“The boss, you say? Young Tisdale won’t meet the boss tomorrow,” objected Mr. Nethercote, who had at least grasped enough of the curate’s speech to identify its subject. “Nor the day after that. Sir Ethan Brundy’s gone to London.”
“To London?” echoed Mrs. Drinkard. “Whatever is he doing in London in November? As I recall, the Metropolis is quite deserted this time of year. Everyone closes their town houses and returns to their country estates, or else they make up shooting parties.” She heaved a reminiscent sigh for more prosperous days now gone forever. “What jolly times we used to have, riding to hounds across the countryside in the morning, and attending hunt balls at night!”
Miss Drinkard’s eyes brightened at the mention of balls. “I believe Lady Helen Brundy gives a lovely autumn ball every year for her husband’s workers. Not, of course,” she added quickly, seeing her mother’s frown, “that it is a ball in the sense that Mrs. Jennings and Mama will have known them, but—but it is a very nice gesture, is it not?”
“Nice enough for the mill workers, I daresay, but not the sort of thing you would enjoy at all, my love,” her mother said repressively.
“No, Mama,” Miss Drinkard said meekly, lowering her gaze to her plate.
Had she never been invited to these festivities, Theodore wondered, or did her mother not allow her to attend? He resolved to ask his sister to make sure Miss Drinkard received an invitation. Surely there could be nothing wrong with her going to the thing, so long as she was adequately chaperoned. It was clear enough that few pleasures came her way.
“Sir Ethan don’t ride to hounds,” said young Mr. Potts, “so there’s no reason for him to remain in the country for such a reason as that. In fact, I believe he’s gone to London to declare for the next Parliamentary election.”
“Oh?” said Miss Drinkard, raising her dark eyes to him.
Finding himself in possession of all Miss Drinkard’s attention, Mr. Potts sat up straighter in his chair and enlarged upon this theme. “Whig candidate. Standing for the Marquess of Cutliffe’s seat. Cutliffe”—Theodore noticed that the lawyer’s apprentice dropped the “Lord” designation, just as if he were personally acquainted with the marquess—“was obliged to give it up once he inherited the title from his elder brother. Peers can’t sit in the Commons, you know.”
“Who—who is his opponent?” Miss Drinkard asked with a valiant attempt at indifference betrayed only by her heightened color.
“Fellow named Wadsworth. Baronet, I believe.”
“Sir Valerian Wadsworth?” asked Mrs. Drinkard. “Why, he was here earlier today, wanting to hire the dining room tomorrow night for a meeting! Can it be a political gathering, do you suppose? But no, he spoke of a meeting for the workers, and they won’t be able to vote.”
At this recollection, her face fell so comically that Theodore wondered if she’d envisioned herself as a political hostess. It was interesting to note that, although her daughter was not to mingle socially with the mill workers, Mrs. Drinkard apparently had no qualms about throwing open her dining room to them. Sir Valerian Wadsworth must be paying her generously for its use. Still, Theodore would wager Miss Drinkard would be kept well out of sight of the gathering, lest she be corrupted by close proximity to the lower orders. Who the devil did her mother think she was saving her for—Mr. Potts? Mr. Nutley? Or, it occurred to him with dawning comprehension, the Parliamentary candidate himself? For that matter, why would this Sir Valerian Wadsworth have any interest in meeting with his opponent’s workers in the first place? Good God! Just what sort of establishment had he wandered into?
7
Half the world knows not how the other half lives.
GEORGE HERBERT, Jacula Prudentum
SINCE HIS EMANCIPATION from Oxford two years previously, Theodore had formed the habit of staying out late and remaining abed until noon. It was not surprising, therefore, that he overslept the next morning, and was obliged to scramble into his new garments—new? His tailor would go off in an apoplexy at the sight of them!—before setting out for the mill, stopping in the dining room only long enough to grab a couple of rolls to eat along the way.
He crossed the stone bridge that arched over the river, giving him a glimpse of the mill that dominated the riverbank downstream, and recalled with mixed emotions that his brother by marriage had offered, more than once, to show him the inner workings of the manufactory that provided employment for most of the village and its environs. On the one hand, if he had taken Ethan up on the offer, he might have some idea of what he was walking into now; on the other hand, it was probably best that he had not, lest he be recognized by the workers. Then again, he had scarcely recognized himself in the vision that had met his eyes in the looking glass above the washstand: a tall, slender young man with unkempt blond hair, a faint golden stubble adorning his chin (he’d had no more time for shaving than he’d had for breakfast) and an unstarched cravat knotted about his neck beneath the limp collar of his loose smock.
Upon reaching the mill, he tugged open the heavy door and stepped inside. He blinked as his eyes, accustomed to a sun that seemed to smile in mockery upon his present dilemma, adjusted to the dimmer light inside. Rows of machines were ranged along both sides of a central aisle, each one operated by a man dressed very much as Theodore was. A few of the men looked up at his entrance, and Theodore stopped to address the nearest of these, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the machines.
“Good morning!” he bellowed. “I’d like to speak to the foreman.”
The man shook his head, and shouted back, “Won’t find him here. Gone to London, he has.”
“He might have told me,” Theodore grumbled
