A Curse Dark as Gold

  Chapter Five

  “And that’s how it stands,” I concluded, looking over the grim and set faces gathered for bearing-home day. I had been very frank about the nature of Mr. Woodstone’s visit earlier in the week. “I won’t hold it against anyone who wants to leave now. Mercy, didn’t you say your sister could find you a place at Woolcroft?”

  Mrs. Fuller looked at me with stricken eyes. “Oh, Mistress, I never could! Not with Market coming up—you’ll need those cassimeres.”

  “Nay, Mistress,” Jack Townley spoke up. “You’ll not be rid of us so easily, then. We’re not going to jump ship and leave you empty-handed just when you need us most.”

  Those were kind words, and they warmed me—I only hoped they wouldn’t regret them.

  “We’ve got to get that money,” I said to Rosie later. We were up in the office, making up the inventory books for the Cloth Exchange, but I couldn’t focus on the task. “They’ll stay here and starve, or they’ll drift off to other towns, and either way it’ll be the end of Shearing. I can’t let that happen.”

  Rosie sighed. “Well, there’s one quick answer.”

  Eyebrows raised, I waited.

  “Uncle Wheeler.”

  I scribbled furiously in my inventory book. “No.”

  “For goodness sake, why not?”

  “If I tell him we need six hundred pounds, it will mean another lecture about selling the mill.”

  Rosie lifted up my inkwell and turned it over in her fingers, watching the ink roll round the crystal. “So, this is about pride, then?”

  I snatched it back from her. “No, it is not. I’m telling you, there’s no reason to tell Uncle Wheeler, because it won’t do any good. A debt like this is precisely the leverage he’s looking for to make us sell.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t really want us to sell. Maybe it’s just the only way he thinks he can help us. But if he knew he could give us some money—”

  I shook my head. “He has no interest in Stirwaters. If we needed money to buy ballgowns or finance a début season in the city—I’m sure he’d be more than generous. But he wouldn’t see any value in putting money into a dying mill.” I looked at my sister. “We’ve just got to do well at Market, is all.”

  So spring burned into a roaring hot summer, and Stirwaters bustled along. We felt the loss of the Eagans, but the others picked up the slack where they could, and slowly, piece by piece, the finished cloth built up in the woolshed. As I began to tag and label the bundles for Market, I fancied some Stirwaters ancestor smiled down on me. Mercy Fuller’s cassimeres were as fine as I’d ever seen them; Mr. Mordant outdid himself in the colors pouring out of the dyeshed. The pressure of the looming debt was bringing out our best work.

  Those were good days, then; the first in ages. We had our tasks laid out for us, and as we worked to the rhythm of the turning wheel, our thoughts followed the Stowe, downriver, to Harrowgate. To Market.

  It was considered bad luck to talk openly about Market too early; too many things had been known to go wrong, in the past. But it didn’t stop the occasional whisper or broad, proud smile as I walked past someone’s workstation. “When our Charlotte goes to Market” became a thread of hope, a blessing breathed over the cloth: “We’ll get a good price for this’n, when our Charlotte goes to Market.”

  We had the same problems we always had, of course. There was something wrong with one of the gears in the spinning room, and no amount of tinkering by Harte and Rosie could repair it. One morning Jack Townley’s carding engine just stopped, and though Rosie examined it frame by frame and gear by gear and pronounced it perfectly sound, it wouldn’t start up again. He stood by the stilled machine and stared at it, dumbfounded.

  “Go home and play with your boys,” I said. “We’ll hold your wages.” He nodded and went off, but I thought I heard him mutter something as he left—and when he returned the next morning, he fixed a plaited straw figure firmly to the engine’s frame, and after that it ran just as smoothly as anything.

  “But—” Rosie began.

  “Don’t say a word.” My voice was thin with warning.

  Still, despite the little headaches, I found the rhythm of work at the mill soothing. I loved to stand in the spinning room, or under the shadow of the millwheel, and let the heartbeat of Stirwaters thrum through me. I could look at those old stone walls and speak the plain truth: I was doing my honest duty as the miller, and Stirwaters was doing the work it was built for. As May gave way to June, we received a packet from Uplands Mercantile Bank repeating the terms of our arrangement, with a brief but cordial letter from Mr. Woodstone, wishing us well. As I weighed the crisp stationery in my hands, I actually believed he meant that.

  Of course, our world at Stirwaters now included Uncle Wheeler as well. His interest in the mill was casual, at best; he still had not set foot inside the building, and seemed disinclined to do so. I supposed I couldn’t make someone love Stirwaters; perhaps you had to be born to it.

  How he occupied his days was still of some mystery to me. He occasionally hired a horse at Drover’s and rode out for the day—sometimes to Haymarket, sometimes on errands unreported. “Gentlemanly pursuits,” old Tory Weaver suggested when I posed such musings aloud. I did not know what those might be; all the men I had ever known spent their days working—or shirking work, which is a dedicated pursuit of its own.

  I suppose every enterprise has such a fellow, and at Stirwaters, ours was Bill Penny. Often as not he’d fail to show up, and when he did appear, he was not always entirely sober. Still, he did his work in his slow, haphazard way—simple tasks that nonetheless had to be done: tidying up in the woolshed, keeping the sluice gates clear of debris, minding the fire for Mr. Mordant. Though he got dark looks from some of the millhands, I wouldn’t entertain suggestions that I fire him. Letting the Eagans go was one thing—sly they might be, but they also looked out for themselves. I had no such confidence that Bill Penny’s family would survive without the meager income Stirwaters provided.

  One bright, warm afternoon I came upon Ian Lamb drawing water for the dyemaster, and something tugged at my memory.

  “Hold there,” I said, stepping up beside him. He paused and straightened, squinting at me under the sun. “I’d like you to draw that water upstream, if you would, Ian.”

  “But Mr. Mordant said—”

  “Humor me. Tell him I want two batches of whatever color he’s brewing up. Half upstream, half down.” I wanted to see for myself whether Mr. Mordant’s strange ideas were more than just fancy.

  “Mr. Mordant won’t be pleased, then,” Ian said. I just looked at him, until he shrugged. “Yes, ma’am.” He dumped the vat straight back into the Stowe and, whistling, ambled up past the mill. I must have heard those words a dozen times that afternoon, as news of what I’d done scurried through the mill. But the dyemaster kept his complaints to himself.

  A few days later, Ian poked his head into the office with the news that the cloth was ready. I followed him down to the yard, where Mr. Mordant and Rosie were rinsing out the great lengths of dyed wool. It was Lincoln green, a color Mr. Mordant could probably dye in his sleep. He hauled an armful of it from the water, rich and deep as the hills at dusk. He nodded to Rosie, who heaved at another bundle of cloth, unfurling the sodden fabric like a sheet fresh from the washbasin.

  I looked at it solemnly. “Upstream?” I asked, and she nodded. Even soaking wet, there was no comparison. Mr. Mordant’s was the wild rich color we were known for; the other was…ordinary.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t the color take?”

  Mr. Mordant just eyed me levelly. “I told ye, missie. That’s Stirwaters.”

  “One of its ‘humors’?” I gazed down at the mill, tucked in dusky shadows despite the glaring sun. “Dye it again.” Leaving my sister and the dyer to their work, I strode to the edge of the river, as if the rippled grey water could tell me Stirwaters’s secrets.

  There was scarcely even a breeze off the water o
n a day as hot and still as this one. Downriver, at the small village landing near Hale’s and Mrs. Post’s, a barge had docked, one of the boats that paused there once every week or so. That afternoon, in among the rivermen unloading the cargo onto the landing, I saw my uncle, jauntily propped on a black walking-stick, in casual conversation with one of the bargemen.

  Curious, and glad to leave behind the capriciousness of Stirwaters for a moment, I strolled to join them. I bade my uncle good day, and the bargeman’s head jerked up in surprise.

  “She’s never your niece, then!” he exclaimed, wiping his hands on his linen breeches. “Why, I’ve been watching this lass since she were no taller’n a teacup!” He laughed heartily.

  “To be sure, it isn’t Captain Worthy! I hardly recognized you without your beard!” It had been years since I’d seen the old riverman, and I allowed him to kiss my hand. “Uncle, forgive me—surely you and Captain Worthy aren’t acquainted!”

  Uncle Wheeler smiled wanly. “Ah, no. No, my acquaintance is with the owner of this vessel.” He gestured toward the barge, a gaily painted affair of red and blue, with a flock of black birds in full flight swirling all across one side. The legend of the shipping company, Porter & Byrd, was emblazoned in gold across the birds.

  “Oh, aye? And ain’t that something,” Captain Worthy said. “Them Byrds or them Porters, then?”

  Uncle Wheeler glared down his nose at the man. “Quite. Charlotte, the, ah, captain here was just telling me that Porter and Byrd is expanding their routes into the Gold Valley.”

  “How splendid,” I said. “We could use more traffic on this river, I think. What will your cargo be?”

  “Ah, bit of everything, I’d say. We’ve some sugar and coffee today, and were hoping to leave with some wool, but it looks like we left it too late in the season.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have me to blame for that, sir. We tend to buy early at Stirwaters.”

  Captain Worthy gazed up toward the mill, toward the tenterfields, where the Lambs were taking down a bolt of blanket cloth to make room for the green flannel. “I say, I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on some of that cloth you folk make,” he said. “A pack of that Stirwaters Blue would go a long way to makin’ up for the wool, I think.”

  I smiled. “I think that could be arranged. We’ve got most of it earmarked for Market, of course, but there’s always some to spare, for old friends.”

  “Charlotte, truly—”

  I glanced at my uncle. “Sir?”

  Uncle Wheeler was smiling, I think, but the look was slightly sour. “My dear, let’s not waste this gentleman’s time. Surely you understand that Mr. Worthy was simply making conversation.”

  “Nay, I were—”

  My uncle cut him off with a slicing flick of his cane. He drew me aside. “Now, my dear,” my uncle said, sotto voce, “Have a care for what you’re doing. It’s all very well and good to be generous, when it’s called for. But if you hope to succeed in your father’s business, you’ll need to keep your head about you.”

  “But Porter and Byrd—”

  “Is a very prestigious shipping firm. Tightly run. I know the family well. They certainly wouldn’t allow their common staff to go about making bargains on their own. That fellow has an official manifest stating the cargo he is authorized to carry, and you can be sure there would be consequences if even one pound of coffee was unaccounted for.” His look at Captain Worthy said volumes. “Believe me, Richard Byrd keeps a close accounting on his assets.”

  “What are you saying? That Captain Worthy would make a bargain with me—”

  “Belowdecks? Yes, my dear, I’m afraid so.”

  I frowned, my gaze travelling between my uncle’s face and Captain Worthy’s barge. I supposed it was possible; it wasn’t as if I knew the man well, after all, and Uncle Wheeler was certainly more worldly than I. The cloth trade is heavily regulated, and it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to skirt the Exchange fees and tariffs to make a few shillings on the side. Still, the penalties for smuggling are high, all round, and one thing Stirwaters did not need just now was more risk. I allowed my uncle to make our farewells, and returned to the hot steamy work of the mill.

  I put thoughts of Captain Worthy from my head, and spent a long, hot afternoon at the mill, which ended in fine Stirwaters fashion when I collided with Mr. Penny as he lumbered round a corner, hauling a barrel of lant. The stale urine splashed all over me, and it took some doing to disentangle myself from the barrel, Bill, and his mumbled apologies. I hastened home to strip down to my stays and petticoat before the foul stuff could soak through.

  I clattered down the steps from my room, the stained dress rolled up in my arms. As I rounded the corner on my way to the kitchen, I caught sight of something in the parlor. My uncle stood with his back to me, looking out the tall windows, an empty wineglass in one hand, the bottle in the other. He had doffed his tapestry coat and thrown it carelessly across the back of the sofa. I stepped closer, thinking to bid him greeting. But as I put my hand to the doorframe, my uncle very deliberately set his glass on the windowsill, pressing down on the rim with white knuckles, until the stem snapped.

  He turned his head, and I ducked out of sight.

  That evening our uncle was quieter than usual, staring into his wineglass as Rachel filled it, over and again. There were no comments about our dress, no criticism of Rachel’s cooking. Indeed, he ate very little, and rose and quit the table just as Rachel brought in the final course.

  “What’s got into him tonight?” Rosie said.

  I shook my head. I had no idea, but I could not shake the feeling his queer mood had begun that afternoon, with the barge from Porter & Byrd. I was still mulling it over as I followed Rachel into the evening air to retrieve my gown from the wash line. She stopped to help me take it down, and drew in her breath sharply.

  “Charlotte—look there! What is that?”

  I glanced to where she was pointing—at a ragged dark mist floating in the breeze across the river—and dropped my clean dress onto the shale. “No!” I hiked up my skirts and ran for the tenters, where that afternoon we had hung Mr. Mordant’s green flannel to dry. I skidded in the damp grass and had to catch myself on the corner of the fence, but I had already seen enough. The beautiful green cloth was in tatters—great gaping cuts in the fabric, every few yards, slashed with a knife.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Rachel gasped, right at my heels.

  I shook my head, staring around me into the trees, straining to see—what? Who? The grass was trampled all along the row, but that could have been the culprit’s feet—or my own.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning we pulled the damaged cloth down from the tenters, and though Rosie had scoured the field and the margins of the wood, there was no more evidence of who had damaged the cloth than there’d been by moonlight. And if anyone in the village had witnessed the vandalism, they were not forthcoming.

  “I can’t even imagine who might hate Stirwaters enough to do something like this,” I said, twisting free a shred of green flannel caught on the hooks.

  “I can,” Rosie said. “The Eagans, for one—not Paddy, obviously. But his mam and sister? I have no trouble thinking they did it.”

  I pondered this. The Eagan women, angry at being let go, were just lowdown enough to take out their revenge on our cloth. And Tansy had threatened me—after a fashion. Furthermore, Harte was certain Pilot hadn’t barked, which meant the vandal was someone the collie recognized. “I never should have sacked them.”

  Rosie made a strangled sound. “Of course you should have—and Mam would have done it ages sooner. They’re out for nobody but themselves. Trouble is, there isn’t anything we can do about it, not without proof.”

  She was right, of course. And the loss of the cloth was a bigger blow than I was willing to admit. Market was drawing ever nearer, and without enough cloth we might come up short of Mr. Woodstone’s bill. I couldn’t afford to lose even one bolt. Though
Rosie grumbled, I hired Bill Penny on full-time to patrol the tenterfields.

  “You’re crazy,” she said. “He’ll just drink away his wages and sleep away his shifts—and anyone could tiptoe right over him to get at the cloth. We’re better off with Pilot—”

  “Yes, and Pilot’s record is hardly shining, is it? Rosie, I had to. No one else has time to watch the tenters; and besides—I feel bad for them. Maire’s pregnant again.”

  Rosie snorted. “Everyone in this town is not your responsibility, you know.”

  “Of course they are.” But I said it so softly she never could have heard me.

  Still, with Bill on the job, no more cloth was damaged. Neither Rosie’s sleuthing nor the millhands’ gossip could produce the guilty party, and in time we put the incident out of our heads. We had to—with Market approaching, there wasn’t much time for any other thoughts.

  I had never before been to Market, and truly, the prospect was more than a little daunting. Buying wool at our local spring wool fair was one matter; the Harrowgate Cloth Exchange was another world entirely: a massive, labyrinthine empire housed in a riverside warehouse whose name of Worm Hill did little to inspire confidence. Any clothiers that produced more than a certain amount of cloth each year sold their wares through the Exchange, from large-scale factories like Pinchfields, down to smaller mills like ours. The buyers ranged from shipping magnates to drapers, but if you wanted more cloth than it took to make a new bedgown or frock coat, you came to Worm Hill. Stirwaters was an insignificant presence there—we could only afford a fortnight’s rent on a stall each summer, and the taxes were crippling—but the bulk of our fortunes were made, or broken, at Worm Hill.