Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

G race's smile …Lucien could not stop thinking about it as the hack rattled along the crowded street where factories and all manner of businesses crowded together. Wagons laden with bales and crates and barrels jockeyed for position, the drivers lashing out with whips and curses. Roofs speckled with chimneys belched coal smoke.

He had spent a lifetime believing that commerce was the lifeblood of the empire. But as they rattled up to the building with Pinchbeck and Freyne painted on the sign, he wondered whose blood was being spilled to make it so. Simon and his friend Jamie McLeod's in the war in Afghanistan that had scarred them both? Families like the Nolans?

And Grace believed he could change things, her eyes shining at him as if he were a far better man than he could ever hope to be.

"Not exactly Bond Street," Arkwright observed as they climbed out and walked toward a pair of wide doors that led into Pinchbeck's. "If someone had told me the Viscount Everdene would be touring a factory to view working conditions, I would never have believed it. Grace may be the best thing that ever happened to you, old friend."

He didn't doubt it. The observation made him damned uncomfortable. It remained to be seen whether he would benefit her as well.

A cacophony of noise greeted them, the clanking and whirring of machines, the shouts of workers. Sharp chemical smells assailed their nostrils, and he felt as if he needed to sneeze as bits of fiber floated through the air. They made their way to the glass-encased main office where they met a barrel-chested man whose eyes were all but lost beneath the formidable shelf of his brow. He had a well-fed look about him, muscles bulging nearly as much as his arrogance as he twirled a long staff in his hand.

"Good morning, your honors," he greeted them. "Name's Mr. Crimmins. I'm foreman here. How can I be of service to you fine gentlemen today?"

"I am the Viscount Everdene and this is Mr. Arkwright. We are here in search of Lord Pinchbeck or Mr. Freyne."

"Afraid you'll have to return another time if you wish to speak to them. They're both visiting Manchester, looking to buy another factory there."

"A factory for…?"

"Cloth, same as here. But there's far more industry up north an' the masters aim to raise production. Mr. Freyne has a source for the finest bales of raw cotton from Georgia and Louisiana for a price you'd not believe."

Oh, Lucien would believe it. It was no surprise you could produce cotton cheaply when you didn't pay wages to the enslaved people who harvested it. He remembered Freyne's assertion at Gunter's ice shop. People could choose to buy more expensive fabric with cotton grown by freedmen if they wished. But could they really? He looked out at the factory workers barely scraping by. What happened when you had to choose between your moral compass and survival?

"How unfortunate that the factory owners are unavailable," Lucien said. "You seem to know a great deal about the workings here. Is there any chance you could show us about?"

Crimmins puffed up at Lucien's praise but looked doubtful.

"Lord Pinchbeck offered me a chance to invest in the business," Lucien continued, "but my schedule is rather crushing, and I have another venture to consider. On to the next possibility, eh, Arkwright?" Lucien gestured to his friend, making it seem as if they were about to leave.

"We're turning a fine profit," Crimmins said hastily. "Come in, come in. I will give ye a look about. Hate t' have ye miss out on such a fine investment."

More likely he would hate to have his bosses find out he'd lost them the opportunity to bring in ready cash to offset the purchase of a new factory. "You are so kind…"

Crimmins led them out to the main floor.

It was like walking into the belly of some great beast. Darkness crowded every corner, candles providing the only light.

"These machines are a wonder, m'lord," the foreman said as he led Lucien and Arkwright onto a narrow walkway along one wall, high above main floor. From that vantage point Lucien was able to see the whole factory and the people working below. The metallic sound of the machinery and roar of engines grew deafening, the smell of chemicals thickening the air. Lucien pictured what could happen if one of the candles tipped over. Fire engulfing the building with terrifying speed? An explosion?

"These machines can do the work of countless people in half the time. We're livin' in an age o' marvels."

He could see the frenetic actions of the workers more clearly now. Women bent over their tasks, moving so quickly that their hands seemed to blur. Children darted in and out under the machines or climbed on shaky stools to do God knew what. Men wheeled carts hither and yon, shouting and banging on machines trying to fix them.

"Can you tell me about your workers?" Lucien asked over the roar.

"What about 'em?" Crimmins scratched his pungent armpit.

"You have a lot of women and children working here. Many of them mothers, no doubt. What happens when a child falls sick or gets injured?"

The man looked genuinely puzzled by the question. "Never affects production, I promise you. If they're not back at their post the next morning, got a dozen new ones clamoring t' do the work."

A shout rang out over the clamor of noise, and Lucien saw a man lash out with a strap, striking a child who was darting beneath one of the machines.

Lucien's breath caught as the girl's head barely missed the whirring metal parts.

Even Arkwright noticed, saying, "That girl was almost caught in the moving gears. Why didn't the man running it turn them off?"

"An idle machine makes no money," the foreman said, following their gaze. "We hire children small so they can squeeze in and out while the machine keeps producing."

"And if those children don't get out of the machinery's way in time?" Arkwright asked.

"See one or two accidents an' the others'll move quicker, won't they? I can tell you think me hard, but better they do an honest day's work than run the streets." He shrugged. "Sure, some few might get caught in the gears, but they could just as easily get run over by a beer wagon or snatched up by some thieving Jenny to pick pockets or house break. Wind up at the end of a noose or deported t' a penal colony. What else they going to do if not work here?"

"Perhaps," Arkwright suggested, "if they could learn to read and figure sums they might better their lot?"

His friend's simple comment made Lucien see Grace's work with the school in a whole new light.

The comment clearly went over Crimmins's head. "Then who would work the machines? These folk are like the horses that pull the plow. It's what God made 'em for."

Had there been a time Lucien had accepted that was so? The thought turned his stomach now. No doubt, his father had certainly believed it, never more so than when he'd ordered Simon to level the village of Everdene so the view from the Harcourt manor house would be ‘a pleasing prospect.'

He turned his attention back to the foreman. "How long have you worked here, Mr. Crimmins?"

"Six years, I'm proud to say. Foreman for three."

"I have an interest in a man who was once employed here. Darragh Nolan. I believe he was fired from his position two years ago. Do you remember him?"

The foreman's brow furrowed. "Aye. Fired him myself a' Lord Pinchbeck's order. Got into fisticuffs with one of our strappers. We've no tolerance for troublemakers. Have to make them an example to the rest, like Lord Pinchbeck an' Mr. Freyne say."

"Have you heard any news of him since?"

"Don't know where he went. Only know that he did."

Lucien drew a coin from his waistcoat pocket and turned it over between his long fingers, the silver winking in the candlelight. "You're certain?"

The foreman swallowed as if his throat had gone dry, his eyes fixed on the coin. "Someone did claim to see him sometime last spring."

"Give me names."

"Don't have 'em. Just somethin' I heard in passin'. Didn't believe it. Boatloads of Irish pouring in causin' trouble. Who can tell one from the other?"

"I will pay handsomely for information that leads me to Darragh Nolan." Lucien handed the man the coin, then one of his cards.

"His wife and son work here. I could?—"

"I've already questioned them, so no need for you to."

The man canted his head, shrewd eyes narrowing. "What's a man like ye want with Nolan, yer lordship?"

"That is for me to know. But understand this, I do not suffer fools. Deceive me and you will learn why people fear the Harcourts."

The man swallowed hard, his gaze darting away. Lucien and Arkwright strode toward the door of the building, workers staring as they passed.

Lucien never expected to find himself rapping at the door of Mrs. Watson's Boarding House for Men, but here he was, ready to beg a favor of a man who hated him. He pictured Tom O'Malley's face in the rushlight of the Nolan tenement, his eyes grim as the pistol he'd carried.

Steeling himself for a rocky reception, Lucien waited until the establishment's proprietress opened the door. Stout and stringently clean she had the look of a formidable mother, the kind that could keep a dozen sons sitting on a church pew without fidgeting at all.

Lucien could hear a voice from the other room, someone reading aloud perhaps? As Mrs. Watson paused before what looked to be a modest parlor, he glimpsed men of various ages lounging on worn settees, sitting backwards on spindly chairs or stretched out on the floor before the fire. Every eye was fixed on Tom O'Malley, an open book in his hands as he brought characters' voices to life. It was a tone Lucien recognized well from his time in parliament—compelling, hard to resist, one that could raise spirits or dash them, spur men into action. Mrs. Watson clapped and the reading stopped abruptly, heads swiveling toward the open door.

"Got a visitor for Mr. O'Malley," the proprietress said. "That Lord Everdene wots in the dailies." Everyone in the room craned their necks to stare, and Lucien felt a chill at what he saw on their faces.

The glare O'Malley shot past Mrs. Watson to where Lucien stood could have burned a hole in solid steel. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I need to speak with you on a matter of importance. Alone."

The other men's gaze shifted to O'Malley, darkening with suspicion. Even Mrs. Watson regarded him as if he might carry some contagion.

"We'll finish the chapter later," O'Malley growled, carefully closing the book and setting it aside. He stood and stalked toward Lucien as if counting out paces in a duel. O'Malley took him to a room crammed with a narrow cot, a small table with books, Chartist pamphlets, a pen and foolscap. A small frame with a sketch of some kind stood off to one side. Lucien looked more closely. It was a sketch of a much younger Moira Nolan before Sibby Rose, Robert and Scrap, and the shabby room in the Seven Dials. She was on a swing, laughing.

O'Malley walked over to the table and turned the frame face-down, then crossed his arms over his broad chest and glared at Lucien. "How did you find me?" he demanded.

"It was not difficult. You have caught the attention of authorities, though they have no reason to arrest you—yet. I wondered if I could buy you a meal at a pub."

"Tryin' to ruin my reputation? Not on your life." He scoffed. "What'd you want? Our boy Oliver Twist just got mixed up with some pickpocket an' it's not goin' t' go well for him."

Lucien arched his brows in surprise. "You are reading Dickens? I would think books were too dear."

"Your sort'd like t' keep learnin' out o' our hands, wouldn't ye? Since that Dickens fellow started writing we pool our money together an' whoever is able t' read reads 'em aloud."

Lucien felt an unexpected spark of admiration.

"Got it just right, the way things are for us," O'Malley continued. "Not that it's any o' yer business. So, what the devil are you here for? Speak your piece an' get it over with."

Lucien had to hand it to the man. There weren't many who would dare address a peer this way. But then, just his sort had set up a guillotine in France seventy years ago, and there were plenty more across the continent who would be happy to do so again. The thought made him more cautious and he wondered if this had been an ill-thought-out venture.

"I have come about Darragh Nolan. What is the situation with his family?"

"Like ye give a damn." O'Malley snarled a bitter laugh. "Leave the Nolans alone. Moira has enough trouble with without folks seein' you muckin' around."

"I intend to find her husband and I need your help. Then again…maybe you want him to stay missing." He gestured to the overturned frame. "I saw the way you looked at his wife."

"Why you—" O'Malley's fists knotted. "What do you know about a woman like Moira, except that you can take her with just a crook o' yer lordly finger whether she will or no? She's fine as Irish lace, she is. Aye, I tried to win her before your sort threw me in Kilmainham Jail for speakin' the simple truth! If she was unmarried I'd try again. But I'm not willing to kill my friend for the chance."

"Even indirectly?" Lucien's gaze sharpened. "You sent Darragh Nolan to the mines, didn't you? You cannot control a blast. Light the fuse but keep your hands clean and let the gunpowder do the rest. Just like you goad men into riots like the ones at Pall Mall or outside the theater. The authorities told me what you do. Make speeches, then stand back and let others take the saber cuts or bullets when troops ride in. Then you are nowhere to be seen."

Two bright spots of color burned on O'Malley's cheeks. His chin jutted at a pugnacious angle. "Maybe some leaders do that, but not me. If it comes to physical force like some claim it will, I'll be at the head of those who fight, not in the rear like your fancy lords and generals." His lips curled in contempt. "All we want is a say in our own fate. Who will see to our needs while we're not represented in parliament? If we stay silent your sort will keep grinding us down until there is nothing left but dust. Some folks figured you might have a care for our plight, considering the village you built. People are talking about it, even here." O'Malley shot him a hard look. "But me? I know that you Aristos only think of yourselves."

Lucien thought of New Everdene, the creation Simon and Penelope had fought for. He'd thought it reckless at first, a huge expense when estates all over England and Ireland were struggling. God knew, it was still a challenge to pay for what had been done. And yet, there was something about New Everdene. Walking through the well-planned lanes, seeing the sturdy cottages with hearths instead of mere holes in the roof for smoke to be let out. Tidy gardens and green space for children to play…Had seeing the difference between his father's plan to destroy the village and his brother's dream of building something better been the beginning of this change in Lucien himself?

"New Everdene was my brother's doing," Lucien said. "He insists we can change things one family at a time. I want to understand the Nolans' story. I am asking you to tell me."

"Same as most of the Irish in London. We came here so we wouldn't starve when the potato crop failed. Here's no better. You English loathe us for bein' Irish, men like Pinchbeck give the jobs to women who work for pennies on what a man would earn an' children like Robert for even less. Pinchbeck'd have Scrap working if he could reach the looms. An' the way the foremen treat those babes…it's a wonder any see their first whiskers grow."

"Mrs. Nolan said a child was being struck and her husband intervened."

"That's the truth of it." O'Malley nodded. "But Darragh's rage was already simmerin', just waitin' t' blow. He was that far gone in drink, seein' the hell he'd brought his family to. Couldn't bear to see them suffer."

Lucien pictured Grace and the child they hoped to conceive.

"Something broke in Darragh, it did. He left London two Christmases ago an' I feared even then he'd never look back."

"The family needs help." Lucien kept his voice neutral, and yet, O'Malley winced, stung.

"You think I haven't tried everything I can to help Moira and the babes? She won't move out of that rat's nest because she's waitin' for Darragh t' come home. Keepin' the faith that he will. She says ‘Here's where my husband left me, an' here's where we'll be when he walks through that door.'" O'Malley's voice broke. He stalked to the scarred boardinghouse table, and leaned his hands flat against it, his back to Lucien. "Jaysus, Mary an' Joseph."

Lucien paused a moment, letting O'Malley collect himself, then said quietly, "I spoke to a Mr. Crimmins at Pinchbeck's factory today. He says some men claimed to see Nolan in London last spring."

The Irishman whipped around to face him, something flashing in his eyes. Disbelief or deception?

"Do you think it is possible that Darragh is in London?" Lucien asked.

"I think that bastard Crimmins would say he'd seen Moses and the angels for coin."

But there was something unreadable in O'Malley's face.

"If Darragh was in London he would try to catch a glimpse o' Moira and the babes. Even if he couldn't bear to speak to 'em. Or he'd come to me. He knows where I lodge."

A sudden memory stirred and Lucien thought of the man he'd seen following the children the day he'd plucked Scrap down from the statue. "You say he couldn't bear to see his children suffer. Is it possible he might keep watch over them? That Sibby Rose or her brothers might have seen him?"

"Scrap wouldn't know him from Adam. He was barely toddling about when Darragh left. Sibby Rose not much older. I doubt even Sibby would recognize him after all this time."

Lucien rubbed his jaw with one hand. "I have devised a plan." He would write to his brother's business partner. McLeod had connections in Glasgow. "I will hire an agent of inquiry here in London."

"You are serious about this."

"Entirely."

The Irishman's gaze sharpened. "Why?" he demanded. "What is it to you?"

Lucien inhaled a deep breath. "Because my wife has a soft heart. She wants to help the family. Their situation can only be considered desperate with the little ones suffering."

"Like half the wee ones in St. Giles, an' every Catholic in Ireland." The Irishman's gaze clashed with Lucien's like sword blades. "I don't like you. I don't trust you. But if you can find Darragh…I'll work with you."

Lucien felt a wave of triumph. "Agreed."

"But on this alone. If you're thinkin' of pryin' into any o' my other business for your fine authority friends, you'll regret it. I'll know. You have my word on it."

Lucien hesitated, glancing down at the Chartist pamphlets. What if he stumbled across some plot that endangered lives? "Spying upon your more questionable activities is not my intent," he said with all honesty.

O'Malley seemed satisfied.

"If I hear any news, I will come to the boarding house," Lucien said.

"Be takin' your life in your hands t' come here again. Most people in the Dials would stab you as soon as look at you. I'll come t' you if I hear anything. An' if you learn something, just send word an' I'll get t' you fast as I can."

"You have my card. You can reach me at Raven's Court or at my office near Westminster."

"I just can't get my head around it." O'Malley regarded him with shrewd eyes, one work-battered hand rubbing his stubbled jaw. "Why would you do this? Why now? I know your family's record in parliament. Your father voted against every law that would benefit people like us. And so, my lord, did you."

It was true. There were past votes that filled him with shame. But now…images flashed through Lucien's mind. Grace's delight over the slates and slate pencils, Scrap Nolan who had trusted him enough to drop from the statue into his arms. The feel of Sibby Rose against his chest as they raced through the mob at the theater, then the child in the big bed at Raven's Court, the bandage around her head. He pictured Sibby Rose and her ribbon, remembered the feel of Scrap clinging to him with such trust.

Lucien had thought he had seen poverty in the years before. But he had not walked the peoples' streets. Spoken to them and seen their courage and their fear. Their love for their children. He had not seen their world through his own ‘Little Nell's' eyes…

Who would have guessed that merely reading a novel could alter your world? He thought of O'Malley, his tale of how the poor pooled their coin to buy the book, to read it together….

Why now? O'Malley's question echoed in his head.

Lucien laughed just a little at himself. "You're not the only one who read Dickens," he said.

He started to walk toward the boarding house door.

"Your lordship." O'Malley's voice stopped him.

He paused and turned, regarding the Irishman's wary expression.

"About your wife…"

Every muscle in Lucien's body tightened. "What about her?"

O'Malley's eyes shifted away. "Speaks to everyone interested like. That ribbon she gave Sibby Rose…Moira says the child wears it every day and's been sleepin' with it under her pillow at night." He moved the pamphlets into a pile on his desk, the task taking longer than it should. "After you two left the day you brought Sibby home, she told us how the lady brings the Sunday School apples, an' soft rolls an' shows 'em toy soldiers an' such t' make 'em smile."

Lucien could picture Grace doing just that. After all, she had made him smile. Made him laugh when he'd thought he'd forgotten how. He wondered if she had found the toy soldier she'd lost.

"She's a rare one, she is," O'Malley said.

"Thank you."

"I ain't saying it to compliment her. It's more a warning. You'd do well t' keep her away from where the school is, Lord Everdene. That area's a hotbed o' discontent right now." He drummed work worn fingers on the pamphlets. "Sometimes it only takes one spark to set the world on fire."

The back of Lucien's neck prickled. "Is that a threat, O'Malley? Do you know something you're not telling me?"

"Like I said…Just givin' fair warnin'. Been caught in the middle of a donnybrook already, hasn't she? I'm not one for striking out at women, but there are plenty who don't give a damn. Be a shame if a kind lady like yours got caught in the flames."