02 | Uncharitable Feelings

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In the year and a half since becoming Thornton's assistant, Patrick Makinson had proved a valuable addition to the management of Marlborough Mills, in particular when it came to overseeing the production floors. He had a good hand with foremen and workers alike, thus freeing up time for the master to pursue new schemes. The latest one of those schemes was a new chemical dyeing works Thornton was currently building in cooperation with Gerald Hamper, after having first taken note of the concept at the French section of the Great Exhibition some years previously.

Unfortunately for his employer, young Makinson was chomping at the bit lately, and it wouldn't be long before he was bound to start looking for another situation as an actual mill manager; and while he couldn't yet be trusted with running a mill as large as Thornton's on his own, a smaller—or more specialised—production would be well within his means. So, the logical thing for Thornton was to propose him to Hamper as a possible manager for their new joint venture.

"Well, I have your word for it that the lad's competent," Hamper said, "and why shouldn't I believe you? Marlborough Mill's certainly been doing pretty well since you came back in style." His face held a smidgeon of a smirk.

Thornton had learnt to ignore the jibes and the smirks. Besides, Hamper was a good enough sort; he had, in fact, been the first of the manufacturers to stand by him after his acquittal. The man just couldn't resist the temptation to take a dig at his younger business partner every so often.

"Though I understood," Hamper continued after a short pause, "that Makinson made a pig's ear of managing the mill before your return."

"He was young and wholly inexperienced," Thornton pointed out. "He took over the largest mill in Milton at a moment's notice with only my overseer and his own elderly grandfather to give him advice... Yet he managed to keep business afloat, and he didn't heap up any debts we couldn't deal with in the aftermath; so, all things considered, he did well!"

Hamper's smirk widened. "Like beauty, success seems to lie in the eye of the beholder—"

"As I said," Thornton emphasised, his temper showing despite himself, "Patrick Makinson is capable and he's loyal—and this is a hell of a lot more than I can say about virtually any Miltonian of the younger manufacturing generation who might be interested in taking up the job." He gave Hamper a hard stare. "If, for some reason, you want to score off me, don't take it out on the lad."

"Simmer down, Thornton!" Hamper raised his hands in a conciliating gesture. "You should know me and my quips by now... Let's give Makinson a try and offer him the position." He held out a hand.

"Fine," Thornton reluctantly replied as he took the other man's man in a firm grip.

"And no hard feelings?"

Thornton considered for a moment before saying, "Not if you'll help me out with a piece of information—"

"What kind of information?" Hamper said, a trifle cautious, shrewd businessman that he was.

"Call it gossip..."

"Since when are you interested in Milton tittle-tattle?" Hamper interrupted him with a snort.

"Just trying to put a name on someone I saw at Watson's dinner party at the end of June. One of the male guests who joined later, after dinner. Watson himself can't seem to remember him."

"I shouldn't be surprised. Pretty crowded it was, that party! Lots of drink, too... What did your mystery man look like?"

"Youngish. No older than early thirties, medium height and build, unremarkable face but very much dressed like a man-about-town. Almost foppish—"

"White trousers, dove-grey waistcoat and top hat? Floral cravat?"

"I daresay your tailor would be amazed at your powers of observation," Thornton replied with a smirk of his own. Hamper, who was a careless dresser, had that one coming. "But, yes, this quite fits with how I recall the chap. So, who was he?"

"Can't say I ever caught his name... I do know, however, that he's a Londoner and a speaker at charity gatherings. He seems to make a living from it." He scratched the back of his neck. "Must ask the wife; he's somehow in league with the Milton Ladies Charity..."

"There's a new charity in Milton? How come I've never heard of it? Neither my wife nor my mother ever mentioned it to me." Then the penny dropped. "I see," he added sardonically.

"Yes... well..." Hamper had the grace to look ill at ease. "It's not just the masters' wives, but also several of their unmarried daughters that are members... Everyone felt that they should set a good example. Besides, your wife is rich enough to afford her very own charitable works—"

Sodding bunch of hypocrites! Feeling his fuse shorten by the moment, Thornton compressed his lips to hold his tongue; say what you will, Hamper wasn't the right recipient for his frustration in this particular instance. And even if he made known his anger, how would this possibly help Margaret?

He drew a breath to calm himself before saying, "Let me know the man's name and whatever else you can find out about him."

"You can count on me, Thornton. And sorry for... well, you know—"

Hamper's missive promptly arrived early in the afternoon of the same day and was obviously meant as an olive branch. The information it contained, of however little consequence in itself, might at least help the police pin a name on a dead body. It read as follows:

To J. Thornton Esq.—

—Mrs Hamper informs me that the name of the man in question is Benedict Alban, of Chelsea, London, and that he may be residing in Carlyle Square, although Mrs Hamper could not vouch for the latter, having never corresponded with the man. He was introduced to the then newly founded Milton Ladies Charity in early May by recommendation of the Kensington Women's Charitable Committee . He is said to have a reputation as a lecturer on all things concerning the lower social strata. Alban hasn't actually spoken in Milton yet, but seems to have been of great help in setting up the charity in its early stages.

At present he appears to have left Milton with no information on whether or when to expect his return.

I hope that you may find any of the above useful in your inquiry, and I remain—
—yours sincerely—

G. Hamper

Copying out the details Thornton added a few lines in explanation of how he had come by this information, and then sent out Eliot the errand boy to deliver the note to Inspector Mason.

The hands of the wall clock had moved a mere five minutes since he had last looked at it. It was nine past two in the afternoon.

Disgusted by his own lack of concentration, Thornton thrust the quill into the holder and sat back, pushing away the ledger he had been working on. He had added up the same column trice over and had arrived at three different results. His mind was clearly not on the task at hand. Rising from his seat he decided to forego working though the pile of contracts waiting by his left hand in favour of taking a spontaneous break.

When he entered the drawing room, Margaret looked up from her book in surprise. She was reclining on the chaise longue. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen; she was probably still taking her midday nap, with the nursery maid in attendance.

Margaret smiled as she realised it was him and shifted her legs to make room for him to sit. "You are very early today," she remarked. "Is anything the matter?"

"I just wanted to see you," he said softly. He took the offered seat at the foot end and drew her legs across his lap. With slow practiced movements he started to massage her ankles and calves.

"Mhm... bliss!" Margaret sighed.

"What are you reading?"

"I've recently started my final attempt at tackling Dante's Purgatorio. Alas, it is not going as well as I hoped."

"Final?" Thornton asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

"My Italian has become quite rusty since moving to Milton with Mama and Papa all those years ago," she said ruefully. "Once your son will be born, I doubt that I shall have leisure to continue with my studies for years to come; and by the time he'll be out of leading strings, whatever proficiency in Italian I once possessed will be gone for good."

"So, you have made up your mind that we are going to have a son? You know that I would be perfectly happy with another girl, don't you?"

"You might be, Mr Thornton, but I won't," she smiled. "You know what they say: Fathers and daughters; mothers and sons—"

He chuckled, remembering how—in a quiet hour—Margaret had confessed the unkind monikers she had secretly given to Hannah Thornton at the beginning of their acquaintance; 'old dragon' and 'angry crow guarding the nest' had just been two of the more graphic expressions she had found for his mother. "Are you intending to become yet another fiercely protective mother?"

"And scare away all the young ladies that come running after him?—Most certainly!" she replied with spirit.

As they dropped quiet for a moment, Thornton felt Margaret's questioning eyes on him.

"Tell me."

"Just a general feeling that things are going a little awry at present." He shrugged helplessly. "I had a bit of an argument with Hamper over Makinson today—although that seems resolved for the time being—and I still don't understand what Watson and the coroner are up to with regard to the inquest... By the way, at least the identity of the body has become known in the meantime; a Londoner with links to the—" He stopped dead.

"Links to the—what?" Margaret asked, puzzled.

He heaved a sigh. "Some of the Milton ladies appear to have founded a new charity this spring, but to what purpose I don't know. Hamper happened to mention it."

"I see."

She was echoing his very words from earlier in the day; but whereas his had been scathing, hers were quietly resigned. Which, somehow, felt worse.

"Margaret! I'm so..."

"Don't!" she brusquely interrupted him. "There's no blame. So, please, stop feeling guilty—"

"I shall feel guilty for as long as you'll have to suffer the greater share of the consequences," he said, taking her hand and cradling it in both of his. "As your husband I'm meant to protect you; but I'm falling woefully short in my duties."

"Remember, Milton never accepted me with open arms; not even when I first came here with my parents. Not much has changed for me in this respect." She looked deep into his eyes. "In other respects, however, I consider myself a very lucky woman indeed: I have a most devoted husband—" She softly gasped as he bent to kiss her hand. "—a beautiful daughter, a remarkably sympathetic mother-in-law; and although Fanny may not be the most genial of companions, she has come round to stand by us Thorntons... Awkward acquaintances have become true friends—I'm talking about Henry Lennox and Ann here—and, in due time, I shall find my own endeavours. So, for what it's worth, Milton society can go to blazes."

"You and your infinite ability to see the silver linings!" he marvelled, moving closer to claim her lips. "Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?"

"Tell me now," she murmured as she twined her arms around his neck.

One late morning at the following week, Thornton happened to check the delivery books in the porter's office when he saw his sister Fanny cross the yard, heading for the gate. She had obviously been to the house for a morning call. He quickly stepped outside to intercept her.

"Fancy seeing you here, Fanny. I haven't seen you arrive... Have you come to request Mother's assistance? Again."

"What is it to you, John," Fanny asked huffily. Sticking in each other's craw was still their standard behaviour with each other. Ingrained habits died hard.

"Just remember that she's getting on in years and that you have an army of servants, including an actual nurse, at your disposal."

"See, John, that's just it! We had to let her go... together with some of the other staff. And with Walter being colicky and not sleeping through the night, I'm at my wit's end."

"Why? What happened?"

"Surely you must have heard!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I keep forgetting that you're hardly to be seen at the Masters Club these days, according to Watson... Well, I don't know the details, of course, but a couple of months ago Watson got wind of some fabulous scheme apparently all of Milton was investing in—Now, what was it? South African mining stocks? Or was it Australian?" She creased her brow, then shrugged. "Anyway, it was one of those too-good-to-be-true schemes... only, this time, it was indeed too good to be true. The invested money is all gone—as is the company that put up the shares at the stock market."

"Is Watson much stricken, financially?" Thornton asked. Considering the scale of speculations his brother-in-law tended to engage in, this might be a worrying development.

"It's not so very bad; we will just have to be a little economical in our expenses until the end of the year... Watson said that this was the last time he was following the crowd. In the future he'll only make his own informed decisions."

"So, the 'boy wonder' followed someone else's lead in this scheme?—How singular."

"Yes, and he's mightily miffed—"

"I gather, all this is a recent development?"

"You might say so... It was only last week—or was it the week before?—that it turned out the boot is on the other foot."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear, Fanny... If there's anything I can do—"

"We're not quite living on charity yet, John! However, I'll greatly appreciate if you don't jump down my throat in the future when I'll ask mother to come by." She turned towards the gate, but stopped short to add, "By-the-by, don't tell Watson—or anyone else, for that matter—that I told you."

It was only when his sister was already out of sight that he remembered he hadn't asked her about her former party guest Mr Alban, and if she knew him personally.

Fanny wasn't the only visitor that day; in the afternoon Inspector Mason came knocking at the glass partition of Thornton's upstairs main office. As a one-time Marlborough Mills clerk, the policeman knew his way around.

Nicholas Higgins was in the office with Thornton when he entered; and although Higgins hadn't been in a run-in with the police in years—he had, in fact, become a model employee—there was an unmistakably wary look passing from him to their visitor.

"As I said, master," Higgins pointedly continued, "we need t' overhaul th' transmission system in th' far right aisle, soon as th' Saundringham commission's done. It's only a matter o' time afore things com' loose."

"Thanks, Higgins," Thornton said. "If you'll have a few minutes after the late shift, let's go and have a look once the power is down."

"Aye, Mr Thornton. C'n do that," Higgins replied and, looking askance at Mason, he added, "G'day t' you, sir."

"What can I do for you, Mason?" Thornton asked once the door had closed behind his foreman. He shut the ledger he had been working on and capped the inkwell.

"I wanted to thank you for letting me know the identity of the dead man in the morgue. Saved me a lot of running around... and quite considerably sped up the date of the inquest."

"I saw the announcement in 'The Milton Post'... Yesterday, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Mason said, "and the verdict was 'death by misadventure'." It usually was when a suicide was assumed, but could not be proved beyond a doubt.

"So, there won't be an investigation." It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

"My superiors have already shelved the case—" Mason let the sentence hang in the air.

"You, however?" Thornton prompted.

"Truth be told, I smell a rat," the policeman doggedly replied. "Don't you, sir?—after seeing the body?"

"You know that I have no jurisdiction. What else do you expect me to do, Mason?" he said curtly, although—if he was entirely truthful—his impatience was less aimed at the man in front of him, but rather at his own conscience; his latent magistrate's instincts gave him a niggling warning that someone, somehow, was hushing things up. He had been trying to ignore that voice in his head ever since he had seen the body in the morgue.

"Well, by your own findings, the man was known to the manufacturers' wives... However, with the case being closed, I have no means of questioning them about their relationship with Alban. Never mind that they could possibly shed some light on what the man was doing here and with whom he was in touch. There may have been an instance when the deceased made an enemy of someone—"

"At a charity meeting?" Thornton clarified, somewhat incredulous.

"Lots of ladies, both married and unmarried, are present at such meetings—or so I've been told. Perhaps, the man was seeking favours where he oughtn't have?" Eying his former employer speculatively, Mason continued, "Isn't it your annual dinner party later this week?—With the news of Alban's identity just becoming public knowledge, he's certain to be a topic, wouldn't you say? So, all I'm asking is, if anything comes your way that might deem you significant, please remember that I'm still investigating."

"In direct defiance of your superiors?"

Instead of a reply, Mason just shrugged indifferently, then he tipped the rim of his hat by way of a salutation and left the office.

Thornton watched his retreating back with a frown. As a man—and not a ladies' man, as to that—he was in almost as unsuitable a position as the police inspector to wriggle out information from his female guests; and neither were his mother and wife particularly adept at idle chitchat.

Therefore, it would have to be Fanny, who was, after all, a most determined gossip. He wondered how best to tap that well; and how much would be safe to disclose to his sister about his ulterior motives.

In the end Thornton went to visit Fanny on the morning of the dinner party. As a businessman he was not in the habit of paying social morning calls, but he could think of no other way of catching his sister alone.

"Tell me about the new Mrs Latimer," he said without beating about the bush. Idle pleasantries, coming from him, were wasted on Fanny.

"Mrs Latimer? What about her?"

"She will be our guest of honour at tonight's dinner and therefore my neighbour at table; and although we were introduced several months ago, I haven't really met her socially. I don't know the first thing about her, and I simply could do with some conversation starters."

"Let me see," Fanny slowly said. "First off, you don't need to be worried about awkward pauses; Eleanor is quite accomplished in keeping up a conversation. So, unless you say something outrageous, you should be safe... However, if you wish to impress your guest of honour—"

"I wouldn't know about 'impress'; but I'd like to know a little more about her, just to keep me from blundering."

"Well, she's a Londoner—as you are well aware—and her family is loosely associated with the social circle of Mr Latimer's elderly sister who lives there; whenever she's not travelling on the Continent, that is. Eleanor's said to be of good family, but she definitely doesn't come from money. She was married briefly, for about a year, to a Croydon gentleman much older than herself and, after he passed away, she went to live with relatives in Kensington. That's where she met Mr Latimer last winter when he was staying with his sister and Ann. That would have been at the time Ann got engaged... It seems to have been a whirlwind romance; on old Latimer's part, at least... She, Eleanor that is, didn't inherit any money to speak of from her late husband." Or why else would she have married another man so much older than herself? was implied in Fanny's words but not spoken out loud.

Not for the first time Thornton wondered if—or how much—his sister regretted having left the sinking ship in the aftermath of the strike in 1851, thus shackling herself to a man like Watson for better for worse.

"Anyhow, at the time they met she was still in mourning for her husband, and as Mr Latimer was to return to Milton, they didn't have a lengthy time of courtship, but married quietly in London just three weeks after getting engaged; and then they came straight here... I suppose it was the right thing to do; they could hardly have had a double wedding with Ann and Mr Lennox." She made a moue of distaste at such a ludicrous thought. "She's quickly become popular with all the Milton ladies since she came here."

What's sauce for the goose obviously isn't always sauce for the gander when it comes to hasty weddings, Thornton thought sarcastically, remembering what some Miltonians had implied about Margaret at the time of their original wedding date, scheduled little more than two weeks after their engagement. "I gather, she's come out of mourning and has returned into society?"

"It would be odd, wouldn't it, if she were still mourning her first husband as a new bride? Besides, she is so well suited to society—and, as a banker's wife, has an important place to uphold—that it would be a shame if she didn't participate. She's become the heart and soul of that new charity."

"Are you a member as well?"

"They asked me to join, but as they wouldn't want to ask Mother and Margaret it seemed wrong for me to accept."

"You told them so?" He was quite impressed at this unexpected show of loyalty.

"Well, not in so many words... and then, it was just after Walter was born and I wouldn't have felt equal to it, anyway. But the point is, I refused... and I'm missing out on quite a lot of Milton social life because of it. It's been quite a sacrifice!" She gave him a pointed look.

"So, this new charity? I've heard a rumour that the man they recently found dead at the weir was somehow associated with it—"

"Shocking, isn't it? Considering where he was found, and that the place has a reputation for..." She mouthed the word 'suicides'.

For a moment Thornton froze; but then it occurred to him that his sister, having only been a toddler at the time, likely never had been told the particulars of their father's death. After all, people died and left behind debts all the time.

Blithely, Fanny chattered on, "And to think that he was a guest at our party in June... here in this very house!"

"Who introduced him?"

"Hmm, let me think... I believe, it was the Latimers, or wasn't it?" She creased her brow. "Yes, it must have been. After all, he was another Londoner, just like Eleanor, so I gather they knew each other in Town."

"Where they friendly?" Blast! The moment he said it he could have bitten his tongue.

Fanny looked up in alarm. "What do you mean by 'friendly'?" she asked sharply.

"I mean... Did they seem to be well acquainted?" he amended, willing his expression into one of guilelessness.

"I suppose so? They seemed to have several friends in common. Quite a few illustrious names amongst them, such as I've occasionally come across in The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine." There was hint of awe in her voice.

"Latimer didn't mind that they were on familiar terms?"

"As far as I could tell, they were not so very familiar; just acquaintances... and, no, old Latimer is quite infatuated with his young wife and worships the ground she walks on."

"What puzzles me in all this is that this man Alban was known to quite a few people—mostly women—in Milton, and yet nobody seemed to have realised that he went missing. It took several days for the body to be identified."

"This is indeed peculiar," Fanny admitted, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I wonder what they thought where he'd got to."

"Keep me informed, if you happen to hear anything," Thornton said, doing his best to sound indifferent. "You know how I like a good mystery."

—

A/N:

Thank you for your kind comments, Kss and Ana!

I'd also like to give credit where credit is due, namely to ColleenD, who first came up with the information about the French chemical dyeing process as introduced at the Great Exhibition and who also was the first to have JT diversify business in that direction... Check out her story 'Bleed Them of Their Bitterness' for a far more romanic take at sound business decisions!