The Earl and the Hoyden. Mary NicholsЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘You will make yourself a laughing stock.’
‘I will be a bigger one if I stay here, attached to your apron strings.’
She sighed. ‘Shall you take Mr and Mrs Burrows back?’
‘No, you need them. I will take on a woman from the village. Do you know of such a one?’
She thought for a moment. ‘There is a Mrs Fields. She used to work at the King’s Head, but lost her position over some dispute with the landlord. I never had a meal prepared by her, but I have heard she is a good plain cook. As long as you are not contemplating entertaining…’
He laughed. ‘That I am not. Will you do the necessary for me?’
Having agreed, she insisted on making up a parcel of clean bedding for him and gave him a basket containing a cold cooked chicken, a meat pie and a boiled ham. ‘You will starve if left to yourself,’ she said, forgetting, or not realising, that he was perfectly capable of subsisting on his own, and had been doing so for the past six years with the help of Travers. ‘I will have Mrs Burrows make something up for you every day until you take on a new cook.’
He thanked her with a kiss and left.
It was not the discomfort of the lumpy bed that had kept him awake that night, but the knowledge that he was in the devil of a fix. There was no money in the estate coffers and the only income was rent from the tenants and he had no doubt their holdings had been neglected too and would need repairs. The money from the sale of the jewels would only stretch so far and then what was he to do?
However, he had always maintained there must be mutual affection in a marriage, which was why, he supposed, he was still single. He had met no one to whom he could give his heart and now he wondered if he ever would. And if his heart was not engaged, could he bring himself to look for a wealthy bride? Would the women around here all be like Miss Cartwright—mannish, spoiled, arrogant? There was only one way to find out and that was to mix socially and assess the situation. But putting the estate to rights must come first.
He was used to rising early and it was no hardship to get up at dawn, eat a Spartan breakfast and set off on horseback for Shrewsbury. He planned to see Mountford, have a look for furniture and carpets to make the principal downstairs rooms of the Hall presentable, and buy himself some clothes.
It was a mild spring day and he stopped on the way to admire the pink-and-gold sunrise over the hills. He breathed deeply and continued on down into the valley to Scofield. As he approached the Cartwright mill, he could hear the bell, warning employees that time was running out. They came hurrying along, men, women and children, streaming in through the open gates.
He reined in to wait for them to pass before proceeding. Some of them noticed him, pointing him out to their fellows, others bobbed a knee or touched a forelock. Two of the girls he remembered seeing in Amerleigh. They were probably daughters of estate workers. He smiled at them. ‘Good morning, young ladies.’
They stopped and giggled, then, remembering themselves, dipped a curtsy.
‘You come from Amerleigh?’ he queried.
‘Yes, sir, I mean, my lord.’ It was the older of the two who answered him.
‘Tell me your names.’ He asked because he thought he should know all his people, and they were still his people, even if circumstances meant they had to work in the mill.
‘I am Elizabeth Biggs,’ the elder said. ‘This is Matilda.’ Her sister, too shy to speak, looked at her feet.
‘And do you enjoy your work?’
‘It’s work, ain’t it?’ Beth said. ‘Better than the workhouse anyday.’
Everyone had gone into the mills and the clanging of the bells had suddenly stopped. ‘Oh, my, we’re late.’ Beth grabbed Matty by the hand and ran towards the gates just as they were being closed. Roland watched, expecting the gatekeeper to hold them open for the girls, but they were shut in their faces. They stood for a moment, then turned sorrowfully away, their shoulders drooping.
‘Why doesn’t he let you in?’ he asked them.
‘No one goes in after the bell stops,’ Beth told him. ‘We lose a day’s pay. It’s to teach us not to be late.’
‘But you were not late. You were here, ready to go in. If I had not detained you…’ He stopped speaking and reached in his pocket for his purse. ‘Here,’ he said, offering them half a crown. ‘I made you late, so I must recompense you.’ It was more than the day’s wage they would lose and they hesitated. ‘Go on, take it,’ he urged, holding it out.
Beth accepted the coin, murmuring her thanks, and they scampered away just as Miss Cartwright bowled up in her curricle.
She drew up beside him. He doffed his hat. ‘Good morning, ma’am.’
‘What was the matter with Beth and Matty?’ she asked. ‘Was one of them not well?’
‘No, they were shut out for stopping to speak to me.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’ It was a question, not an apology, uttered stiffly.
‘I mean you must have misunderstood.’
‘No, I do not think I did. I spoke to them and they stopped to answer. It was a brief exchange only and the gatekeeper could see them quite clearly. He shut the gates in their faces. If that is how you treat your employees, Miss Cartwright, then I pity them.’
‘Save your pity for your own employees, my lord,’ she retorted and drove up to the gates, which were immediately opened for her. She disappeared through them and they were shut behind her, leaving him staring at the words Cartwright Mill painted in large letters on them.
Charlotte left the curricle in the yard where a small boy came to walk the pony away and look after it until she was ready to leave again, and went in search of William Brock. She was seething. To be criticised by the Earl of Amerleigh over her treatment of her employees was the outside of enough. At least she was employing them, which was more than could be said for him. ‘What is your policy over latecomers?’ she demanded.
He looked puzzled. ‘You mean the hands who are late for work?’
‘Yes, the hands.’
‘They are locked out, ma’am. It’s to teach them punctuality, Miss Cartwright. They are rarely late more than once.’
‘I assume from that you mean they lose a day’s pay.’
‘Yes, of course. It has always been so. All the others mills do it.’
‘Not this one, Mr Brock. The two I saw turned away today are good workers and now we have lost their labour for a day. That is not good business sense.’
‘Their looms are not idle, I can find good weavers who can manage two at a time.’
‘Not good enough. In future, you will instruct the gatekeeper to take the names of those who arrive late and you will see that they are deducted half an hour’s wages for every five minutes they are late. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said resentfully.
‘Good, now let us get on with the business of the day.’
They went on to discuss other matters, then she inspected the looms, peeped into the schoolroom where the young man she employed to give the children an hour’s tuition during the midday break was preparing his lessons. She could not afford to take all the children off their work at once, so they came to him in two shifts. They were given a good dinner and then settled down to lessons. Any that showed promise she intended to send to school. She hated employing children, but knowing that not to do so would harm their families, she tried to make their working conditions as pleasant as possible.
By the middle of the afternoon, she had done as much as was needed