooperation with the business, Will was otherwise as remote and uncommunicative as always.

  He still slept in the narrow bed in his dressing room and spent as much as possible of his day outside. The only time they properly talked was when they discussed business. All their business discussions involved Morgan, too.

  Only, Morgan was not h
ere right now. He had returned to London for a few days, to finalize his former business affairs and arrange for the last of his personal possessions to be shipped to Kirkaldy.

  “The purple and pink tweed, please, Brooks,” Bridget murmured, her mind still racing.

  “Tweed for dinner, my Lady?” Brooks asked.

  Bridget stirred and smiled. “I can see you’ve never properly looked at the dress.”

  Brooks shook her head. “Only to shake it out of the box and hang it in the wardrobe, my Lady.” She opened the wardrobe and pulled the dress out and held it up to examine it. “Well bless me, it is an evening gown. How…unusual.”

  It was the second dress Madame Therion had made for Bridget using the purple tweed Bridget had sent her and the pink satin she had laid against Bridget’s shoulder that day in Brighton. The first dress had been a perfectly normal walking suit that Bridget would use when managing the factory. This second dress, though, turned the pink satin from being a simple embellishment into the main fabric of the dress, while the green tweed made the piping and ruffles and trimmed the low neckline.

  The dress was new in styling, a fashion that Madame Therion assured Bridget would be worn in London this season, at every dinner table and ball. The back of the dress was tucked and ruched and stitched so that it was high and projected out behind in an exaggerated mound. A small cushion was tied around her waist beneath the dress to help support and lift the back of it.

  Bridget hadn’t been sure she liked the new style until she tried the dress on. The draping and padding at the back of the dress drew attention to the front of the dress, which was flat and laid against her body in a way that outlined the shape of her hips, her abdomen and her waist.

  With the neckline scooping down to show off her bare shoulders, the dress made the most of those differences Madam Therion had insisted were what men appreciated.

  She hoped Madam Therion was correct, especially tonight.

  Will was standing by the fireplace in the drawing room when Bridget descended for dinner. He had a brandy glass in his hand that looked untouched. She realized it had been weeks since she had seen Will drink heavily, as he once had every night.