Authors: Nicky Penttila
Malbanks pounced. “So, no one needs any representation, he thinks.”
“That’s not what he said.” Maddie stood, as if to block Nash from his attacker with her puny woman’s bulk. Malbanks’s gaze simply flicked over her head, taunting Nash.
Nash grabbed her elbow, a sharp shock. He must think she’d made him look weak. “And you, what working woman do you speak with? I’m surprised you could stand it. Did you need to wash after?”
She jerked out of his grip. His face went slack with surprise. He couldn’t know how much he’d hurt her. They stared at each other, not wanting to reveal their hearts, and not wanting to see the other’s heart now, either.
Clayton cleared his throat, and started on about volunteers versus trained soldiers, but Maddie could barely distinguish the words. How could Nash have aired their dirty linen in public? His eyes carried regret, perhaps, but she knew he would never apologize, not here.
She wanted to scream at him, push him, punch him, and cut his heart out. Instead, she walked to the window with all the deliberate grace she could muster, away from all of them.
She crossed her arms to corral her racing heart. At first, all she saw was her own reflection in the glass. Her eyes glittered, but she would not cry. She watched the shape of Mrs. Heywood heading toward the hall, heard her voice say something about calling for supper.
She heard Nash’s voice rejoin the conversation. Though it was the end of July, her bones went cold. She had to find her family. She had to find a way to be safe.
“You could join the yeomanry, Quinn.” Clayton called after him.
“And drink all day? I’ve a business to run.”
“So do we all,” Heywood said. “And we need to keep the workers laboring.”
“And the rabble-rousers out,” Malbanks seconded.
“Else we’ll all be in the poor house by winter,” Clayton finished.
Outside, the blocks around the theater stood out, light against the other districts’ dark. Except beside the river, where a large building was rather too well lit. Maddie twisted her neck to get a better look. She tried to make sense of it. If only it were daylight.
She felt Nash at her shoulder. “Maddie,” he started.
“Look. Over there. Is it the sunset edging that building?”
“The sun is long gone.” He opened the window and leaned out, and then snapped back into the room.
“Malbanks, your mill is on fire.”
While Malbanks rode ahead on his roan, Heywood, Clayton, and Nash followed in the older man’s sideboard, carrying every bucket the servants could find. Mrs. Heywood forced a quickly packed basket of food on them, choice cooked morsels that wouldn’t last an hour. But the cook also packed two loaves of bread and bottles of water underneath.
“Hell of a way to break up a party, Quinn,” Heywood muttered, his concentration on the team of horses. Clayton, squeezed between them on the bench, nibbled at a leg of pheasant.
Nash couldn’t eat. Even the smell of the bird turned his stomach. How could he have said those things to Maddie? How could he have said them in mixed company? In any company? If a person could melt, she would have melted in front of all of them, he was sure of it. And that look—not angry, that he had been braced for, but deep green pools of pain.
And for what? For standing up to Malbanks, a feat which in all rights should have gained her praise. And now he’d left her, with those rigid shoulders aching for a touch, with the sniping biddies of Mosley Street. He was the worst husband, the worst lover. No wonder she couldn’t say she loved him. After that performance, he couldn’t even love himself.
The gray-orange bloom of the fire lit the sky but darkened the streets they traveled. It was slow going, though Clayton had taken to calling out a warning, fire-truck, make way. They looked very little like any fire-truck Nash had seen, but the calls did have some effect. They turned into the lane leading to Malbanks Mills less than twenty minutes after Maddie had sounded the alert.
Flames danced from the last of the three seven-storey manufactories, the newest one. A blessing, as that one was farthest from the others, separated by the two-storey warehouse and counting house; even if it went, the others might be saved. Some two hundred people scrambled about, lending an odd sense of day to the night-dark scene. But something else was odd about the picture.
Clayton caught on first. “Why is no one going to the river?” The people, shadows in their dark clothing, congregated in front of the new mill, facing away but keeping a good distance from the flames.
“Blast it all!” Heywood snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched. Nash made out what he’d seen: Malbanks holding his horse, on the wrong side of the road, with a crowd of workingmen on the right side, arrayed to block his way toward the cindering building. As Malbanks turned his back to tether the stomping horse, a stone flew at him from the other side. It missed him, striking the horse’s head. It reared in fright, and the man, suddenly dwarfed, jumped back. He turned to face the crowd, and Nash saw the rifle in his hands. Malbanks hadn’t been merely tethering the horse, but arming himself.
Another stone flew past him. He lifted the gun to his shoulder. Now they could hear hissing, an hundred voices like steam from a kettle. Then all seemed to hear the sound of the cart; at once, all heads turned.
Heywood stopped the cart dead in front of Malbanks. “If you shoot, shoot through us.”
Nash waved at the workers, some so near they could have easily pulled him out of the cart. Even with the smoke filling the air, he could smell the mutiny in their ranks. He had to distract them from that idiot owner and his weapon.
“Your homes, there. Your family.” He swept his arm across his body to point past the warehouses, drawing many of their gazes with it. Two-storey cottages backed directly against the manufactory’s wooden fence.
“Think the flames know to stop at the property line?” He could feel their pause, a mass intake of breath. “Take this bucket. You,” he pointed at the largest man he saw. “To the river. I’ll take the front.” Not waiting to see if they’d follow him, he scrambled onto the back of the cart and started throwing the buckets up over the crowd.
They did follow, and quickly. Shouts, murmuring, and then Nash heard nothing but the dry roar of the blaze. Malbanks’s screech and Heywood’s rumble were no match. Hoping Heywood had the man well in hand, Nash dropped to the ground.
Clayton stood beside him, breathing hard. “Storehouse is a loss, but if we keep that side damp it might not spark the other workrooms. I’ll take that.”
Nash turned to the building before him. The roof glowed reds and oranges, but the flames clawed on only the top two floors. If they concentrated on the third and fourth, perhaps they could save the foundation.
As he neared the entrance, workers unbolted its doors and freed Malbanks’s foreman and a few of what looked to be yeomanry, who rushed out and toward their boss. For a split-second, Nash thought he saw Maddie among the crowd making way for them, her face in a black bonnet as determined as when she’d argued her case for Deacon. His guilt made flesh, but he couldn’t take time to dwell on it.
The foreman agreed with Nash’s plan, and with the bucket brigade already in motion, they stepped into the heating building and up the stairwells. Nash took the fourth floor until it grew too hot, its walls first warming, them buckling. They didn’t save the third floor, either. But on the second, they battled to a draw with the relentless, fickle flames.
As the first purple-blue of dawn touched the sky, the ground floor foundation remained, untouched. The walls held only cinders, as if the building was naught but a giant fireplace. It would take weeks to clean out.
Nash walked out the door, stamping at stray cinders on the ground outside. His shoulders ached, and his throat screamed for water, even though he’d splashed some on himself from the buckets whenever he remembered to. The hundreds of hands they had started with had dwindled to a bare two dozen of the strongest men, now all sooty black, as if made of cinder themselves.
He found Clayton sprawled out asleep in the back of the wagon, Heywood upright but dozing on its seat. Malbanks, sooty as Nash but with his clean rifle now slung over his shoulder, paced back and forth in front of the wagon.
“Could have been worse,” Nash said as he came up beside him. He reached into the wagon, finding a bottle still filled with water, and draining half in one gulp. He held the bottle to Malbanks, who shook his head no, then handed it to the man’s foreman, who knew better than to refuse it.
“Not a total loss,” Malbanks said. “I must thank you.”
“Fire is everyone’s foe.”
“Not the fire, the mob. Should have had more of my yeomanry in, but I just didn’t believe they had the balls.” Malbanks spat, another black mark on the ashy ground.
“We’ve pushed them to the limit.” The water had dislodged some of the grit in Nash’s throat, and he spit it out, another slash.
“They cut their own throats with this.”
“At least you have the Netherlands order. Quick turnaround; good dose of capital return. You hadn’t started yet, you said?”
Malbanks kicked at an ember, once his building or one of his machines. “And I won’t.” He glared at Nash, bloodshot eyes in a hollow face drawn by soot. “We’re shut down until autumn, at least. I’ll not endanger myself, or these workers here. See how they like that.”
Nash had no energy to argue, but forced himself to. “That puts two thousand souls out.”
“Closer to three thousand.”
“And their families. You know the rest of us can’t absorb that. The men need to work. Especially now.”
“The men would rather throw stones at their betters than give a good day’s work. So be it.”
It wouldn’t be only the workers sunk if this deal fell through. Nash might be able to keep bread and butter on the table come winter, but precious little else.
* * * *
From the Heywoods’ bowed window, Maddie watched the orange rays stretch through the purples of daybreak. The dark scar of smoke from the manufactory, slashing into God’s display, also grew lighter with the day. Lack of wind must have helped Nash and the others to fight the blaze, but it also meant the smoke lingered, a wide, wispy cloud over the town.
“Did you sleep at all?” Mrs. Heywood looked ten years older in this light, or perhaps it was just lack of rest. She joined Maddie in looking out the window, and frowning.
“Some. I thank you for allowing me to stay.” She’d slept in her loosened stays and undergarments, to be ready when he came to fetch her. The buildings had burned all night, the underbutler said, but the fire hadn’t traveled. She felt bruised and tired. Nash must be dead on his feet.
“I was glad for the company, especially after Mrs. Clayton’s dramatics.” She took Maddie’s arm, linking it with her own, bumping her softly on the hip. They stood the same height. Mrs. Heywood porcelain with dark hair, Maddie creams and browns.
“A woman fainted on my first visit to Shaftsbury, as well.”
“Don’t blame yourself, dear. Cecilia Clayton is a country girl, you know, she was raised in the south. Lived here twenty years, and still she’s always on about the noise and the bustle.”
“The town has changed quite a bit in that time, Nash says.”
“We’ve reaped the benefits of it. Your Nash, why he’s built a small empire just since the war.”
Maddie tried not to think about Nash, and his unreasoning expectations, and his hateful words, and how she’d failed him, and what if he never came back. Mrs. Heywood studied her a moment, and then looked out the window again. She squeezed Maddie’s arm a shade tighter.
“I remember when he arrived on our doorstep, mariner’s bag in hand—and with a full beard! The maids were quite afraid of him, and I admit I didn’t know what to think. He cleans up well, I don’t have to tell you that, and in a day or two he’d quite won us over.”
Maddie didn’t trust her voice yet. She closed her eyes, and prayed for the lady to continue.
“He was in funds, from his prize-ships, and he had ideas, but for an earl’s boy he was shockingly direct, even to the merchants. Heywood sorted him out soon enough. On a magistrates committee already.” She pinched Maddie’s forearm gently. “Catnip to the ladies. No one knew about the Navy money, but once it was clear he would do well in business, I had all the proud mamas begging me for invitations to our suppers. Like everything else, he decided on a bride in his own time and in his own manner.”
“I think he would have preferred to be always on his own.” Maddie cringed as she heard the words, lingering in the breath before her face like smoke. Hadn’t he cast her out of the warehouse on the smallest of pretenses? Hadn’t he continued to find fault with her ever since?
Mrs. Heywood stood quiet a long time. At last, she rummaged in her pocket with her free hand, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it to Maddie.
“What puzzled us was why he didn’t go to his family first. Heywood would say the word Shaftsbury, or merely mention him in passing, and Nash would bite the conversation off before he could finish it.”
Maddie wiped her eyes and sighed heavily, finally able to turn her thoughts outward. “Then why return here at all? On his ships, he must have found plenty of likely spots to settle on.”
Mrs. Heywood patted her arm. “His heart might know the right direction, but his head will fight it every step of the way. Look, is that them? They look veritable chimney-sweeps.”
Nash’s hair had turned gray with ash. His hands held the reins so loosely the team kept sliding off the track of the road, then he’d snap back up and they’d roll right. He’d spent himself helping a man he did not care for. Longing surged through her. She wanted to be right for him, whatever right meant.
Mrs. Heywood pulled away, calling for the butler. Maddie gripped her arm, not releasing her. The butler on his course, she turned back to Maddie, a question in her gaze.
“How do you do your plumbing here? The baths, are they downstairs? Might I see them?” Maddie winced at the screech of desperation in her words.
If she thought the question odd at a time like this, Mrs. Heywood made no mention of it. “They’ll wash at the pump, I expect. But we might meet them there. Your Nash might not wish to come in, as he is.”
“No. I mean, what do you do? For proper bathing?” She trailed the lady down the two flights of servants’ stairs to the back of the house. More than anything, she wanted an answer. More than anything, she didn’t want the lady to know why.
They stepped outside, on the path to a small garden. “There,” Mrs. Heywood said, pointing to a pump with a trough. A man pumped the handle quickly as Nash and the others splashed their heads and hands. Once the bulk of the grime had rinsed away, they disappeared into a small brick cottage behind the pump.
“There’s a boiler in there, fed on the outside. I had it started last night. It’s usually good for the lot of us, but will get a serious test this morning.” She called for clean clothing to be brought for all the men, and motioned for Maddie to follow her to a bench under a wide elm.
“Our yard is too small.” A bathing room that size would fill it twice over, not to mention their distinct lack of an army to do the pumping.
“I hear you do have a water closet, which is more than we had until we heard of Nash’s. He must have brought that fastidiousness back from the Navy—I hear he has one even at the warehouse.”
Maddie was still puzzling out the bathing cottage. “It must need a cistern.”
“No, we have an excellent well, which is what you lack, in that neighborhood of yours. At least you’re downwind, so the air doesn’t smell, but if you want more, you’ll need to convince him to remove to better ground.”
More likely he’d remove her from his home than spend all his capital on a wasteful mansion like this. Maddie frowned as Mrs. Heywood mused aloud.