Page 5

“Forgive me, my lord, my words were unkind.”

But not untrue, he heard the words she did not say, and he could not argue, however she went out before he could speak. “The American President, Lincoln, blockaded the southern United States to prevent the delivery of cotton to the mills. Which I agree with. I have always been proud that Papa deals in f-flax and not cotton, which has the foul legacy of chains upon it.” As she spoke, he noted she hardly stuttered as her voice took on a lower register. “But the blockade has led to a Cotton Famine across the north. The cotton workers from Lancashire have spilled through Barnsley.”

“Cannot your benevolent Papa offer these poor workers a job?” James offered, still smarting from her comment about his worth.

Mariah stared at him as if he were an ignorant child. Perhaps to her he was. “Papa would offer them work if he could, but he must pay his workers as well. And working in a cotton mill is not the same as a linen mill, it’s a different process, so those he could add have had to learn an entirely new skill.”

James released his grip on the velvet curtain, shielding his vision from the dilapidated buildings beyond the window as a crushing weight trampled across his chest. While he had been indulging in the pleasures of London, Mariah had been trying to mitigate the squalor of these hastily erected slums, where the young and old alike were crammed together in a state fit for no one.

Mariah cleared her throat. “In truth, that is why I have m-maintained such a steady correspondence with Harrison—that is, M-Mr. Reed. He has been coordinating a contingent of unemployed veterans to erect far superior dwellings for the displaced families currently s-streaming in from Lancashire. Ones of clean brick and slate roofs, where they are not all crowded together.”

Each sharp word from Mariah’s tongue served as a stinging reminder of his own immaturity, leaving him feeling rather juvenile. He recalled a day over a year earlier in which he and his friend Wolf, or Lord Wolfridge, had helped a down on her luck woman escape some randy bucks harassing her. At the time, James had relished the role of the gallant protector, enjoying the brief thrill of his own nobility, yet he remained acutely aware that the encounter had settled much more heavily upon his friend’s conscience than his own. Wolfridge had stopped going out in society, he married a woman he loved, and he was involved in some kind of work with her for abused domestics as far as he knew.

James glanced up to find Mariah gazing at him warily. “You will ask h-how I am able to afford such a thing.”

“Now that you mention it, yes.”

Mariah gripped her gloved hands in her lap. Taking in her entire effect, James guessed that she was likely wearing a much smaller hoop or crinoline than the women in London. A large dramatic hoop would earn her scorn amongst the workers of Barnsley. Or perhaps be a danger in a mill.

“I spent the first two years after our marriage making sure the estate was successful.” Since you abandoned me to the estate, she did not need to add.

He had never appreciated how much work his wife had put into saving Bailey Hall and its tenants. He had left for London so soon after, desiring to drink and gamble away his sorrows at his lost dreams. Which he now realized meant drinking and gambling away her dowry.

James released his grip on his walking stick, shielding his vision from the dilapidated buildings beyond the window as a crushing weight trampled across his chest.

“I believe I was s-successful,” she said quietly, lacing her fingers before her.

“You were.” Confound it, she had saved Bailey Hall and he had never truly given her credit for such a thing.

“Thank you,” she dipped her head in acknowledgement. “There were already so many veterans of the war who needed housing and work, then once the Cotton Famine began, I had to turn back to Barnsley. Some of my dowry remains after restoring Bailey Hall, funds held in settlement. If you do not wish me to use them, I could attempt to find an alternative source of funding. I have had to abandon other pursuits to devote myself to this work.” She bit her lip again, her eyes flitting to the opposite window to the tenements. Was she referring to the estate?

“Bailey Hall has a competent steward?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

“Yes, very. I hired him last year. The estate has finally b-been turning a profit, as you have likely seen from the ledgers. And your pocketbook.” She averted her gaze and James had never felt smaller in his life. Mariah was neither cruel nor vindictive. She did not say these words to wound.

In London, it was easy to look the other way at times, to stay in Belgravia and Mayfair and the clubs he would frequent. Sure, he entered St. Giles on occasion for particularly seedy gaming hells, but in his carriage, not amongst the crowd. Yet to see the squalor the people in Barnsley were now living in…it chilled his blood much more than the northern winds.

And yet his purpose remained. His true reason for returning to Bailey Hall. His dreams mattered, damnit. His childhood, the man he was…He must remember this, he urged himself as the carriage ground to a halt.

Descending from the carriage to offer his hand to Mariah, James was immediately surrounded by the pervasive hum of the linen looms that sang through the soot-laden air. Surveying the monstrous structure adjacent to the weathered stone Counting House, a sharp pang struck him: he had never once set foot within these mills, despite the undeniable truth that their output had effectively salvaged Bailey Hall. That knowledge, the physical manifestation of the labor of others that he had frittered away, weighed heavily on his chest. Wasn’t it women who were supposed to be protected from the world? From the knowledge of work?

And yet the woman who gripped his hand with her kid glove as she stepped down from the carriage did not appear at all surprised by the size of the mill. The daughter of an Irish linen maker who made good, she had grown up with the sound of the loom.

The knowledge of the cost of labor.

The Counting House was not unlike others James had come across in London. The sound of looms only faded slightly upon stepping inside its stone walls. The fact that the building was only slightly warmer than the dreary day outside told James that his father-in-law did not worry too much for his own warmth, likely wary of spending too much on coal in such a time.

Sitting behind a giant mahogany desk, his only statement of wealth, was a broad man with a thick graying mustache, whom James had negotiated his marriage contract with over five years earlier. He had not seen his father-in-law, Francis “Frank” Monahan much since his wedding, nor spared him much thought. The years had not taken their toll on the imposing man. While James himself was over six feet, Frank Monahan was an inch or so taller. Though his hair was beginning to thin, he had an Irish comportment that suggested a hearty nature, even at his advanced age.

“Mariah!” His clear affection for his daughter showed as his mustache and sideburns twitched in what James interpreted was warmth. Unlike many industrialists who sold their daughters to aristocrats, James had always been under the impression that Mr. Monahan genuinely wished for a better life for his daughter. Well aware of the prejudice against the Irish he had lived under most of his life, he seemed to believe that marrying James would alleviate some of that prejudice.

Observing his wife as she greeted her father with equal warmth, asking after his health and fussing over him, James swallowed as he realized he had never considered what their marriage had brought Mariah. Surely, as a Baroness, as a peeress, it brought her some respectability.

Yet…she was not invited to the drawing rooms of Polite Society. If he asked Wolf, he would likely have his wife invite Mariah out…but she was happy, wasn’t she?

“Lord St. George.” While Mariah sounded English but for her vowels, her father had never attempted to change his accent.

“Please do not stand on my account,” James held up a hand as Monahan began to rise. “You are looking well.”