A Curse Dark as Gold (10 page)

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.

It wasn't altogether customary for a clothier to accompany the stock personally. Father had gone every year, but he'd also relied on a Harrowgate agent to keep him in line. No agent was willing to take me on, of course; my letters of inquiry had all returned with brusque but polite apologies. Although demand for Stirwaters's cloth was never in doubt, my father's reputation was questionable enough that no one would ally himself with his underage daughter.

Still, I would not be entirely alone. Uncle Wheeler had embraced the prospect of accompanying his niece to her metropolitan début, insisting that I let him make our travel arrangements and that I acquire some new clothes for the affair. Rosie and I salvaged what was left of the ruined green flannel, and worked late into the evenings cobbling together a new travelling frock.

I spent hours pasting swatches into our sample books and making and remaking our price lists. Had I not helped Father prepare for this every summer of my life? I opened up Father's atlas to his depiction of the Exchange. The spidery letters scrawling out worm hill had given me a delicious chill when I was a child ... the carefully marked-out rooms and stalls, a somber reassurance during the weeks each year when Father left us. Now the thrill they gave me was something even more tangible. This year it would be
my
cloth in that little stall on the third floor; this year it would be Charlotte Miller's chance to show the world what Stirwaters was made of.

Finally, near the middle of August, everything was ready. I was ready.

And then the letter came.

It was one of those brutally hot afternoons we see in late summer, where the very air glitters and it is difficult to breathe. I retreated to the woolshed, where the limestone walls kept out some of the heat. Sunlight filtered down through the windows and cast the colored bales into jewelled hues: from pale creamy buff to deepest Saxon red; moss green to Lincoln green; robin's egg blue to mazareen; dove grey, pearl grey, oyster, and charcoal. I looked them over with satisfaction, picturing how I'd like to display them at Worm Hill. The satinettes in one pile, perhaps, or all the blues together. It was good work; we could be proud of ourselves this summer.

I moved from bale to bale, binding and labelling each bundle, making notes, and didn't hear Harte until he was right up on top of me.

"Mistress, you'll hurt yourself doing that alone. Let me get that end for you."

"Harte, I've been doing this since I was ten years old," I said, but slid aside and allowed him to lift the bulk of the weight. "You learn a thing or two in a house without brothers."

"Aye, and with a young lass like Miss Rosie to run after, too, no doubt." Harte laughed and moved to the next bale. "You're looking ready to leave, then. Won't be the same around here without you, you know."

"Where goes the wool, follows the miller," I said. Harte leaned in to retrieve the twine. "Rosie's fit to burst with envy."

I had to grin. "I don't think Harrowgate is ready for Rosellen Miller, do you?"

Harte shrugged. "Never been. Give me the hills and the sky and the river."

"The sheep and the dirt and the --" I mopped my face with my apron. "The perspiration."

"Amen, Mistress." Harte grinned and pulled a calico handkerchief from his trouser pocket. Something crunched as he patted his hand against his hip. "Ah -- and there I forgot. Don't tell Rosie. I was supposed to give you this --" He held out a rather crumpled envelope.

"Oh, Harte. She didn't bully you into fetching the post again, did she?" I unfolded the envelope, and my heart gave a little skip when I beheld the postmark: Harrowgate. Another letter from Mr. Woodstone?

I should have been so lucky. This came instead from Worm Hill. No preamble, no pleasantries:

It having come to the Attention of the Trustees of this Exchange that your firm has been operating without benefit of President, Foreman, or known Agency and therefore in Violation of the Bylaws of the Wool Guild, it is necessary to Inform you that the stock stall formerly held by Stirwaters Woollen Mill of Shearing has not met the requirements for Renewal. Thereto you will Quit all plans to display your stock, cloth, or other Wares within the grounds at Worm Hill, or in the general Vicinity of Harrowgate. Petitions for Reinstatement will be entertained at
the next meeting of this Board and though seldom do Open stalls become available, finding that your Firm meets with Approval, Entry will be made on your behalf in the Queue,

Yours respectfully,

Arthur M, Darling, Trustee

Worm Hill Cloth Exchange

N.B. Copy of notice filed with Guild of Uplands Wool Merchants

"Not bad news, then?" said Harte -- but he addressed my departing back. I had balled up my skirts and marched off across the millyard. I slammed into the Millhouse kitchen, where Rosie and Rachel were bent over a pan of rolls.

"We've been
blacklisted!"
I flung the letter to the table and wrenched my bonnet from my head. Rachel abandoned her mixing bowl and came to read over Rosie's shoulder.

Rosie stared at the letter as if it were some sort of foul insect she'd discovered crawling out of the millpond. "Those greedy blackguards!"

"Rosellen Miller!"
My uncle stepped into the kitchen. "Here, let me see -- what's all this fuss about?" He read the letter swiftly, then folded it again, sharpening the creases with his fingertips. "Well. This is terribly distressing. But perhaps it's for the best. I have said you were working too hard, and now you've gotten yourself all upset. Baker, please bring my nieces some tea." Uncle Wheeler gave a flip to the skirts on his jacket and slid into a chair. "Charlotte, dear, do sit down before you fall down."

I was too angry to move. "How can you say it's for the best? I have a hundred bolts of cloth in the woolshed, and nowhere to sell them! And unless I sell that cloth, I'll never be able to pay back --"

Nearly too late I felt Rosie's eyes boring into me. I stumbled to a halt. "All my workers," I finished lamely.

Uncle Wheeler sighed. "I'm sure your workers will find other jobs. Charlotte,
do
sit down so we can talk about this rationally. Baker! Where is that tea?"

"I don't want any tea," I mumbled sullenly, but was too tired, suddenly, not to sit. I slumped into a chair across from my uncle and sank my head into my hands.

"It would seem, now, that we have two options. Their chief complaint seems to be that Stirwaters has no leadership --"

"What rot! What's Charlotte, then?"