Flawless (40 page)

“Masters are never new. He’ll be a parrot for the one before him, and for the one before him.”

Livingstone glared as he shoved them through the front door. “You two, quiet.”

He and another overseer, Robert Huttle, flanked Polly as if she posed the most immediate physical threat. The skin along her neck shrank as if trying to escape. Four doors along either side of a short hallway were all closed. What manner of bookkeepers inhabited those concealed rooms? Did they know where the cotton came from? Where the cloth went? She merely stood at a machine all day, her eyes shriveling when she forgot to blink. Repetitive. Every motion, thought, day the same. Hunched clerks behind wooden doors saw more of the world from their ledgers and manifests than she ever would, though they might never appreciate their narrow cubbyholes with such imagination.

They arrived before a door at the end of the hallway. Livingstone opened it with a heavy iron key and pushed the detainees inside.

Polly had been inside that same office many times since her thirteenth birthday, when she and her father were suspected of writing and distributing notices about
an upcoming rally. Only the humiliation of being proven unable to read had saved her that day—the day when she decided to do whatever she could to help the union.

However, she had never seen the master’s office like this. A wall of new, empty shelves lined the eastern and western walls. The air still smelled of freshly cut pine boards and the alcohol sweetness of varnish. The oversized desk, always so imposing, was entirely devoid of clutter. A rich sheen warmed its highly polished surface.

All renovated. All expectant. But still devoid of the master she sought to meet.

If that remained the case, if Mr. Christie did not appear, then Livingstone’s harassment and Polly’s missed work would be for naught. Indignation boiled under her skin and left a sour taste on her tongue.

She sat beside Agnes, while the men stood. No one spoke. A thick press of tension gathered as did sweat along her hairline. But Livingstone would see it if she fidgeted. So she sat perfectly still, her fingers as neatly folded as the braids of a little girl on Sunday morning.

Ten minutes passed. Then another ten. The sweet varnish scent was overcome by the palpable reek of Tommy’s anger and Les’s indignation: sharp, bitter, hot. Both men radiated with energy, although she knew only Tommy would use violence. Les was a chatterbox and a reasonable thinker, but he was whippet thin, prone to a flurry
of words rather than punches. Hamish lit another roll of tobacco, which threatened to send Polly’s stomach over the edge. She swallowed fiercely to hold down the nauseated gurgle in her belly.

“Now where the hell is he?” Tommy finally shouted.

Polly flinched. Part of her feared what damage her first boyfriend was capable of rendering, but she was also pleased that at least one of them had finally spoken up. She would have, had her ambition to meet the new mill master not trumped her pride.

Livingstone lifted his truncheon. “Be quiet, you.”

“I won’t, you puffed-up prig. You drag us down here in the middle of a working day . . . to what? Admire an empty office? Sod that. I’m not staying.”

Robert Huttle, with his overly wide shoulders and flattened face, barred the door. “You’ll stay here as long as we say.”

“As
you
say?” Polly asked. “Are we not here on the direction of the new master?”

Livingstone raked a filthy gaze down to her bodice, then back to her face. “Oh? Did I give that impression? So sorry.”

Tommy’s face turned the color of cooked beets. “You son of a—”

But Hamish and Les grabbed both of Tommy’s arms before he could launch at Livingstone. Polly jumped up
too. She placed her hands flat against his bony chest. “Not now, Tommy. Not here. Please. Do it for me.”

“Do it for me,” Livingstone mocked. “And you hope she’ll do for you later.”

Tommy spat to one side. “I beat you to her, you sniveling pig.”

“Enough! I won’t have my private business used as fodder for a shouting match.” She turned her back to Tommy, confident he would do no worse than to ungallantly mention their shared past. “I suggest you either remand us to the nearest constabulary for questioning, present us to the mill master so we may address his concerns, or let us return to the factory.”

Livingstone broached the space between them, with Huttle close behind. At her back, Polly could feel Tommy, Hamish, and Les tense. If she handled this without the right nuance, she would be caught between ten flying fists.

“You think you’re in charge here, Polly?” Livingstone asked with that raspy nightmare of a voice. “With your fancy words and your da’s sass?”

“No, Mr. Livingstone. Surely this was all some . . . mistake. Let us part as fellow workers who all draw sustenance from the same company.” She significantly eyed the brocade satin waistcoat that peeked out of his greatcoat. “After all, our productivity means your prosperity.”

His narrow eyes were nearly swallowed up by his
squint, as if he could look hard enough to read whether she spoke in earnest or in jest.
Look all you like.
She had not achieved her place within the union hierarchy by being easily read or intimidated. Still, she was very glad he could not hear her heart. That fast, traitorous rhythm would have clearly revealed her nerves.

“This was a warning,” he said. “You can expect more of the same if we don’t get answers about that explosion.”

“We? Are you speaking for the elusive Mr. Christie?”

His gaze flicked away. Brief. But telling.

Polly edged into his space. He was a good half foot taller, but he held no power over her. Not at that moment. “You haven’t met him yet, either. Have you?”

“No business of yours. Get out of here.”

“Not until you tell me who has.”

But Livingstone’s moment of weakness had passed. He crossed his arms and stared down with bald-faced contempt. “Keep your head down, Polly Gowan, or our next meeting won’t be so pleasant.”

“My imagination has not that potential. Good day, Mr. Livingstone.”

She brushed past him, ably dousing her disgust. Agnes joined her and the men followed, hounded by the echo of Livingstone’s rasping chuckles. “Got to watch that young one, Huttle. Graham Gowan’s daughter. She’ll bite you as soon as speak to you.”

Keeping her eyes forward was a challenge but Polly persevered. Yes, she had bit Livingstone. And she would bite his bloody finger clean off next time he tried touching between her legs. The insult was sharp enough to rouse Tommy again, but Hamish and Les did their best to drag him outdoors.

“Goddamn vermin is what they are,” Les said into the strengthening wind. “Turning against their own kind like that. What evil, infected wombs did they crawl out of?”

“Enough of that gutter talk,” Hamish snapped. “What’s done is done.” He nodded toward where the wagon was no longer tethered. “I suppose we’re walking back. Will give Tommy here a chance to cool off.”

Tommy hunched into his coat, his expression dangerous. “That bastard deserved my fist in his face.”

“But I’m proud of you for withholding,” Polly said. “The last thing you need is more trouble. None of us need it. Until we find out who sabotaged the factory—betraying us as surely as revealing union secrets to the masters—we must keep a low profile.”

The men reluctantly nodded their agreement, which suffused Polly, as ever, with a sense of importance. They listened to her. They trusted her judgment. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of being Graham Gowan’s daughter, but she rather fancied thinking that her own personality
and quick thinking had something to do with the respect she had fought to earn. Respect was better than most girls in Calton received.

She intended, however, to do one better. The union would tear itself apart trying to find the identities of the saboteurs, while the elusive Mr. Christie hid behind his secrets. They could afford no more such pointless delays. Time to press her father’s contacts a little harder. Surely someone would know who and where he was.

“You boys go on ahead,” she continued, linking arms with Agnes. “We have an errand to attend.”

Alex needed a break from
the expense reports and informational pamphlets spread across his desk. Numbers of a distinctly commercial variety clogged his vision and his thoughts. There remained so much to learn. For the first time, he wondered how his father had successfully ingratiated himself into so many varied businesses. Had he really learned each industry as thoroughly as Alex was trying to learn the textile trade? Or did enterprises eventually come to resemble one another, so that the commodity no longer mattered?

No matter how his father had managed, Alex was not a businessman. The only way he knew to approach a topic was to study it from the ground up to the limitless sky—an aim made difficult because of Edmund’s health.
The wet nurse he had recruited in Rhode Island would leave in three weeks to rejoin family in London. And he still had no reliable nurse. Even his contacts at the University of Glasgow had fallen short on recommendations. Every able-bodied woman in the city seemed to be employed in the factories. Those he had interviewed were either too young, and therefore woefully inexperienced to care for a boy with Edmund’s needs, or so recalcitrant in their views on parenting that he feared their methods.

So he did what he was wont to do when the stress and strangeness became too much: he consulted his telescope. The largest and by far the most expensive piece of equipment he owned occupied a place of importance in his library, with the powerful lens pointed skyward. However, it could have been pointed toward a thick pile of muck for how often he’d seen the stars. Glasgow was enshrouded in a heavy layer of cloud and smoke that rarely abated. Thus, rather than ease his frustration and permit his mind to float along familiar, even comforting paths, he was only reminded of his significantly altered life.

He adjusted a dial, fiddled with a knob, and wrote a few notes on a sheet of paper. And he held still at the sound of knocks at his front door.

Curious.

The courier he used for deliveries to and from his shift manager had already made his two assigned daily visits. Alex had met his key members of staff during his first week in Glasgow. The men were educated, from good merchant families. He trusted them with the discretion he desired as he sought care for Edmund and secured his footing in the industry.

In an effort to conserve funds, he had hired a man named Griggs to act as butler, valet, and coachman. Alex’s garments were never
quite
right, and the horses took a good while to hitch, but Griggs served as a rather respectable butler. The sound of his voice in the foyer, in heated discussion with a young woman, urged Alex to further awareness.

Perhaps an interview for Edmund’s nurse he had forgotten?

“Miss! Miss, you cannot go up there.”

“I insist. In fact, I insist on behalf of every person employed by Christie Textiles.”

The sound of feet clomping up the stairs actually made Alex . . . grin? He shouldn’t be grinning. But the resolute, heavily accented voice of a riled woman diverted him in ways he could not explain.

Rarely did he appreciate things he could not explain.

“You tell me if I’m wrong in thinking Mr. Alexander Christie does not live here.” The door burst open.

Red hair. He was felled by a head of exquisite red hair. That the young woman also had a petite, lush figure only added to his bewildered amusement.

“I am Alex Christie,” he said past his dry tongue. “And yes, I do live here. Now shall we hear your half of this unconventional introduction?”