A Curse Dark as Gold (30 page)

Nothing but a wife going mad with the strain of it all.

Randall sighed, rose, squeezed my shoulder. "Have you seen Mrs. Tom?

I started. "What?"

"For some tea, or a tonic. To calm your nerves. Charlotte, anyone would be under a strain at a time like this -- and you've had some extra worries on top of everything."

Hadn't I just. Still, I lifted my hand to his and stroked his wrist. "That's a good idea," I said. "Maybe I will."

But I didn't.

***
Impatient, perhaps, for the child to be born, over the next weeks I was more "broodsome" than ever, as Randall put it -- some word he'd picked up in the village. But in truth, I seemed to feel something else looming -- some further crisis preparing to rear its head, and I wished to be ready for it.

It was a steamy day in August when the pending storm broke at last. I was in a sulky mood, feeling ponderous and ungainly under the increasingly awkward weight of the baby. I had quarrelled with Randall the day before, over something trivial, and he had departed for Harrowgate in an untalkative mood. I could not decide whether or not to miss him. Under an ever-widening prohibition of labor at the mill -- we'd been plagued with low water, and production had come to a stop until some rain replenished the millpond -- I had heard the word
curse
mumbled more than once that week, and I could not bring myself to silence those murmurs.

Deep in contemplation, I heard Harte or Rosie's hammer in the distance. Rosie poked her head in the office. "What's that pounding?"

"Well, if it's not you, it must be Harte."

"No, Ma'am," Harte said, sliding in beside Rosie. I could not help noting, yet again, how well matched they were. "Perhaps it's your ghost."

"You're not funny," I said wearily, prying myself free from the chair. "But if it is, I'll wring its wispy neck if it doesn't stop that. Well, I'm up. I may as well go home." We made our way down the stairs and outside. When Harte pulled the great doors closed, we saw the source of the hammering.

A notice had been tacked up on one door. Rosie yanked it down and read it aloud.

By orders of the Firm of Harrier & Price, debt brokers by Royal Appointment: This property,
Stirwaters Woollen Mill , located approximately three-quarter miles inside the eastern borders of the village of Shearing-upon-Stowe, in the Gold Valley, and consisting of one large mill building, one residence, and two smaller outbuildings, is hereby Seized pending auction of its land, premises, buildings, and assets, to pay the debts incurred by one Charlotte Constance Woodstone, nee Miller, of the same.

"What?" My voice was shrill. "Auction?"

"Is this some sort of prank?" Harte asked, steadying Rosie's wrist to study the notice. But, no -- we could clearly see the royal seal and a coat of arms for the brokerage; if a prank, it was an elaborate one.

"I don't understand," Rosie said. "What debts are they talking about? And what do they mean, 'seized'?"

"Just what it says there, miss," said a new voice. We turned as a group to see the man with the hammer, crossing back over the yard. He tipped his hat to us. "This Woodstone woman has defaulted on her debts, and her creditors are calling them in. Our firm's been agented to recover said debts, and we're authorized by his Majesty's law to seize any and all assets necessary in the recovery thereof." He thrust his hand forward. "Stephen Harrier, at your service."

No one moved. He was an oddly dressed fellow, with dark, oiled hair and an overbright green frock coat. He looked -- seedy, like somebody you'd meet in a dark alley in Harrowgate. Or a gambling den. "And you are?" he prompted, his face breaking into a wide smile.
"I am that Woodstone woman," I said, just to see that smile fade. "What is the meaning of this? I demand to know who brought these charges against me!"

"Ah." He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his coat and flipped through them. "Well, to begin with -- one Burke's and Taylor, haberdashers, of Harrowgate. Philip Prentiss, Perukier, Harrowgate. Stark --"

I peered over his hands, searching the names. "But I've never heard of any of these people! How can I be in debt to them?"

"Well, it seems
you
aren't. A Mr. Ellison Wheeler is, but apparently your name was given as surety on all the loans."

"What?" This from Rosie. "So what! Seize Uncle Wheeler's assets, auction him off!"

"I don't understand," I said. "What --?" I gave up, helpless.

Harte's easy voice broke in. "What's the sum, then, of all these charges?"

We examined the lists together. The charges were enormous -- a hundred pounds here, fifty there -- one staggering sum of
fifteen hundred pounds
to none other than Arthur Darling -- all adding up to an insurmountable debt of more than twenty-three hundred pounds. Easily the value of Stirwaters, and then some. "I can't pay these!"

Mr. Harrier gave his oily smile. "Well, then, you have
two
options: Submit to the auction, or be thrown in gaol."

Rosie gasped. "Debtors' prison?"

"Oh, surely not!" Harte said. "In her condition?"

Mr. Harrier looked me up and down in a way that made me feel stripped bare -- down to my "assets."
"Well, it would not be ideal," he said. "But it's been done before. Still, we can turn to her husband --"

"My husband!"

Mr. Harrier reached across me to turn a page. "Though the bulk of these debts were incurred prior to your marriage of -- December fifteenth last -- by virtue of said marriage, a Mr. Randall Woodstone, of Eamside and Harrowgate, became legally and financially responsible for you, Mrs. Woodstone. Now, if he'd be willing to cover the debts -- say, in cash, plus our twenty percent handling fee ..." He gave me a pointed look. "If not, there's a bench in Wardensgate sittin' cold and drafty, just waiting for an occupant."

My head spun. Everything we had been through to save Stirwaters since my father's death -- the lost workers, the battle with Pinchfields, the crazy bargains with Jack Spinner -- all the sneaking around and making up wild excuses . , . And our own Uncle Wheeler had been pulling us under, all along.

And now not only was Stirwaters in danger, but Randall's good name would be blackened as well. It was unthinkable. "What can I do?" I said.

Mr. Harrier gave me that oily smile again. "The auction's scheduled for tomorrow night. You come up with the money by then, well, you may forget you ever met me. If not..." He plucked the auction notice from Rosie's hand and tacked it back up on Stirwaters's doors. He tipped his hat, bowed to us all once again, and sauntered off into the village.

"The nerve of that man!" Rosie cried. "He can't -- he can't just
do
that, can he?"

"There must be something you can do," Harte said. "In the meantime, we'll have to send for Randall, Ma'am."
I turned on him. "Certainly not. We'll do no such thing. Do you think selling Stirwaters will satisfy them? If he comes near Shearing, they'll haul him off to prison!"

"But if he has the money --"

"No, no, no. This is
not
Randall's debt, and I'll not involve him."

"But --" Harte scowled, and it was as close to angry as I'd ever seen him. "You're not planning on submitting to this, then?"

I could almost smile. "Not on your life."

Anger fueling me like a fire, I yanked the notice down once more and marched into the Millhouse, where my uncle sat, calmly busy at some correspondence at the desk. It was stuffy in the parlor, despite the open windows; no breeze shifted the curtains in the heavy air. Uncle Wheeler worked steadily, painstakingly, occasionally lifting the paper to the light, as if to check that he had given each
f
the proper graceful swoop of tail; every
W
just the right flourish. I stepped a little farther into the room, and it was only when the bulk of my body cast a shadow over him that he looked up.

"Charlotte! What -- what a pleasant surprise." Uncle Wheeler swept his papers into a hasty pile, knocking his sleeve against the inkwell. He scrambled to right it. "What -- that is, what brings you here, my dear?"

"What is the meaning of this?" I demanded, thrusting the auction notice toward him.

For a moment, I could not read the expression on his face. "I did warn you, my dear, that managing a business was no job for a girl." He was tapping his quill against the inkwell, and a great droplet of ink flicked into the air, coming to land on the white lace of his cravat.

"These aren't my debts!" I stepped in closer, and he leaned in over his work -- but not quickly enough to hide the letter he was writing. I thought I recognized a familiar combination of letters, in an all-too-familiar script. Ignoring propriety, I pulled it out from the others, a hot, sick feeling seeping into my throat.

"Charlotte, don't --"
Dear Sir,

Please advance Mr. Ellison Wheeler the sum of fifty pounds, with my compliments. The money is secured by deposit at Uplands Mercantile Bank, Harrowgate.

Yours sincerely,his niece,

Mrs. Randall Woodstone

Woolhampton Grange, Shearing-on-the-Stowe

And another:

Milord,

Having become aware of some misunderstanding between you and my uncle, Mr. Ellison Wheeler of Shearing & Harrowgate, I am confident this should put to rest any fears regarding his solvency. Please do not hesitate to complete your business --

I stared at the papers in my hand -- my
handwriting.
"What is this? What are you doing?"
"Now, Charlotte, just let me have that back." He reached for the letter, but I pulled it out of his grasp. "Let's not get carried away, here. This is just a --"

"I don't have this kind of money! And you've
forged
my signature! How could you?"

His expression hardened. "How could I? A man has to live on something, my dear, and it's not as if you girls were the very font of ready cash, after all. What else was I supposed to do?"

I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. My head swam from the heat of the room, and the back of my bodice was damp with sweat. "You've ruined us," I said, appalled at how reasonable I sounded. "We've lost everything now."

He hesitated. "Yes, well. I didn't expect Darling to go that far. But, look, it's only --"

"Darling?" The sick feeling spread to my belly, and then to my hands, until they trembled. I'd been such a fool -- how could I ever have believed a word he said to me? "You
planned
this, with Pinchfields, all along. The meeting in Harrowgate, and the fire, and now this auction --"

"No! Of course not. Charlotte, look. Try and calm yourself. You're in no state to be getting so upset." He rose from the desk and put a hand on my arm. I wrenched away from him. "Now, my dear, just listen a moment. I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding."

"I've
misunderstood
your forgery? I've misunderstood this auction notice? I hardly think so, Uncle. It all seems perfectly clear to me." I swallowed hard, a bitter taste in my mouth. "What did he offer you?"

For a moment he looked confused. "Who?"
"Darling! Arthur Darling. What did Pinchfields offer you to steal my mill from me?"

Uncle Wheeler gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. "Offer? My dear, understand me: A man like Arthur Darling doesn't make offers. He makes threats, and as you have seen for yourself, he is not afraid to carry them out."

"I don't --" But suddenly I did understand. Fifteen hundred pounds was a lot of incentive. "So that was it, then? Find a way to deliver Stirwaters, or go back to debtors' prison?"

His lip curled. "That's close enough. I'd say he's finally run out of patience with us both."

I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to quiet my raging thoughts. This was it, then. Pinchfields had won, and the game had been stacked against us all along. I balled up the forged letters, crushing them in my damp fist. Slowly, a terrible thought surfaced, and I beheld the crumpled letters in my hand, the strokes of my own penmanship creased and twisted into something unfamiliar. I smoothed a finger down the letters of my name.

"The letter from my father. You wrote that."

Uncle Wheeler gave me a long, steady look, and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"He never wanted you to come here," I said, my voice verging on shrill. "He never asked you to be our guardian!"

He gave a wan smile, as if to say, "What can you do?"

"I want you out of this house." I reached inside the desk and grabbed at the contents, stacking everything into an untidy heap, which I pushed toward him. "Take your lies and your debts and your -- your purple ink, and get out of my home."

My uncle folded his arms across his chest. "Well, now, I'm sure I'd like that very much -- but, ah, this won't be your house for very much longer, will it?"

My arms trembling, I dumped the papers on the desk. I met his gaze, until he flicked his eyes away. "I see," I said quietly. "And what do you suppose will become of
you
now, Uncle?"