With apologies to Miss Austen...
03 | The New Mrs Latimer
—
"What do you think of books?" Thornton said with a strained smile. Books! This must be the worst conversation opener in the history of party talk.
So far, talking about London in general had led them nowhere—he knew little of the city, and the places he did know were mostly linked to business—, and his mention of the Great Exhibition had her confess that she had never managed to visit due to being incapacitated by tonsillitis during the exact week her party of friends had been going there.
Mill business, politics, and religion were, of course, all banned from dinner conversation; so, books it was.
"Books—Oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings," Mrs Latimer protested.
"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions." He wondered if this would, in fact, be an option; he rarely read for pleasure, and any young woman would most likely be a reader of romances.
'No—I cannot talk of books at a dinner party," she replied, looking down at her plate and, perhaps, contemplating another bite. "My head is always full of something else."
"The present always occupies you in such scenes, does it?" he said, with a look of doubt.
"Quite," was all the answer he got.
The new Mrs Latimer was out of spirits, Thornton couldn't help noticing. She was also only picking at her fish course. Now, he could think of any number of reasons why Eleanor Latimer might feel a little out of sorts, not least of all a chance that she might be with child—after all, Latimer wasn't in his dotage yet. However, he also wondered if her low spirits might rather have anything to do with the tragic demise of Mr Benedict Alban, and that the fact had become known to her only a few days previously with the papers reporting about the inquest. But she didn't exactly look grief-stricken; just not altogether present in the moment.
Perhaps, she was simply bored by his awkward attempts at conversation, he eventually concluded.
Thornton let his eyes wander across the assembled company, trying to pick up snippets of other conversations taking place around the table. At the far end, where Margaret was situated, the Lennoxes were giving a lively account of their honeymoon in Scotland in May—his side of the family originated from the lowlands around Paisley, apparently—interspersed by many comments from their audience; namely Margaret, his mother, Mrs Hamper, and Fanny. Even Makinson seemed to be one of their group.
Nearer at hand Watson, Hamper, and Mr Latimer were... well, not exactly discussing business, but the next best thing: The concerns their fellow Milton manufacturers.
"... the tenement buildings in Tanners Lane are up for sale," Hamper said.
"That derelict dozen buildings by the canal out at Ashley?" Latimer inquired. Hamper assured him that he was quite correct.
"Who owns them?" Watson said indistinctly in between bites.
"Now, that's the juicy bit!" Hamper said gleefully. "Up until now the business end has always been handled by an agent, and with no-one the wiser as to the actual owner. But now, with the sale coming up, rumour's spreading it is Slickson—the old fool!—who's leasing slum dwellings to his own hands at exorbitant rent!"
There was a murmur of agreement; Slickson would indeed be a fool, if it was true that he was stealing his own workers blind by demanding exaggerated rent. Along with the recent redundancies—because Slickson was transforming parts of his mill into a room-and-power scheme—this was a sure way of asking for trouble. The next riot might very well be out at Ashley.
"So, why's he selling?" Thornton asked, intrigued despite himself—and well aware that he was walking a fine line concerning the no-business-talk maxim at table.
"The same rumour has it that he lost money—speculating. A lot... And he really must be in dire straits, to risk an upheaval amongst the hands by selling such incriminating property."
Thornton cast a quick glance at his sister Fanny, who seemed to have shifted attention from talk about the Lennoxes' honeymoon to this conversation. She raised an eyebrow at him. Watson, on the other hand, was single-mindedly devoting himself to the food on his plate. As always, Latimer's face was politely inscrutable; by dint of being everyone's banker he would, of course, know the full extent of Slickson's losses.
Glancing her way in passing, Thornton did also catch Margaret's frown of mild disapproval.
"Must have been quite some speculation—" he said offhandedly, hoping his flippant remark would bring the topic to a close.
"What is it they say?—Cobbler, stick to your last!" Hamper smirked. "That's what you get from engaging in stock trade without understanding the argorithms behind it."
"Algorithms," Mrs Latimer corrected, almost under her breath.
Thornton gave her a perplexed look.
"My late first husband was a mathematician," she said quietly, "and I shared his interests."
Thornton sat back in his chair, brandy snifter in hand.
Their meal had both been elegant and rather delicious, he had to admit. Also, he was not feeling nearly as gorged as on previous occasions. He had been a little taken aback at first when Margaret—albeit in words calculated to lessen the impact—had told him that she considered their former dinner menus, under the aegis of his mother, somewhat ostentatious and that she would very much prefer to introduce her own concept of dinner arrangements, such as she had known them in Harley Street, for the first party she would be hosting it as the Mrs Thornton. 'Taken aback' because said concept seemed to imply pitifully small quantities of food for each course.
Looking at his guests, he couldn't detect any hungry or blatantly dissatisfied faces; so all was probably well even with the gluttons.
Thus far into the evening things had been going reasonably well, Thornton mused—bar his awkward attempts at conversing with Mrs Latimer. He hoped that the ladies, having retired to the drawing room and closing the double doors between themselves and the dining room where the men remained for port and smokes, would take care of her and draw her into their group.
Thornton raised his glass for a toast. "Here's to Mr Henry Lennox, newly appointed partner of the renowned London law firm of Hastings, Emerson, and—Lennox. Best wishes and success for the future, Henry, and for any of your upcoming cases!"
A murmur of congratulations went up, followed by a general savouring of spirits, then the footman offered cigars to all present. As usual Thornton declined, as did Makinson who was probably too young to enjoy the habit, but all the others lit up, and soon the room was filled with plumes of blue smoke.
Pressed by his neighbours Lennox recounted an anecdote about a recent puzzling case, all the while Thornton regarded his peers from behind hooded lids.
Of all the men around his table, only Watson and Latimer would be involved in the failed investment scheme; Hamper wouldn't be so openly gleeful about it if he himself was affected. Latimer would know all the details, of course, and all the Milton participants, but the man—though chatty—was generally not given to blab about confidential business affairs; and, by Fanny's account, Watson was one of the injured party. Thornton wondered who else in Milton, besides Watson—and now apparently Slickson—had been taken in by the odds.
"I read in the papers that the dead body found at the weir has been identified at the inquest," Latimer said. "A Mr Alban. Sordid business."
"Quite unpleasant," Hamper agreed, "especially as he was closely associated with the Milton Ladies Charity—"
"My wife happened to be casually acquainted with him in London," Latimer said. "She became quite upset when I read out the news the other day at breakfast. But then, women are always rather sensitive when it comes to such matters."
For Lennox's benefit Thornton summarised the case of the drowned man in a few concise sentences.
"Well, nasty way to go, by all means," Watson remarked.
"Actually, how came that the man was at your dinner party in June?" Thornton said. "I distinctly remember seeing him there." And how come, you told me that you didn't know the deceased?
"Was he?" Watson said, unflinchingly holding Thornton's gaze. "Must have been amongst the crowd that came by after the actual dinner." Thornton regarded his brother-in-law for a few more moments. Nothing doing there; true or not, Watson would stand by his claim.
He turned back to Latimer. "I gather you didn't know him personally either, did you?"
The banker negated. "I met him just once before the York Street gathering; and on neither occasion we talked much. I daresay he was very much a ladies' man; and what man, may I ask you, voluntarily spends his time at charity meetings?"
Both Watson and Hamper softly scoffed.
"Then, who knew him, besides the charity ladies?" Lennox casually asked.
Latimer and Hamper looked at each other, and then shrugged carelessly.
"So, I understand that none of the husbands actually bothered to make the man's acquaintance?—despite the fact that he was frequently meeting with your wives and daughters, and giving them advice, possibly of a financial nature, for their charity?" Lennox asked with deceptive mildness, adding, "and who knows what else—"
"What are you implying?" Both Hamper and Latimer stared at him, incredulous.
It was for Lennox to shrug. "Just saying," he remarked.
Later, in the drawing room, Thornton found a moment to exchange a few private words with his wife. "Are you tired, love?" he inquired, seating himself beside her. When she shook her head, he quietly asked, "How have things been going with the ladies?"
Margaret sipped at her cup of tea. "Mostly well," she replied in an equally low voice so that they wouldn't be overheard, "Except for a short crisis of nerves..."
"Eleanor Latimer?"
"Actually, no. It was Mrs Hamper who, when Fanny brought up the matter of the dead man found by the weir— it appears that he was generally known amongst the Milton ladies—, became quite distressed. Apparently, she was very fond of him." She looked pensive for a moment. "She said something peculiar: 'For someone so young he was ever so agreeable to talk to. So understanding—almost like a father-confessor'... Now, isn't that very papist?"
"I wouldn't know about that; but it sounds as if she trusted him implicitly—" He let the sentence hang in the air.
"I most certainly got that impression," Margaret acknowledged. "But, on the other hand, he also seemed to be a great favourite with the young ladies, or so Mrs Hamper said."
"Was he?"
"When quizzed about him by Fanny, Mrs Latimer concurred. It is not often that a man knows how to make himself equally agreeable with both the matrons and their daughters."
"Well, as a speaker at charities he would have had to be adept at it. After all, he seemed to make a living by being popular with a certain set."
"And isn't that a rather peculiar occupation for a man?—to earn his living in such a way?"
"Quite—"
At that moment they were approached by Ann.
"Mrs Lennox," Thornton said, rising to offer her the seat beside his wife. "We have hardly had time to speak this evening... Although there is no need to ask how you are doing; you are looking very well indeed."
"I am, sir; most remarkably well." Ann smiled, and a soft blush brushed her cheeks.
Thornton looked questioningly at Margaret.
"May I acquaint my husband with the very special reason for it?" the latter asked their guest, who nodded shyly.
Thornton chuckled, "I gather, even more congratulations are in order?"
Seeing her own husband look their way, Ann begged him to come near. "I'm afraid our secret is out in the open," she confessed to him, dimpling becomingly.
"This is wonderful news, Lennox," Thornton said. "You are a lucky man—"
"I truly am," Henry Lennox sincerely agreed, taking Ann's hand and kissing it.
With the experienced parents teasing the parents-to-be about the forthcoming joys of sleepless nights and the disruption of their social lives, they spent a lively few minutes talking and laughing, before Thornton felt it expedient to move on to see to their other guests, especially when the Latimers showed up to join their group.
In turning away he softly asked Lennox, "What caused your remark after dinner?"
"I can't really say, but somehow I smelt a rat—"
"Funny, someone recently told me the exact same thing regarding the dead man."
"Who was it?"
"A police inspector—"
"You might want to listen to him, Thornton." Lennox gave him a pat on the shoulder in parting.
Thornton moved on and, as it happened, came to stand next to his sister. "Are you enjoying yourself, Fanny?"
"I'm missing old Mr Bell playing devil's advocate," Fanny said with a wry laugh. "Tonight has been way too amicable."
"How about joining the Milton Ladies Charity, then, for a bit of intrigue?" He suggested with heavy sarcasm.
"What?—after my show of solidarity on your behalf?" She gave her brother an outraged look. "By-the-by, have you heard about Mrs Hamper's 'father-confessor' remark? I gather, Margaret told you already. Well, that was decidedly odd! I'd dearly like to know what kind of confessions Mr Alban may have heard." She absent-mindedly tapped her chin with her fan. "Perhaps, I might join them, after all, and find out."
Too late he realised that he should have kept his mouth shut; Fanny had never understood irony. What if Alban had really been a ladies' man in the worst possible sense, prompting some husband or father to retaliate—and he just so happened to set up his own sister to stir the hornet's nest?
"You do know that I have been speaking in jest, Fanny, don't you?"
"Well, yes, but just look what has come to light today with regard to Mr Slickson! Who would have thought that he was a slum landlord through some middle man?—I wonder what others have to hide." She smirked. "And wouldn't you just love to find out what the Browns are keeping under wraps?—after they've been slighting us for years?"
"This is not a game, Fanny!—not with a man showing up dead."
"But the inquest said it was an accident! The verdict was 'death by misadventure'," she reminded him.
"Just be careful," he cautioned. "Remember that accidents can be faked—"
Fanny laughed out."Don't be ridiculous, John! This is Milton— Nothing ever happens here."
Knowing his sister's contrary nature, Thornton thought it prudent to let matters rest for the moment. There was every chance that, with their reduced staffing situation in York Street keeping her more than commonly busy, she would ere long forget all about her idea to join the charity group—unless he kept reminding her by giving here dire warnings... Looking over Fanny's shoulder he observed that Makinson was standing all by himself. He excused himself and made to saunter over to his young assistant.
"I almost forgot." Fanny stopped him by arresting his sleeve. "Regarding your question what the ladies thought where Alban had got to; it seems they all thought him back in London, and that it was Mrs Foster who spread word of it."
"Would you count this evening's entertainment amongst our successes?" Margaret asked indistinctly, unable to stifle a yawn.
The hands of the grandfather clock in the hall had been inching towards midnight by the time the last of their guests left and they were able—after a quick peek into the nursery—to retire to their bedroom.
"I daresay we've seen worse," Thornton evenly replied then grinned. Noticing her shifting to and fro on their bed with a grimace, he asked, "Crick in your back?"
"Mhm... Too much sitting around all evening—"
"Lie on your side; I'll see to it."
While expertly kneading Margaret's lower back, he said conversationally, "I believe it went quite well; no éclat, no dour faces, and no grumblings of discontent—or empty stomachs." She chuckled in reply and stretched luxuriously under his soothing ministrations. "I just hope that Mrs Latimer will forgive me in time for boring her into a stupor." He told her about his bungled attempts at idle chitchat.
"Books! Dear me," she giggled sleepily. "But then, it's not without precedent—"
"The funny thing is, that she appears to have an interest in mathematics. Who would have thought it?"
"Who indeed?" Margaret murmured, her voice growing indistinct. "You think Latimer married her for her talents as a clerk rather—" She yawned again. "—rather than for her charms?"
"I doubt it," he replied and bent to kiss her shoulder. "But it is interesting, nonetheless, that the lady has some hidden depths." Hearing Margaret's breath even out as she fell asleep, he whispered, "Sleep well, my darling."
A few days later Ann and Henry Lennox called on them for their farewell visit; they were to return to London on the morrow after spending some days with the Latimers. They had chosen a Sunday afternoon to visit the Thorntons, although it was their last day in Milton, knowing full well that this would be the only day in the week when they would find John actually at home and not engaged in mill business.
Ever since throwing in her lot with Henry Lennox, Ann had become a staunch supporter of Margaret's. Truth be told, it would have been either that or be at odds with her new husband right from the beginning, after the latter's grand gesture of walking his noticeably pregnant cousin-by-marriage down the aisle at her wedding. Of course, living in Town—and therefore well away from the epicentre of the original scandal—had made it easier for Ann to commit herself; together with the fact that, in addition to her own father, all her new London in-laws had likewise decided not to shun Margaret Thornton.
After a round of welcomes in the drawing room, the elder Mrs Thornton excused herself as her coach was already waiting in the yard to take her to her daughter. When it was just the four of them, Margaret gave her husband a pointed look; he took it as a sign to take Lennox to his study as the women wanted to share confidences, probably of a nature not intended for any man's ear.
He raised an eyebrow, looking at Charlotte who was playing on the floor with a darning egg.
"Leave her with us," Margaret said in answer to his unspoken question. "We'll be having biscuits shortly; she wouldn't want to miss that."
Like a jack-in-the-box Charlotte's head rose next to her mother's seat. "Bit-tit?" she said, round-eyed, and then more forcefully, "Bit-tit, bit-tit, bit-tit!"
"Oh, you little rascal!" Margaret laughed. "There's definitely nothing wrong with her hearing." With a wave of her hand she shooed the gentlemen out of the room.
"Take a seat, Lennox," Thornton said once the study door had closed behind them. "Sherry? It's the good stuff from Cadiz, courtesy of my brother-in-law—whom I've yet to meet," he added.
"Well, as matters stand at present, any such meeting won't take place here in England," Lennox said. "There is still every chance that, if being caught, he'll get court-martialled. You may eventually have to look into ship passages to Spain."
"Not anytime soon, I'm afraid, with Charlotte still being too small for such a long journey and the other one due in November... Cheers." They raised their glasses.
"By the way," Lennox said, leisurely swirling his sherry, "have you come any closer to finding out who prevented that Liverpool magistrate from releasing you on bail?"
"My best guess would be on Harkness..."
"Wasn't he the one with the very favourable contract that happened to be in your possession when the police arrested you?"
"The very one," Thornton said grimly, "although I have no proof whatsoever. But he's the only one of the Milton mill masters with known ties to Liverpool; he originates from there."
"So, what would it be?—bribery or blackmail?" Lennox leant forward in his seat, his eyes bright. He was, without doubt, in his element.
"Blackmail, I'd say. The man's as stingy as they come!"
"He's from Liverpool, you say?—So, he's not from one of the local cotton dynasties?"
"Cotton dynasties?" Thornton let out a guffaw. "There are no cotton dynasties in Milton! There are, of course, still families deriving from the early Cotton Lords, such as the Fosters and, come to think of it, our late Mr Bell. Once competition tightened, none of them had the stamina to see it through; yet they managed to sell at a profit. In Milton terms they're considered 'old money'. Brown's money comes from cotton wholesale, and they're all spending more time in London than in Milton these days. Foster's currently anticipating a knighthood... Sir Colin!"
"Foster? Even I've heard of him in Town."
"Did you. In what context?"
"Finance, I think?" Lennox said vaguely. "I tend to hear more about his wife; she's associated with Ann's Aunt Latimer and her Kensington circle... Anyway, how about your fellow mill masters? What about those in business today?"
"Regarding family history, you mean? Well, most of them are first generation cotton manufacturers. Although Hamper's second generation; his father started out by converting the family fulling mill, and then taking over others. Come to think of it, my assistant Makinson's possibly closest to coming from a line of cotton manufacturers; his grandfather was already in the business—you met him, I believe—and the old gentleman still remembers the excesses of the early days. I tend to take his stories as a warning—"
After quietly sipping at their sherries for some time, Lennox asked, "What was Harkness doing back then in Liverpool, do you know?"
"I don't think he's ever told me." Thornton creased his brow in an effort to remember, then he shrugged. "I simply assumed he was a broker—like Barlow—because if he'd been associated with one of the cotton trading houses he'd have stuck by it. They make a mint—trading raw cotton."
"So, how did he come by his mill here in Milton?"
"He married the eldest daughter of a local cotton manufacturer; and when her only brother died of a fever a few months later, she became the heir of Riverdale Mill."
"Stroke of luck there for our Mr Harkness," Lennox said sarcastically. "Was there talk of dodgy business associated with the death of the son?"
"Goodness, no!—and if there'd been even a hint of it, wouldn't Harkness be the blackmailed party, rather than the other way round?"
"Well, perhaps he is both?—just not with the same people."
"There's that," Thornton reluctantly agreed. "However, the death of his brother-in-law seemed to have been a straightforward case of a fever affecting the brain. I never heard any different."
"By the way," Lenox said after another sip of sherry. "Wasn't there talk at table the other night about a failed investment? Who brought up the scheme—Watson or Latimer? Just curious to learn who misjudged."
"Neither of them, as far as I'm aware. Generally it is Watson who susses out promising investments, but he tends to promote them openly, pressing the members of the Masters Club into joining, with a modest fee for himself when the gamble proves successful. However, I have it on good authority that this time he only heard about it by chance that others were investing and was tempted by the exceptional odds to give it a try."
"Who's generally amongst the group following Watson's lead, do you know?"
"All the usual suspects," Thornton said. "There's Henderson, Slickson, Hamper—though he wasn't part of the latest gamble—, Foster, Brown, Harkness, and Watson himself, of course; but as I said, Watson came into this one as an outsider."
"But, as a rule, they tend to invest as a group?"
"I'd say so... even Foster and Brown who, in other respects, generally consider themselves a cut above the rest of us. They're still club members, though, and tend to come in for their share in a profitable speculation. Why are you asking?"
"Well, if the investment failed as spectacularly as seems to be the case, you may yet see more repercussions than just the ones Slickson's experiencing. I assume that time will tell." Lennox raised an eyebrow. "There may, in fact, be some bargains coming your way, if others have to offset their losses, too. "
"I have no plans for expanding business right now, not while the dyeing facility isn't up and running yet; and then the next thing in line will be school rooms here on the premises—" He noticed Lennox's questioning look. "—but we might want to join the ladies; because this is all Margaret's idea—the school and the change in rota for the nine to fourteen year-olds—and therefore it is for her to tell."
They drank up and left the study; in the hall they were greeted by Charlotte's indignant wails, only slightly muffled by the closed drawing room door.
"Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts, Lennox," Thornton said wryly. "Children are a gift from God; and I truly adore my daughter—but I do envy you that honeymoon we never had."
"Right. Off you go," Thornton said, handing over a sealed envelope to Eliot the errand boy, who was waiting in front of his desk and shifting from foot to foot. The boy was eager and streetwise, but still a little wild. "Make sure to give it to the station master personally and wait there for the return message."
"Will do, sir," the boy said, tucking his forelock before sprinting to the office door—where he almost collided with Hannah Thornton. "Beg pard'n, ma'am," he mumbled, squeezing by.
"That boy still needs to learn to walk before he runs," the elder Mrs Thornton said, though with little rancour.
"I haven't seen you here in a while, mother. Is anything the matter over at the house?"
"No such calamity, John," she hastened to reassure him. Then, more gruffly, "Can't I just drop by to see how you are doing?"
"You know that you are always welcome at the mill. In fact, there was a time when you knew the workings of this mill almost better than I did." He frowned. "Why haven't you been to the sheds this last year as you used to?"
"Well, with both Higgins and Makinson on board, not to mention Williams, you seemed to be doing well enough without me. Besides..." Her voice petered out.
"Besides?"
"I discouraged Margaret from visiting the factory floors after your return—and she agreed, mind!—so, I can hardly come here myself, can I? You know how it is, John; a master must be seen by his hands to be in command; hard but fair—"
"—and the workers mustn't constantly be reminded by the presence of one Mrs Thornton that the master had his bacon saved by the other Mrs Thornton?" He scoffed. "Is this how you feel about my situation, mother?"
"You know that I don't, John," she said, her voice tinged with indignation. "When you were taken into custody following hard on the heels of losing the mill, I railed against fate. I questioned the Lord's mercy for putting you through this, for taking from you all you had achieved and—after just the shortest of reprieves—for taking your good name."
"So, you think my name tainted?—and because of what?" he asked harshly. "For a bankruptcy no-one in my situation could have prevented? For being held in custody for a crime I didn't commit?"
"We are a society of pretenders, John! Both instances will be considered a stain on your name forever. That's the way of the world; the appearance of losing one's honour is to actually do so."
"And, of course, we mustn't forget my fathering a child out of wedlock!"
"Actually, no. That will always be laid at Margaret's door."
The mention of his wife's name made Thornton stop in his ranting. "You know, mother, that I'd happily bear anything they throw at me just as long as they'd accept Margaret. Why do they hate her so much?"
"They don't hate her—not as such. But in belittling her they give consequence to their own pretences. Mind you, deep down, they might actually envy Margaret for the fact that her misstep is out in the open. In a way she's free while they have to keep hiding their nasty little secrets."
"You know, Margaret said something similar just recently; she said to find their feet of clay so that they'd stop harking about hers."
"Well, son, I'm afraid that's where she's wrong... No-one would thank you for dragging their secrets out in the open." She gave him a piercing look which might, or might not, be meant as a warning. "Quite on the contrary—"