Sharon Sobel (35 page)

“I shall leave the two of you alone for a few moments,” Emily said uncomfortably, and rose quickly.

“Do sit down,” Constance said without looking at her. “I have my own portion, left to me by my father. We can manage very well without my brother’s allowance.”

“Do not let your pride blind you to certain necessities, Connie. I know what it costs to maintain this house. I also know what is needed to keep two ladies in fashionable respectability.”

“Emily and I will work out a budget for ourselves. We are accustomed to some measure of thrift, in any case.”

“You are sensible women who have had to compensate for the impulsiveness of a dear relation in the past. But these current problems may prove insurmountable. Will you allow me to help?”

No more words were exchanged, but the tension in the room was palpable. Emily held her breath, looking at her pale aunt and at the flushed lawyer. Her presence was barely noticed.

“I will await your message, then,” Mr. Tilden said stiffly, and shuffled his papers back into the case. That he had never needed to refer to the legal documents suggested how very clear was the financial situation. The other, more emotional, situation was made clear by his parting words. “I am well accustomed to doing so.”

“How long has he wished to marry you, Aunt?”

Constance remained as she was, staring out upon the rainy London street, standing in the shadowy warmth of the
arras at the window. “I suppose you mean Edward.” It was not a question. “We knew each other when we were quite young. Your father always brought him home, so he could scarcely escape the acquaintance.”

“Indeed. But acquaintance is very different from love. I am sure he loves you.”

“How would you know?”

Emily was taken back. Indeed, how would she? She had never recognized it in any of the men of whom she was fond, nor was she certain it had defined her own parents’ relationship. Theirs was a partnership of another sort, she imagined, devoted to good causes and human rights, and solidified with a fierce sense of independence. She loved her aunt, for certain. But when she looked at her, she did not see what Edward Tilden saw.

“I need not have been to heaven to know what it would be like, Aunt.”

“That is no answer.”

“Nor have you given me one. Why have you never married? I presume he asked you, probably more than once. And you need not pretend; I know precisely where his thoughts were leading.”

“Impudent girl! People will say I have not done a good job of raising you.”

Emily smiled. “They will say you have raised me all too well.” She sat silently for a moment, and then a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Oh no! That surely is not the reason for it!”

Constance finally turned away from the window, grinning a little sheepishly.

“You, of all people, can hardly fault me for it. Your mother and father loved you, but had no interest in the care of a small child. They would have left you to the care of governesses, or indifferent tutors, only occasionally checking your progress. Of course I had to take you in, and raise you as a stranger could not. Edward told me he would accept you into his household, but I felt you should live in the Clarkson home.”

“But you could have had children of your own. They would have been like brothers and sisters to me,” Emily protested.

“Perhaps.” Constance did not sound as if she had any regrets. “But
I am not so very old, and could still be a mother.”

“I beg you, then! Accept Mr. Tilden’s offer! Now that I finally understand your situation, I want it above anything.”

“You are speaking from a misguided sense of guilt, my dear. In any case, to accept Edward now would be almost vulgar. It should seem as if I were doing it for the money.”

Emily said nothing, wondering how much her own enthusiasm for the plan was motivated by that very thought. Indeed, one of them should “do something for the money,” and the answer was now clear.

“I shall go to Glenfell and take Mother’s place at the school,” she said firmly.

“It is a ridiculous plan,” Constance said, dismissively.

“It is a perfect plan. I shall earn enough money to support the house, even while fulfilling a family obligation. You, at the same time, will be free of me at last and …”

“Emily! What an unkind thing to say!”

“I meant it in the most generous sense. You will finally be relieved of your family obligation, and can make Mr. Tilden a happy man.”

“But I will not be a happy woman until you are wed.”

“I may never be wed,” Emily said firmly. “You have given me an excellent model of how little deprived I may be as a result.”

“And I cannot allow you to travel to Glenfell alone. It is not at all proper.”

“I am not traveling as a lady, Aunt. I am traveling as a paid employee of Lady Gray’s brother. It will be for his wife, if he has one, to worry about the proprieties.”

“I believe him near in age to his sister.”

“Better and better. I shall have a youthful mentor in his wife. As the wife of a mill owner, she may be wealthier than me, but she may not feel herself above speaking to a schoolteacher.”

“You are not a lowly teacher. You will always be a lady.”

“And my mother? And father? One a reformer and the other a caregiver in a sour-smelling hospital? Both out to cure all the ills of the world? What did they think of proper ladies and gentlemen?”

“They thought enough to be determined to make you one.”

“And so I shall be, then,” Emily sighed, finally relenting. “I shall earn a weekly wage until our circumstances change and then leave it all behind me. I do not believe I can make poor children learn anything of which they are not capable, nor do I think Lady Gray’s brother will succeed in his efforts. I expect I shall be the one to tell him so, for my mother would never have admitted it.”

“There is no need for you to go to Glenfell, my dear,” Constance said, though Emily noticed she did not forbid it.

“No, there is not. But as my other options could only involve marriage, I consider it a worthy bargain. There is nothing but your company to tempt me here, Aunt. Yet you must not fear: I doubt if there will be anything at all to tempt me there either.”

Daniel Lennox caught hold of a twisted rope and lowered himself into the bowels of the machinery in the dyeing plant. Beneath him, the swift waters of the river washed away the poisons that whitened the massive bolts of cotton fabric that would soon be stitched into sails for British naval vessels. And to the right and left of him, those bolts hung suspended like snow-shrouded limbs of a tree, waiting for their baptism in the Fell.

Someone shouted from above, and he squinted up into the large white cavern through which he descended.

Noland Haines, his American foreman, seemed concerned about something. As usual.

Daniel smiled and tormented his friend by shaking his lifeline up a bit. No doubt Noland had just learned that the owner of the GlenLennox Mill was himself seeing to the snag in the workings of the machinery and had come immediately to warn his reckless employer of the grave consequences to his health and safety. The speech was one Daniel heard fairly often, one in which Noland reminded him of his many responsibilities and of the many people whose welfare relied upon Daniel Lennox’s well-being.

Daniel, if not straining his arm muscles holding on for his life, would broadly shrug and continue whatever it was that had caused Noland so much distress in the first place.

For he, of all people, understood his place in Glenfell society, where tradition ran as strong as the river on whose banks the great mill was constructed. His own grandfather, William
Lennox, had built the first buildings in the complex with his own hands and with nothing more than a vague promise of backing from the Duke of Glendennon, whose estate rose high on the palisade on the opposite bank. Cleverness and hard work—and a reasonable measure of luck—contributed to the success of the venture, and William Lennox never asked the duke for any favors.

That is, only once. And Daniel, smiling again, decided to erase that thought from his mind.

He twisted his large body onto a small ledge and almost immediately discovered the cause of their present difficulty. A crease in the thick canvas, indistinguishable from above, jammed the works; it was a trifling that set his schedule back more than an hour. Bracing himself against the massive cogwheel, Daniel yanked at the cloth with all his strength, and finally set it free. In doing so, he managed to smack his head with his own hand, and cursed himself for his carelessness.

Perhaps he ought to pay more heed to Noland Haines.

He paused awhile, reveling in the reawakening of his heart’s lifeblood. Indeed, the mill was his great love, and owned the advantage of being more steadfast and sturdy than any woman. It comforted him when he was in pain, and repaid his vigilance with more than a very generous income. And he knew he did not stand alone in his affection for the place; over two generations, it had stood at the very center of the thriving community that had grown up around it on the west bank of the river.

“Dan!” Noland’s voice, deep and sonorous, managed to make itself heard over the groaning machinery.

“I am done here, Nolly,” Daniel called up, and tested the rope before he made his ascent. “Fear not; all is well.”

He climbed up through the works of the dyeing plant, stopping only once to unravel an errant piece of cloth from a screw. He knew his foreman had him plainly in sight and could have no current cause for worry.

But when, at last, he hefted himself up the last four feet of open space, Noland did not look particularly relieved.

“There is blood on your hand,” he said. “And on your head.”

“Nothing to fear,” Daniel said jauntily and intentionally jarred
Noland’s sensibilities by running the white sleeve of his shirt over his forehead.

“And you have gotten chemicals on your trousers,” Noland continued critically. “There are spots upon them.”

Daniel finally grew impatient. He was weary after his recent exercise and his eyes burned from the chemical wash that infused every wooden beam in the dyeing plant.

“To what do these criticisms pertain?” he asked a little roughly. “I have satisfied your concerns by emerging from my mill alive. Do you expect more of me?”

“I know you too well to expect more of you. But there is someone just arrived who is likely to be disappointed.”

Daniel stopped tugging at his clothes and looked questioningly at Noland. “The lady teacher? Mrs. Clarkson? Damn! Was she not expected last week?”

“You may recall a message you received from your sister alerting you to a delay.”

“Hmm. I believe there was something. Did the old biddy lose her copy of Fordyce’s
Sermons
? Did she need it to fortify herself against the rigors of the North Country?” Daniel unsuccessfully tried to brush some grime from his white shirt and then gave it up entirely. He was the mill owner and the lady’s employer, after all. What did it matter what she thought of him?

“I believe she will not be the one to require sobering sermons, Dan.”

“A battle-axe, then? Where does Laura find these women?”

“Come see for yourself. But I think you ought to reserve judgment until you meet the lady.”

“She is likely to stifle my excuses with a glance, is she?” Daniel asked laughingly, and shrugged himself into his jacket. He started to walk up the hill toward the courtyard of the mill complex, knowing Noland would be sure to follow.

“Oh, of that I am certain,” said the voice behind him, sounding far too cheerful.

A writer for most of her life, Sharon Sobel is the author of several romance novels, short stories, and many essays.