Betina Krahn (44 page)

Some distance away, near the corner where the Strand becomes Fleet Street, very nearly in the shadow of the new Law Courts themselves, two scruffy, ill-dressed men sauntered along, gawking at the buildings and people they passed. One had a partial loaf of bread jutting from his coat pocket and the other had a sausage visible in his. They had just come from the Victoria Embankment, where the new gardens had been recently inaugurated.

“We could go see th’ super’ntendent of that Victoria Park. See if’n he needs a hand or two,” Roscoe said, watching his partner.

Algy scuffed his worn heel against the pavement and shrugged. Roscoe gave a heavy sigh. Algy hadn’t been the same since they left St. Crispin three days before.

“C’mon, Alg—ye got to snap out of it. We done what we could. Hauled away what we could … buried the rest o’ Old Cussed. We leveled ’er out good an’ proper.”

“We coulda stayed, Roscoe. Planted somethin’,” Algy said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and looking away. Whatever Roscoe said next was lost on him, for he spotted someone familiar across the street. He grabbed his partner by the arm and pulled him into the nearest doorway.

“What the—what is it?” Roscoe said, coming alert and squinting to follow Algy’s stare. “Somebody we owe money?”

“Naw,” Algy said, his long face set with vengeful determination. “Somebody what owes us.” He pointed across the street to where a short, wiry figure in a fancy bowler hat was pausing just outside a food counter, lighting up a cigarette.

“Old Rupert Fitzwater … Fitch … whatever he calls hisself now,” Roscoe said with his eyes narrowing and his fists clenching. “Y’know Alg, we ought to have a sociable word wi’ our old pal Rupert.”

They waited until the reporter sauntered off down Fleet Street and followed him, walking quietly, saying nothing. The streets were increasingly empty as people hurried home
for dinner. When they reached Bouverie Street and Rupert turned down it, Roscoe elbowed Algy and they headed after him. Down Temple Avenue they followed him, until they reached a small alley leading through to the fields of the Inns of Court. There they rushed him from behind and each grabbed one of his arms in a viselike grip. Hoisting him up onto his toes, they trundled him down the nearest alley and tossed him up against a wall.

“Hey, Rupert, remember us? Yer old pals Roscoe an’ Algy?”

“The plaintiff, Miss Madeline Duncan, to the stand,” came the call as the first order of business on the second day of the proceedings. Madeline took her oath, took her place, and prayed the knocking of her knees wasn’t audible.

“Miss Duncan,” her counsel, Mr. Crofton, began, “please tell us in your own words how you came to hit upon the idea of a garment company … and why you were willing to spend a sizable portion of your inheritance to create it.”

She proceeded to speak of her years with Aunt Olivia and to tell of the “million-pound game” and her surprise at learning she was a very wealthy woman. By the time she got to the notion of reform garments and her meeting with Emily Farrow in the lawyers’ offices, the gallery was utterly silent, totally absorbed in her story.

“And now, as to the venture in question,” Crofton directed. “Describe for the court the intent and progress of your business.”

“It was my intent, at the beginning of this venture, to produce reform garments to replace the torturesome and unhealthy cinchers worn by women and to provide for employment and a better life for people who needed it.”

“You wished to help those less fortunate than yourself,” he reiterated. “A laudable goal. And what progress have you made?”

She related the developments at Ideal, the two kinds of products that had been produced, and the great interest in children’s clothing that was shown by customers at Liberty. When questioned about profits, she admitted that there had been none as yet, but that production had not yet begun on a meaningful scale. As soon as possible, she intended to hire additional workers and fill orders for garments. Final questions centered upon her organization and what sort of records were being kept of expenditures and income. She was pleased to report that she had most capable help, in the person of Beaumont Tattersall, who until a few months before had worked for the defendants.

It was with genuine dread that she watched Farnsworth approach the witness box to question her. When she looked out into the gallery, her eyes fell first on Gilbert, seated in the first row with his arms crossed and wearing a particularly ugly smile.

“If all is as straightforward as you indicate, why is it, Miss Duncan, that you have denied my clients’ request that you produce your books and ledgers? Can it be because there are none?” Farnsworth’s voice rose. “Or is it because they were destroyed in the blast that demolished a good part of your factory nearly two weeks ago?”

Madeline paled, but insisted: “I have not denied their request. I simply have not yet received them from my clerk, Tattersall. There was a small accident in which we lost a few windows, but the factory was far from destroyed.”

Farnsworth gave her a smile that said he knew far more about the situation than she wished. With a glance at Gilbert’s sneer, she could guess where he had learned it.

“And how would you know what is still there, Miss Duncan?” he challenged in a booming voice while facing the gallery. “You fled St. Crispin shortly after the explosion and have not returned since. Is that not true?”

“I have not been back since the blast,” she said, feeling the starch draining out of her spine. Was it wisdom or cowardice
that had kept her from returning? she asked herself “I have been occupied here in London—with hiring new workers, contacting potential customers …”

“And ‘consorting with’ Lord Mandeville, is that not true?”

She gasped, stunned by such a blunt accusation. Crofton lodged an objection, which was sustained, and Farnsworth, his point already made, announced he had no more questions. Crofton rested the plaintiff’s case while reserving the right to present another witness when Tattersall arrived from St. Crispin.

Dinner recess was called and, during the break, Cole said he had errands to run and left Madeline in the company of Davenport and Sir William. She couldn’t eat, could scarcely keep tears from forming. “It all seems so unfair,” she said. “All I did was try to build something, to share my good fortune with others in a loving way.”

“Don’t you worry, Madeline,” Sir William said, laying his fleshy hand over hers on the tabletop. “It will be all right. Sir Henry is a bit of a prig, but he has a fine mind. I believe we can count on him to see through Fartsworth’s damnable obfuscations.”

But Sir William’s kind words were little comfort that afternoon when the defendants began to present their case. They announced they intended to call several witnesses who had seen firsthand the conditions and practices employed at Ideal. And when Sir Reginald Horbaugh’s name was called, Madeline couldn’t help the groan that escaped her.

The member of the Royal Commission on the Employment of Women and Children approached the witness box with a bearing that betrayed his years in the India Corps. When Farnsworth asked him to describe his observations at Ideal, he fixed Madeline with a vengeful stare.

“The place was substandard in virtually every respect. I saw children in the factory and soon discovered that Miss Duncan kept the children of her workers locked up for the
bulk of each workday. She claimed to be operating a school, but I saw no books, slates, or other instructional materials. I caught several of the wild creatures and posed them a number of questions to test their knowledge. They showed not even the most rudimentary knowledge of geography or Latin, and when questioned in private claimed they were kept in the factory against their wills and made to help with factory work for long periods without rest or recompense.”

When asked about the situation of the women workers, he dismissed the question with: “She employs a low and common sort … ill educated and lacking in the self-discipline and the skill to control their children.” Then he added with a sniff of indignation: “I saw no shackles at the worktables. But then, I was not permitted a full and comprehensive investigation.”

“And why was that, Sir Reginald,” Farnsworth asked solicitously.

“She went quite hysterical, began raving, and threw us out—all of us who had gone to investigate her operations. Ordered us out … and using most vulgar language.”

There was an outbreak of comment in the court, on the floor and in the gallery. And when Mr. Crofton examined the witness, asking if he had bothered to ask about the location of the school, or to speak with the children’s teacher, or to speak civilly with Miss Duncan concerning these matters, Horbaugh insisted it was impossible to deal with her in her overwrought state.

The second witness of the day was the redoubtable Joseph Lane, labor organizer and self-proclaimed expert on wages and working conditions. When asked to describe working conditions in the Ideal Garment Company factory, he was more than prepared.

“The factory, of course, is old and has been refitted. I paid particular attention to lighting, ventilation, and sanitation, all of which could stand improvement. And as to safety, there are open ditches and huge holes all over the area, and
inside the factory are exposed shafts and belts that nearly took the life of one child already.”

“One child nearly died?” Farnsworth looked up at the justice in horror.

“So I was told. The child was sent up into a perilous region above the machinery to retrieve something. If a quick-thinking worker had not risked his own life and limb, the child would most certainly have been caught in gears and belts and crushed.”

“That’s not true!” Madeline cried, lurching to her feet. “Theodore was playing up in the rafters and slipped. And it was Lord Mandeville who saved him!”

“Order, order!” Sir Henry banged his gavel furiously and admonished Mr. Crofton to control his client or she would have to be removed.

When things settled in the court, Joseph Lane testified that there was no union and that Miss Duncan had made it clear she would never permit organizing activities. He said that workers reported they were told not to ask questions, just to work. And in a final stroke he offered the opinion that wages at the factory were low for the kind of skilled labor required. Mr. Crofton managed to get him to admit, upon cross-examination, that most of Madeline’s workers were still being trained for their jobs and that they were compensated with lodgings and food as well as money.

Madeline sat with her face aflame, aching with outrage and tension, telling herself that things couldn’t possibly get any worse. Then they did. The next witness was Mrs. Sylvia Bethnal-Green. Farnsworth wanted to know her opinion of the “nursery” Madeline had established.

“I was not permitted to see it,” she responded. “But the women workers told me about it. Dark and damp … many of the children have contracted ailments from their exposure to it. But what concerned me most was the general moral atmosphere of the factory.” She reddened and grew agitated. “A most unhealthy environment. There are women’s unmentionables
everywhere … constantly in view … constantly under discussion. What sort of effect would such sights have on impressionable children? I’ll tell you what sort.” She shook a pudgy finger. “Overstimulation, that’s what. And the dangers of
overstimulating
children are well known to the medical community.”

“Unhealthy? By thunder, I’ll tell you unhealthy. Unhealthy is walking around with that much filth in your mind!”

Madeline didn’t have to turn around to know who had spoken … or to know what the subsequent thumps and growls and occasional yelps and laughter meant. Sir William was no longer in the gallery. And some poor bailiff probably had a bruised shin.

By the time four o’clock came, Madeline could scarcely put one foot before the other. “I feel as if I’ve been mangled,” she said, staring numbly ahead in the carriage on the way home. “Pounded, bleached, blued, and put through a wringer.” When Cole put an arm around her and drew her against his side, she looked up with eyes dark and filled with pain. “I don’t know if I can take much more.”

Cole spent that evening in the guest bedroom where he and Madeline had spent the night together. He paced and fumed and hurt and raged, feeling more impotent than he ever had in his life. It was the Macmillans all over again. Someone he loved was being hurt, and he was just sitting by in the gallery, doing nothing.

He thought of the weariness, the strain, the hurt in Madeline’s beautiful eyes and wanted to take on the whole world for her with his bare knuckles. She needed a champion.

Champion, hell. She needed a damned guardian angel!

He thought of the love she had poured into his heart and of the healing it had produced, and he realized that there was no one else. She was his mate … his match … his love … his life. It was up to him. But to help her, he would have to
do as he had advised her—stand and face the things that haunted his soul, reclaim his place in the law.
Do something
. He looked over his wingless shoulder and gave a wistful sigh.

He was going to make one very unlikely angel.

The next morning the courtroom was shocked to see Lord Mandeville, in black robe and periwig, sitting at the plaintiff’s counsel table. But the spectators’ surprise was only a pale shadow of that experienced by Madeline when she walked into the court and found him there. “What … how … why …?” She couldn’t think what to ask except, “Are you sure?”

He looked her in the eye and said quietly, “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Except that I love you.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m going to fight for you, angel. With everything I’ve got.”

Cole explained that he had gone to see Sir Henry in chambers, to request permission to join Madeline’s counsel. After some prickly questioning, Sir Henry had finally permitted it. And indeed, he opened the session with a directive to his clerk recorder to add Lord Mandeville to the list of the plaintiff’s counsel. Farnsworth stood with his face reddening and his mouth working soundlessly.

Two additional witnesses were called by the defendants that morning. But even under Cole’s clever questioning they maintained a hostile attitude toward Ideal and Madeline. The evidence against her continued to pile up …