Where The Heart Is (Choices of the Heart, book 1) (13 page)

Chelle got to her feet and slipped out. Perhaps the Paxtons were right after all, and it would be best for all concerned if she simply stayed away. She’d surely be setting herself, Martin and Leah up for heartbreak if she didn’t.

Chapter Thirteen

“Louden, I said I didn’t want to be disturbed. What is it?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Westlake, but there’s a young man here asking to see you, one of the mill office clerks. I told him you were occupied but he said you wouldn’t thank me for turning him away, and I thought it might be something about the fire. Shall I send him on his way?”

“Who is he?”

“Drew Markham, sir.”

Phillip Westlake took a moment to get a grip on his temper. He really didn’t have time for this right now. The week since the fire had been packed with extra paperwork. He knew Drew Markham as an efficient clerk, though he had a bit of an unsavory reputation in the village. Louden’s face certainly showed no liking for Drew, and Phillip had learned long ago to trust his valet/butler’s instincts about the local people, but the lad might be inclined to cause trouble if he was turned away. It might be wiser to hear what he had to say. “No, I may as well see him. Send him in here.”

Phillip cleared the papers from his desk and swiveled in his chair to look out the office window. Driving rain obscured his view of the mill with its smoke-blackened warehouse. Perhaps this whole episode was a message, telling him the time had come to bow out.

Truth be told, he was tired. The climb from his beginnings as a junior office clerk in Lancashire to wealth and ownership of his own mill had taken his illusions as well as his youth, and all but the shell of his marriage. He’d been born a shopkeeper’s son and always would be, at least in the eyes of the society his wife courted in London. What more did he have to prove to the world?

A discreet cough made him turn around. Louden came into the office, followed by Drew Markham.

“Mr. Markham, sir.”

Phillip nodded toward the chair on the other side of the desk. “Sit down, Markham, and tell me what’s so very urgent.”

Louden retreated and closed the door behind him. Markham sat and crossed his legs in front of him, a smile on his face. “Aye, I have something to tell you right enough, Mr. Westlake. It’s about the night the mill burned.”

Bile rose in Phillip’s throat. He’d gone to the mill himself that night, not wanting to trust the job to anyone else. He’d waited till the watchman was at the other end of the property, touched a match to some oily rags in the warehouse and hurried home, certain he hadn’t been noticed. It never occurred to him that the watchman, Ethan Bowes, would be fool enough to try to fight the fire himself. “I see.”

Markham’s smile widened as he leaned forward. “Do you? Aye, well, let’s be sure. It was a fine moonlit evenin’, remember? And it so happens I’d walked over to Carston to the harvest dance. I took the long track home, the one that comes out to the road on this side of the village. I passed the mill just as the fire was takin’ hold. I looked over here and saw the light go out in the window of this room, but not before I saw you standin’ there, watchin’.”

Phillip relaxed in his chair and fit his fingertips together, willing himself not to react. It was possible… just possible. He
had
watched from the window for a moment to see the fire take hold, but only for a moment. If, by some fiendish chance, Markham had been on the road, he could have seen Phillip without being seen himself. “So you saw me standing at a window, and you think that proves something. And now you want me to buy your silence, am I correct?”

“You’re a quick one, Mr. Westlake.”

“I’m flattered. I wonder if you thought of this little scheme yourself. I suppose you did. I doubt you’d have the cleverness to think of anything better. If you think I’m guilty, go to the police. They’ll laugh at you. What reason could I possibly have to try to destroy a business that was turning a healthy profit?”

Thankfully, Phillip had always made sure to keep his speculation in cotton separate from mill business. Everything was in his partner’s name. Stuart McBeath, his oldest friend and the father of Maria’s fiancé, could be trusted absolutely. The insurance investigators had already examined the fire scene, looked at the mill’s books and seen no need to look further. They had no idea that the dearth of cotton from America had left him in a desperate position.

Phillip rose from his chair. Even if Markham had seen him that night, the man couldn’t prove anything. No one who mattered would believe him. “You’re wasting your time and mine, Markham. I have business to attend to. You may see yourself out.”

Still smiling, Drew got to his feet and doffed his cap. “Have it your way, sir. I’ll give my regards to Miss Westlake the next time I see her, then. She’ll likely listen to me.”

Phillip fought down an urge to strike the man and instead smiled back. He considered firing Markham on the spot, but then the man would have nothing to lose by spreading his story. It would be wiser to keep that card in reserve. Markham had to know he’d rot in prison or hang if he tried to harm Maria.

As for anything he might say, Maria would no more believe him than the magistrate would. “Oh, I don’t think you’re quite that stupid, Markham. Now, are you leaving, or shall I have you removed from the house and arrested for uttering threats against my daughter? And be assured, if I hear any more about this you will lose your situation. Good day.”

* * *

Maria reached the top of the hill outside Mallonby and stopped for breath. The early November twilight had faded to a chill dusk, with a half moon rising pale and clear over the dales. She should be getting home, but her walk to Carston and back seemed to have increased her restlessness instead of easing it as she’d hoped. She hated the thought of going in. She might as well run an errand to Bingham’s first.

She started down the hill, watching the light in her father’s study window. She hadn’t bothered to tell him she was going out. He’d been short-tempered and preoccupied for months, since long before the fire. Maria knew all wasn’t well with his financial affairs, and she thought the trouble had something to do with her fiancé Allan’s father, but she’d given up asking questions. Her father always brushed her off, leaving her frustrated and helpless.

She walked faster, as if she could outpace her worries. Lamplight glowing from windows brightened the dark, empty street. Most Mallonby people were at their evening meal, such as it was in this bleak autumn. The mill would be closed for the rest of the winter while the warehouse was rebuilt and the roof on the whole building replaced. She’d convinced her father to let her set up a relief fund for the unemployed mill hands, and at church the same week, Maria had asked Rochelle McShannon to help her. She’d accepted with a warm smile.

“I’d be glad to, Miss Westlake. I’m sure we can get the local farmers to donate some food, and we’ll purchase more with whatever funds you can provide.” Rochelle had enlisted her cousin’s help, and between them, they’d organized food distribution meetings at the church to take place every Saturday. They’d also arranged a settlement for the family of Maggie Tate. Maria’s mother had sent some money as well, though she hadn’t seen any need to leave London to be with her husband during this crisis. Maria gave a little, resigned shrug at the thought. She’d known for years that her parents’ marriage was only a hollow show. They led completely separate lives.

In the village, Maria purchased the hair combs she intended to give her maid, Susan, as a birthday gift. She left the store just as a group of young men spilled from the Split Crow. For a moment they stood in the circle of light at the open door, laughing and talking, their dialect almost unintelligible to Maria. She’d never troubled herself to learn broad Yorkshire.

She turned toward home, thinking of the chicken pot pie the cook had planned for dinner. She heard one of the men from the pub coming along behind her but paid him no mind. Then, just outside of the village he caught up and stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

He was an arrogant-looking creature, wearing a mocking smile. She looked him coolly in the eye. “Will you get out of my way, please?”

“In a moment, Your Highness. I’ve something to say to you first. Your sod of a father belongs in jail for arson.”

Scorching heat rushed to Maria’s face. How could he dare? Too outraged to remember how far beneath her he was, she drew back her hand and slapped the man across the face as hard as she could. “You’re a disgusting liar!”

He just grinned at her. “Ask him yourself, and see if he can look you in the eye while he denies it.”

Too shocked to move, Maria watched the man head back toward the village and turn onto the side path leading to Carston. Could he possibly believe he could get away with treating her like that? He’d be in jail by tomorrow morning.

Unless it’s true.

When her legs would carry her, Maria hurried home. After dinner, when she would normally have left her father alone in the dining room, she stayed in her seat while he tasted his port.

“You look as if you have something on your mind, Maria.”

“Yes. Father, on my way home from the store tonight a young man stopped me on the road. He said that you should be in jail for arson.” A suffocating lump rose in Maria’s throat when she saw that he couldn’t meet her gaze.
See if he can look you in the eye and deny it.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” She rose and moved to kneel beside him. “Father, why?”

Her father rubbed a hand over his eyes. “It’s complicated, Maria. I needed money, and the insurance settlement was the only way to get it quickly enough. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

Her heart breaking, Maria stood. “That just isn’t good enough. Three people almost died. Does this have something to do with your dealings with Allan’s father?”

Her father spoke in an odd, detached voice she’d never heard him use before. “Allan’s father and I made some investments in cotton. When the war started overseas, those investments lost their value. I needed money to cover the interest on the short-term loans I’d taken out to finance my share of the venture.

“I approached one or two lenders, but Allan’s father’s firm is in a very uncertain position right now. Cotton made up a large portion of his business. The lenders I spoke to considered it a poor risk. I wasn’t able to get the funds I needed. I was desperate.”

“Desperate? Father, you know my trust fund matured last year. You could have come to me.”

“I would have needed all of your money, Maria. I couldn’t do that to you, with you and Allan planning to be married next summer. That money was put away over the years to give you a future.”

Maria’s hands itched to shake him, to jolt him out of his self-absorbed stupor and make him see what he’d done. “A future? If Allan finds out about this, if his father’s company becomes insolvent because of it, I wouldn’t blame him if he broke off our engagement. Then what kind of a future do you think I’d have? Does his father know about this?”

“No. He believes the fire was an accident. He trusts me.” Her father rose, moved to the window and looked out into the darkness. His reflection in the glass looked old and defeated. “The young man who spoke to you… his name is Drew Markham. He works in the mill office. He came to see me, asking for money. I sent him packing.

I never imagined he’d speak to you. I’ll send for him tomorrow and offer him something. I’ve borrowed against the insurance settlement, so my cash flow problem is taken care of for the time being. Once the mill reopens, if he asks for anything more I’ll tell him I’ll let him go. By then it will be too late for him to try to have me charged. His job will be worth more to him.”

So it came down to practicalities. Why not? Whatever happened now, Maria’s respect for her father was gone. “Likely it will. Susan told me there were rumors flying about the village that the fire was deliberately set, but with no evidence, rumors will do no harm. There’s no trust between you and the mill hands to be lost.”

She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. A spark of temper lit her father’s tired eyes. “Maria, you have no idea how these people have to be handled.”

“Maybe not, but they are people, not machines. You weren’t very far above them starting out. Have you forgotten that?”

“No, I haven’t. That’s exactly why I have to be hard, Maria. I couldn’t keep any authority if I weren’t. You’ve led a very comfortable life because I’ve succeeded.”

Maria joined her father at the window, her reflection next to his in the glass. She’d lost both parents in every way that mattered. “I would have been content with much less, Father. So would Mother, I think. I wonder if that isn’t where things went wrong between you.”

* * *

The spoon Chelle held slipped unheeded into the soup pot at the sight of Jessie hurrying into the forge yard. Two weeks had passed since the fire, weeks in which Chelle had kept her promise to herself and stayed away from the farm, knowing that she’d surely hear if Martin’s condition worsened. Her breath caught with dread. Jessie certainly didn’t look like the bearer of good news.

“Nay, lass, he’s healin’. He ran a low fever for three or four days, but that was all.” Jessie came in, stepped past Chelle to the stove and chafed her hands to warm them, looking over her shoulder. “I’m in a bit of a pickle, though. I got word this morning that my sister Charlotte tripped over one of the children’s toys and broke her ankle. She’s sent for her oldest daughter to come and help her look after the little ones, but she can’t get here until tomorrow at the earliest, so I’ll have to go in the meantime. Is Caroline home? Martin is going to need someone until I get back, and none of Charlotte’s brood is old enough.”