12
One good turn deserves another.
GAIUS PATRONIUS, Satyricon
AS HE SET OUT FOR THE mill the following morning, Theo was conscious of a sense of reluctance that had little to do with the long hours of drudgery that awaited him there. No, this new disinclination concerned Miss Drinkard. He was aware, in a way he had not been before, of the precariousness of her position. He supposed there must be young women all over England who were just so uncomfortably placed; he had never really thought about it before. Because his sister had always seemed well able to take care of herself, he had assumed (if he had ever considered the matter at all) that any female of mettle would be equally competent. It had never occurred to him that Lady Helen’s independence had owed as much, and quite possibly more, to her father’s position as it did to her own sharp tongue.
Not, he told himself firmly, that Miss Drinkard stood in any real danger now that Mr. Potts was gone, for he could not believe old Mr. Nethercote or the middle-aged curate, Mr. Nutley, posed any threat. Granted, Sir Valerian Wadsworth hung about the house more than Theo could like, but as he was standing for Parliament, he was unlikely to cross the line of what was proper; aside from the fact that he would want to remain in Mrs. Drinkard’s good graces in order to use her house for his meetings, he would not want to risk his candidacy with charges of shameful conduct.
About Mr. Potts, though . . .
Mr. Potts could not go far, as he must needs remain within easy reach of his employer’s chambers. Theo’s brow creased at the thought of the aspiring lawyer. What a cabbage-head! Theo had always assumed it must take brains to read for the law, but apparently he was mistaken in this assumption; anyone but a regular clunch must have known that, if a female did not already return one’s sentiments, forcing unwelcome attentions upon her was unlikely to inspire her to do so. Not that Theo believed Mr. Potts’s actions had been inspired by the tender passion. No, he suspected the fellow’s pursuit of Miss Drinkard had more to do with ownership than affection: Mr. Potts just wanted to prove to everyone else at the boardinghouse, and perhaps everyone in the surrounding countryside, that she was his.
Theo’s frown deepened at this last, for it sounded uncomfortably familiar. His own sentiments toward his erstwhile mistress, La Fantasia, had not, after all, been so very different. His securing of Fanny’s favors had made him the envy of every buck and blade in Town; he’d been aware of this highly gratifying fact every time he had squired her to the theatre, or Vauxhall, or any of the Cyprian’s balls where gentlemen of fashion could show off their current bits of muslin (or sniff about for new ones) unencumbered by the delicate sensibilities of wives or sisters. And yet he had never for one moment considered offering her marriage; indeed, he would have scoffed at the notion that he ought to have done so. Even their very public split had inspired no sense of heartbreak, or even of any real pain beyond that of deeply wounded pride.
He was still frowning when he entered the mill and took his place at the power loom.
“Something troubling you?” asked Tom, looking up from feeding thread into the loom with calloused yet nimble fingers.
Theo shook his head, banishing the frown in the process. “Not troubled, exactly. I was just—thinking.”
“Won’t do to be daydreaming,” Tom cautioned him.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Wilkins, causing both men to jump as he came up behind them. It was a mystery to Theo how such a big man could move so silently. A natural gift for shiftiness, he supposed. Or, more practically, the noise from the looms drowned out the sounds of approaching footsteps.
“Tom here was giving me a bit of advice,” Theo said smoothly. “I asked him for help. Still learning my way, you know.”
Wilkins glared at him, but could hardly reprimand him for wanting to do his job more efficiently, nor Tom for assisting him in this ambition. “Ought to’ve learnt it by this time,” he muttered, then, apparently realizing the weakness of this argument, added a bit more forcefully, “Anyway, that’s enough talking, both of you. You’re not being paid to chatter like magpies.”
As Wilkins stalked away, Theo gave Tom a conspiratorial grin. Tom, however, met this with a slight frown and a barely discernable shake of the head as he glanced back to observe the foreman’s departure. “You really mustn’t do anything to provoke him, Tisdale.”
“He’s not paying us any heed, not any longer,” Theo pointed out. “No doubt he’s off in search of some other poor blighter to torment.”
“So you would think,” Tom acknowledged without much conviction. “But he has ways of knowing.”
“Spies?” Theo glanced about the cavernous space, but the only men within his range of vision were all apparently hard at work.
“I’ve said too much already,” Tom demurred hastily. “If we don’t want to bring down his wrath on our heads, we’d best get back to work.”
Theo would have asked what, if anything, Tom knew about the meetings held at the boardinghouse, but he had the distinct impression that his co-worker’s lips were sealed on any subject that might make him a target of Wilkins’s displeasure.
Once again, Theo wondered at his brother-in-law’s allowing such a state of affairs to continue. When he had dispatched his letter to London, Theo had fully expected Sir Ethan to descend upon the mill in righteous indignation, breathing fire and losing no time in turning the odious Wilkins out on his ear. But there had been no sign of him at all, nor had Theo received any letter in response. Granted, his brother-in-law might not wish to give anyone cause
