“But—but to what purpose?”
“What do you think?” Ben asked again.
“I wish you would stop answering my questions by asking me what I think!” Theo grumbled. “I should guess he’s trying to stir up a riot, like those Luddites. But all that was years ago! Nothing like that happens now,” he insisted, with all the certainty of a young man to whom the events of four years earlier might be considered ancient history.
“Mayhap you’re right,” conceded Ben. “But there will always be envious and discontented men, and when they’re encouraged to band together and air their grievances—” he shrugged his stooped shoulders.
Time to take action . . . “If only airing grievances were all there was to it,” Theo said, recalling the ominous words spoken in anger, and the other voices that had joined in, echoing their support. He lowered his voice still further, and asked urgently, “Shouldn’t someone—I don’t know—do something?”
Ben glanced to the far side of the room, where a phalanx of men huddled at the opposite end of the long table, whispering together. Abel Wilkins had now joined their number and, far from breaking up the little group, appeared to be listening to their conversation with interest. “And what do you suggest we do?”
“E—er, that is, Sir Ethan should be told, at the very least.”
“He’s in London, getting ready to stand for Parliament.”
“Yes, but he needs to know, so he can put a stop to it,” Theo insisted.
“Aye, mayhap he does, but what would you? Anyone who squeaks beef would have to answer to Abel there”—a nod toward Wilkins at the opposite end of the table—“and how to get word to Ethan anyway? We can hardly walk up to his house and knock on the door.”
Perhaps you can’t, thought Theo, setting his jaw, but I can.
HIS MIND MADE UP, THEO did not set out for Mrs. Drinkard’s boardinghouse after his workday had ended, but turned off the main road as soon as possible—it would not do to be seen, by either the mill workers or the other residents of the boardinghouse, lest awkward questions be asked—and set out in the direction of his brother-in-law’s house. Upon reaching this familiar residence, he rapped sharply upon the door with the polished brass knocker. A moment later the door opened to reveal Evers, the butler, who goggled upon recognizing the visitor.
“My lord Tisdale! That is, your grace!” he exclaimed, taking in every detail of Theo’s changed appearance, from the sweat-soaked workman’s smock to the bundle of cloth under his arm. “What—?”
“Shhh!” commanded Theo, glancing about to make certain the butler’s involuntary exclamation had not been overheard. “Stubble it, will you?”
“Yes, your grace, er, sir,” he amended hastily.
“I lost a wager,” said Theo, seeking recourse to the explanation proposed by his brother-in-law. “Just keep it mum.”
“Wild horses shall not drag it from my lips,” promised Evers in failing accents. He had no very high opinion of the frequent demands of his mistress’s relations upon his master’s purse and, consequently, no desire to make known their latest misdeeds to the world—or, more specifically, to the household staffs of the neighboring gentry.
“The thing is, I’ve got to see Nell.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, your grace—er, sir,” Evers said with perhaps less than perfect truth. “But Lady Helen is not at home.”
“D’you mean she’s absent, or that she isn’t receiving visitors?” demanded Theo. “Because if it’s the latter—”
He made as if to push his way into the house by main force, but Evers, having long experience in repelling unwanted callers, deftly prevented this move by the simple expedient of blocking the opening with his own rather stout person. “I regret to inform you that Lady Helen left for London yesterday morning.”
“The devil she did! When does she plan to return?”
“She did not inform me, sir.” Theo muttered an oath in response, and Evers, seeing his case was apparently urgent, decided to take pity on him. “I believe it is her intention to assist Sir Ethan in his Parliamentary bid. If I may take the liberty of speculating, I should think she will be absent for some weeks.”
“Yes, I daresay you’re right,” Theo conceded, albeit grudgingly. “Thank you for telling me. I suppose I shall have to write, then. Can you get me into Ethan’s study without anyone else seeing, do you think?”
“The rest of the staff is busy with dinner preparations,” Evers informed him loftily. “If you will follow me, your grace?”
“Good man!” said Theo, following with furtive steps as the butler led the way across the hall to the room that served as his brother-in-law’s study. Once inside, he closed the door against prying eyes and scrawled a hasty missive warning Ethan that something deuced havey-cavey was afoot at the mill, and urging him to come look into the matter. He signed it with a flourish, sealed it with a blob of wax dripped from the candle, and surrendered it to the butler, impressing upon Evers the need to post it to London by the next morning’s mail.
“Meanwhile,” he concluded, pausing on the front stoop to repeat these instructions as he took his leave, “not a word about my presence in the area!”
A sharp autumn breeze lifted the golden hair from his bare head, wafting in the butler’s direction the odor of industry that clung to Theo’s smock.
Evers shuddered. “I can assure you, your grace,” he said, puckering his nostrils, “I shouldn’t dream of it.”
9
I belong to that highly respectable tribe
Which is known as the Shabby Genteel.
ANONYMOUS, “The Shabby Genteel,” from A Poor Relation
AS THE FOLLOWING DAY was Sunday, Theo was granted a brief respite from the mill. The day brought its own challenges, however, as he was obliged to invent an excuse for not attending church with the other residents of the boardinghouse. Here he found an unexpected ally in Miss Drinkard, who urged him to take advantage of the opportunity to rest and recover from his unaccustomed
