“I’m worried his lordship don’t know what he’s up against,” the bailiff told Jackson.
“All the good families are with us,” Jackson said. “I and a half-dozen other men will be going from village to village, doing what we can to win support.”
Everyone knew how this was done. Lord Gordmor’s agents would be spreading goodwill in the form of good coin and good drink—the same method used so effectively during Parliamentary elections.
“Last I heard, you didn’t have all the good families,” Caleb said. “Last I heard, Miss Oldridge was dead set against any canal anywhere near her property.”
“One woman,” said Jackson dismissively. He lifted his tankard and drank.
“Like I said,” Caleb said. “You don’t know what you’re up against. Was I in your place—” He put up his hand. “But never mind me. You’re in charge of the politics. My business is looking after the property. You don’t want my advice, even though my family lived here almost as far back as hers, and I know what she’s like.”
Jackson signaled for more ale. Then he leant toward Caleb and said, “I want what is best for his lordship. If you have useful information, let’s not stand on ceremony or fret about who’s in charge of what. We must work together.”
“Well, all right then,” said Caleb. “All in the good cause.”
Sixteen
“…whereas such a navigation would be of great utility to trade, and in particular benefiting the county of Derbyshire, a meeting will be held at the assembly room of the Old Bath Hotel, in Matlock Bath aforesaid, on Wednesday, the 11th day of March, 1818, at 10 of the clock in the forenoon, to consider of the proper ways and means to effect such navigation, at which meeting the nobility, gentry, and clergy of the said county, and all others who deem it their duty to interest themselves in a matter of so great importance are requested to attend.”
His announcement appeared not only in the newspapers, as required by law, but, to Lord Gordmor’s chagrin, in abbreviated form on placards in shop windows, on posters plastered to walls, carts, and wagons, and on pasteboard signs carried like battle standards about the streets of every village between Cromford and Little Ledgemore, the hamlet nearest his mines.
Consequently, even those who failed to read the newspapers or missed the notice printed therein, could not fail to be informed.
Though far from delighted, he was not surprised, on the specified date, to find the Old Bath’s assembly room filled to overflowing. Men of every degree packed the floor, and a similar assortment of women crammed the music gallery.
No one needed to identify Miss Oldridge, sitting in the gallery’s front row. The looks Car sent her from time to time—which she affected not to notice, the heartless creature—would have told Lord Gordmor who she was, even if Sir Roger Tolbert, the meeting’s chairman, had not graciously performed that office.
Clearly, the lady in the repellent green bonnet had not been idle.
Neither had Lord Gordmor. Scattered through the crowd were men who worked for him. His agents had spent the last week drumming up support and gathering information in every inhabited corner of the Peak.
True, Jackson had returned to Matlock Bath last Wednesday with troubling news about Miss Oldridge’s influence in the area. But the worst became known late yesterday afternoon: Mr. Oldridge was so vehemently opposed that he would abandon botany for the morning in order to speak at the meeting.
But Jackson had been prepared for this, and moments ago had whispered that the situation was in hand. Apparently so. As the meeting began, Sir Roger Tolbert leaned toward Gordmor and murmured, “Appears Mr. Oldridge was otherwise engaged. Well, not surprising, not at all. Meant to, of course. But these philosophers, my lord—” He tapped his balding head. “Knowledge box much occupied, you know.”
If Mr. Oldridge had not wandered off on his own, then one of Jackson’s men had helped him. The agent said it would not be difficult. One need only mention spotting an interesting piece of fungus or moss or lichen. The old gentleman wouldn’t be able to resist going to have a look at it.
Whatever the cause, the most significant landowner and sole opposition had failed to appear, and it would be highly improper for a lady to address such a gathering. Women were banished to the gallery for a very good reason. It was men who arbitrated matters of such economic importance. Women looked on and gained what edification their weak little minds could absorb.
Lord Gordmor relaxed. The rest of his team were upon the platform with him. His engineer had arrived on the previous Wednesday and spent the next several days with Carsington, going over the original canal plan. They had made a number of adjustments, which they would reveal to the public for the first time today.
Also in attendance were two members of Parliament for somewhere or other, one of whom informed the citizenry—at length and with a great deal of flowery oratory—that his lordship’s proposal would be looked on favorably as a project of lasting benefit to the area and thus to the nation as a whole.
When the windbag part of the business was done, the engineer made his much shorter and less tedious presentation. When he’d done talking, Carsington unveiled the new plan.
It stood on an immense easel upon the platform, and was done on a large scale, simply, in thick black ink.
From her perch above, Miss Oldridge could easily see it, as could most of the other important landowners.
For the benefit of those who could not make out details, Car described the route and the changes made, “to accommodate the special requirements of individual parties.”
The new route lay at a greater distance from houses, gardens, and parks. In the case of the Oldridge property, the canal made a convoluted detour. This lengthened the route, making it meander when it might far more easily have gone straight; however, it would cause virtually no disruption to Miss Oldridge’s arrangements.
Car and the engineer had made handsome accommodations for the other landowners as well. No rational person could possibly object, and none did. His lordship discerned in the audience not only pleased expressions and nods but clearly audible approval.
Gordmor looked up at the gallery. Even Miss Oldridge was smiling.
Wonder of wonders, Car had done it, as he’d vowed.
ALISTAIR did not find the smile as comforting as his friend did.
He’d learnt to read Mirabel’s vast vocabulary of smiles. The curve of her mouth was cold, not sunny at all, and the feeling swiftly came of something about to spring at him from out of the darkness.
There was nothing he could do but brace himself and wait.
He was vaguely aware of voices, of the meeting going on and on, endlessly, it seemed, while he sat in a state of suspense. His leg, which could abide neither tension nor immobility, expressed its displeasure by hammering pain from his thigh to his ankle.
Then Captain Hughes stood up, resplendent in the uniform of His Majesty’s Navy. He asked if the ladies and gentlemen would indulge him a few minutes of their valuable time. “I have a letter from my neighbor Mr. Oldridge of Oldridge Hall, Longledge,” he said. “The gentleman having been detained elsewhere, I’ve been delegated the task of reading it.”
What had Mirabel said the day they met?
I am thinking of putting that up as his epitaph: “Sylvester Oldridge, Beloved Father, Detained Elsewhere.”
Here it was, then, the attack Alistair was waiting for.
The captain read in the clear, ringing tones of Authority. This same commanding voice had for about two decades read, once a month, the thirty-six Articles of War to a ship’s company of several hundred battle-hardened officers and men.
To his listeners he must personify England’s invincible navy and the great nation it served.
Small wonder the room instantly fell silent, and the faces became soberly attentive and respectful.
Miss Oldridge could not have chosen a better representative.
When Captain Hughes compared the advantages to be derived from the canal
to the disadvantages, citing concerns of respectable tradesmen—and noting their labor and sacrifice during the late wars with the French—heads began to nod. Water issues constituted one of the gravest anxieties, he read. He sincerely hoped the gentlemen had taken into consideration the dryness of Derbyshire’s limestone hills. Had they accurately estimated the size of reservoir required, and the costs of building this leviathan? Had the gentlemen calculated this, that, and the other thing? Had the gentlemen included such-and-such in their calculations?
This part of the letter, which threw a glaring light upon the plan’s every weakness and inaccuracy, was mercifully brief, though disturbing.
Then the captain began calling out names, and putting specific questions to the men he addressed: “Is it not true, Jacob Ridler, that…?” “Is it not the case, Hiram Ingsole, that…?”
Thus appealed to, the men stood up, one by one, and admitted, most reluctantly at first, to reservations. Once they’d opened their mouths, however, they grew less shy. Their objections became more articulate and more vehement. Their fellows—along with the wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers packed behind the ladies in the first row of the gallery—applauded and cheered.
When the tradesmen and farmers had finished with their grievances, the vicar Mr. Dunnet discovered he had some reservations, after all. After him, a few other gentlemen found something to object to as well.
By the time the gentlemen were done with their complaints, the crowd, which had begun so meek and accommodating, was growing noisy and hostile. They booed Gordy’s answers and wouldn’t let the engineer speak. Sir Roger banged his gavel in vain. The politicians suddenly discovered previous appointments and fled. A few of the ladies also departed.
Alistair looked up at Miss Oldridge. She wore an expression of blank innocence, as though she not only had nothing whatsoever to do with the pandemonium breaking out below her but did not find any of it—including him—particularly interesting.
The look was a gauntlet flung down, and he was too much a Carsington to retreat before a challenge.
He had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to make his presentation, and no more. “You are too scrupulous and softhearted,” Gordy had told him. “Nothing gets done in politics without influence and money. As we are not exactly flush of money, we must make the most of influence.”
What this meant, Alistair had learnt last night, was that he was to look handsome and gallant and hold his tongue. He was to leave all negotiating to Gordy.
He would have done this, sat clenching his hands and biting his tongue, if Mirabel Oldridge had not worn the provoking smile—after all he’d done to please her.
She had told him she would fight him with every weapon at her disposal. She had warned him that she was not overscrupulous.
Perhaps she’d assumed he’d chivalrously decline to fight back. Perhaps she thought the only weapon in his arsenal was looking beautiful. Perhaps she believed that overawing the yokels with his fame and family influence—and seducing the one woman who wasn’t overawed—was the only strategy he was capable of executing.
He couldn’t be sure what she thought. It didn’t matter. The look infuriated him. He couldn’t remain mute. Honor, pride, loyalty, and duty all demanded he fight—and fight to win.
He stood up, ignoring his leg, which viciously protested with sharp, burning jabs from hip to heel.
“Gentlemen,” he said. He did not raise his voice. Carsingtons rarely needed to. They needed only to exert the force of their personalities.
His low rumble carried to the farthest corners of the hall, and the noise subsided slightly.
“Gentlemen,” he repeated, “and ladies.” He sent a quick glance up at Miss Oldridge.
The uproar dulled to a buzz, then murmuring, then silence.
“I shall consider it a great honor to address your concerns, one by one,” he said. “Let me begin with the crucial matter of water and reservoirs.”
ABOUT this time, Mr. Oldridge was ambling in the wrong direction—toward Longledge Hill rather than toward Matlock Bath—in the company of his former bailiff.
They had met quite by carefully arranged accident.
Caleb had been strolling casually toward Matlock Bath when he met Mr. Oldridge, also on foot, cheerfully resolved to do his duty, as his daughter had begged him.
He was surprised, but not disagreeably so, to see Caleb Finch. At the time of Finch’s dismissal, Mr. Oldridge had been sunk in the lowest depths of the melancholia from which he’d only recently begun to emerge. His daughter had seen no reason to trouble him with unpleasant details. She’d simply told him that Finch had decided to leave.
Consequently, he greeted Finch affably, asked about his health, his family, his work.
Caleb was vague about his work but very precise about a recent discovery. It was this the two men were discussing while going the wrong way: away from rather than to the crucial canal committee meeting.
“Are you quite sure of the shape?” Oldridge was saying. “Like little cigars?”
“Precious little,” Caleb said. “Smaller than an ant. And brown. At first I thought it was only dirt, but something made me take a closer look. I was sure I seen it before. And now I’ll take my oath I did. My next to last position, in Yorkshire. I had to set the men to scraping it off a wall on account mistress didn’t like it. I thought it was a shame, sir, as it was so interesting-like.”
“It is, indeed,” said Oldridge. “I have never heard of such a moss. And you have encountered it again, you are quite, quite sure?”
“Up on the hill, sir,” Caleb said, indicating the lengthy ridge ahead. “Not five miles away.”
To Mr. Oldridge, who often covered twenty miles in a single day, a five-mile walk up Longledge Hill was nothing. He would be back hours before dinner.
It was a long while before he remembered that dinner wasn’t the only thing he needed to be on time for this day.
And then it was too late.
THE meeting dissolved shortly after noon.
It ended in victory. A majority having voted in favor of the canal, a committee was formed. The members swiftly drafted the petition to Parliament, after which the room emptied.
Only Lord Gordmor and his partner remained.
His lordship was too shaken by recent events to attempt his usual nonchalance.
“That was a near thing, a dreadfully near thing,” he said. “For a time I felt as though I stood upon a storm-tossed ship. I contrived to hold on until the vicar—that sweet, amiable man—chided us. Et tu, Brute? I thought. Then overboard I went, and swiftly sank. Doubtless we must blame the piratical-looking sea captain, in his gleaming uniform and dashing whiskers, for these nautical metaphors.”
Carsington said nothing. He seemed preoccupied with rolling his canal plan into the smallest possible circumference.
“What a fool I was, telling you to hold your tongue and look decorative,” Lord Gordmor went on, eyeing his friend uneasily. “I should have remembered how very different a fellow you are when your fighting spirit is roused. I hope you will forgive me. I had been under the mistaken impression that Waterloo beat the fight out of you.”
Carsington turned sharply toward him. “You thought I’d turned timid?”
What the devil was wrong with him? They’d won a great victory this day, over seemingly impossible odds.
Oh, Lord, was he brooding about the plaguy female?
“Don’t be absurd,” Gordmor said. “And pray don’t mope about Miss Oldridge. Not today. You will bring her round eventually. Meanwhile, you’ve won a great triumph. You have plucked us out of the jaws of—of something. Ah, yes, victory. Snatched from the jaws of defeat. By gad, I’m so relieved, I’m tongue-tied. That letter. That brilliant, cruel letter. I collect it was entirely her doing.”
“She warned you, Gordy.”
“So she did. As did my sister. She told me the lady was dangerous. Who’d have guessed Henrietta could be guilty of understatement?”
“As it
is, I’m amazed we got off so easily,” Car said.
“Are you serious? She all but annihilated us. If you hadn’t stepped in…” Gordmor trailed off. He could scarcely think of it without trembling: Everything, everything on the brink of being destroyed, utterly. All his careful scrimping and saving and planning. And all of Car’s money and hopes: The man had taken the last of his allowance to the gaming tables, then given his winnings to Gordmor to put into their “company.”
If Car hadn’t stood up and done a stunning imitation of Lord Hargate at his most compelling and eloquent, the redhead in the unspeakable bonnet would have ruined them.
“Dangerous” was a laughable understatement. The woman was diabolical. Since Car, clearly, couldn’t manage her, it was up to his friend to solve the problem.
BY the time the two men emerged from the hotel, the meeting attendees had departed. The area, which in the tourist season would have been thick with walkers and gawkers, was deserted.
As they stepped into the promenade, though, a neatly dressed fellow, whom Alistair recognized as one of Gordmor’s agents, hurried up toward them.
Several of these men had followed his lordship to Derbyshire and thrown a bit of his money about to win favor with the locals. It was nothing out of the ordinary. This sort of thing went on at elections, and most certainly had occurred wherever canals were under consideration. Alistair had no doubt that Mirabel’s agents had done the same.
Gordmor had told his men to keep their eyes and ears open as well. Accordingly, this fellow hastened to alert his lordship: Miss Oldridge and Mrs. Entwhistle had set out for London.
“London?” Gordy exclaimed. “Already?”
“They had a traveling chariot packed and ready, sir,” the agent—by name of Jackson—said. “The ladies were the first out of the assembly hall, I was told, and scarcely a quarter hour passed before they were in the carriage and on their way. As soon as I heard of it, I came to tell you.”
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