Starlight (23 page)

After ripping open the missive, Alex quickly scanned its contents. Dawn lit the heavy ivory paper, yet nothing could completely illuminate its meaning. Disjointed sentences were interspersed with quotes from Shakespeare and the Bible. Alex swallowed the taste of bile. If the raving words were any measure, Todd was going mad.

Time shrank around Alex in that little foyer. He’d been allotted two years to make Christie Textiles profitable—if only he kept his head and learned quickly. But the mill fire and the threats from his father-in-law chipped away at that luxury of time. His gut told him he had far fewer days.

Damn. Time. He checked a wall clock. The meeting would begin in less than an hour.

He quickly washed, dressed, and shaved. As for the letter, he tucked it in his suit coat. Perhaps he needed a potent reminder of what the meeting meant for his son’s future.

In the building that housed the offices of Christie Textiles, he strode past a line of clerks who busily attended their masters’ greatcoats. Alex climbed up to the meeting room and dropped his portfolio at the head of a large table surrounded by eight chairs. The boardroom took up most of the second story; its construction dominated by a wide bank of windows that overlooked the street below. The view was impressive, but Alex knew enough about the movement of heat to realize what a colossal waste of resources those windows entailed.

Eventually all of the seats were filled.

“Gentlemen. Good morrow to you.”

A selection of replies filtered back, from George Winchester’s spoiled Etonian elocution to Frankie McGovern’s broad Highlands brogue. The seven men represented Alex’s competition and his closest equals in Glasgow society. None had been born to status. All were self-made or the sons of self-made men.

The meeting started politely enough, although plagued by conflicting reports and agendas. Alex kept his temper. Initially. He was too busy taking notes when the odd tidbit fell from careless lips: production quotas, wages, absentee rates. He was still a newcomer to the industry, and conflicting courses of action demanded data. After sorting through the figures, he would make his decisions. Later.

As the hours progressed, however, the resonance of the conversation slid toward hostility. Even belligerence. Insults against the union. Disdain for lazy, corrupt constables. And the beginnings of an agreement to lower wages.

Alex’s skin prickled. Yes, he had worked with Mamie for social justice. And yes, he was honoring Polly’s entreaty to listen on behalf of the union. But those concerns conflicted with one stark fact: the son he’d held that morning was not safe. He touched the place where Josiah Todd’s letter burned like a reminder of hell.

His mill
would
earn a profit. It was well behind in fulfilling orders because of the sabotage, and reserve cash stores had been drained because of the repairs. The board threatened him almost daily. Julian Bennett’s and George Winchester’s polite words around the meeting table didn’t erase the knowledge that they wanted to pick the bones of his failure.

The bickering increased. Grew louder. Became even more insulting. The barely civilized fervor grated over his skin and dug into his brain, until it was too much.

“Enough! You sound like lads fighting in a park. This is supposed to be a business meeting, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, then, talk business.” Bennett leaned forward over his sizable paunch. “Any progress been made on the sabotage at your factory?”

“I’m not at all of a mind to have such vandalism revisited,” said Frankie McGovern. The hard Highland accent matched the sharpness in his eyes. Even Alex’s father had not revealed such a cutthroat expression. “Neither, I believe, does your board of directors.”

“My investigation is proceeding. In fact, a lead has given me hope I’m growing closer to discovering the man’s identity.”

“Lead?” Bennett raised his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“I have reason to believe a man named Jack Findley was involved.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Bennett said with a laugh. “Findley is my overseer. Where did you get the idea he was involved?”

“Where do you get the idea that his position at your mill exempts him from suspicion?”

The hulking man leaned his elbows against the table. His tight, beady little eyes were swallowed by his cheeks when he smiled. “It doesn’t. But perhaps you’d like to know that Findley was at Idle Michael’s the night Tommy Larnach threatened to burn down your mill. He said it right there in front of Findley, bragging to anyone who’d listen.”

“My sources within the police regard him as the prime suspect,” Winchester added. “Ask that Gowan girl you’re so close with these days. See what she says about how Larnach has no alibi for the morning of the explosion.”

Tommy had been at the union meeting. What had he and Polly really argued about? Perhaps Alex had got it wrong from the start. Walt Nells could’ve told him about Findley for reasons other than protecting Polly. Maybe he knew that, as a shipbuilder, his suspicions about Tommy would have been received poorly by the weaver’s union. His reference to Jack Findley may have been a roundabout way of indicting Tommy without betraying anyone outright.

What did that say about Polly? She’d been willing to risk a great deal at Old Peter’s. Had she been
duped by Tommy? Possible, given their long history. Alex thought she would keep hunting for the saboteur, even if the guilty party proved to be her first lover. About that, however, he had no proof—only the hope she was as good as her word.

“I
will
ask her,” Alex said at last. His throat burned and his head throbbed. “Many tasks occupy my time, but none rivals bringing the responsible party to justice.”

“Unless it’s tupping a certain union girl.” Winchester’s posh tones added an extra layer of filth to his words.

Alex stanched an impulse to choke the bastard. “We can remain civil, or we can step outside. I don’t appreciate baseless accusations. And surely it would make sense for the rest of you to help solve this mystery. All of your factories could be at risk.”

“That’s true, Christie,” Bennett said. “And Larnach is our man. The constables are on constant lookout, but he seems to have vanished. We’ll breathe easier once he’s locked up for good.”

Alex stood. The building bore his family name, and his patience had been scraped raw. He spread his hands flat on the table and leaned into his stance. He’d seen his father affect just such a pose over his huge mahogany desk, which had been intimidating as hell even as an adult.

“Make no mistake,” he said. “When discussing matters that involve my business, I
am
the final word.”

“You’ll check that attitude right now, if you know what’s best for your bottom line.” Fat, frustrating
Julian Bennett did not blink when he challenged Alex. “Shall I explain why?”

“Do try.”

“The eight of us represent the last holdouts of textiles in Glasgow. If you cannot align your interests with ours, then Christie Textiles will fall outside of the protections that come with collective bargaining. You’ll be at the mercy of the union, rather than the other way around. Then God help you, man. Your board of directors will eat you alive.”

“The union has yet to approach any of us with demands, concerns, or ultimatums of any kind. Why borrow trouble?”

Bennett smiled. “Because of the pay decrease.”

“I still don’t see why it’s necessary,” Alex said, repressing his growing frustrations.

Frankie McGovern opened a cigar case and set about lighting one. “My dear Mr. Christie, the price of our goods is slipping, especially now that the Americans compete on such a massive scale. To save costs, we’re cutting wages by ten percent and reducing staff by an equal percentage. In four weeks.”

Alex’s gut coiled. How much would ten percent affect Polly and her family? Or anyone in his employ? He couldn’t begin to imagine what a ten percent reduction in the workforce would do to Calton. Were these reasonable cuts or petty punitive means of imposing the masters’ authority?

“We had it mistaken, gentlemen,” he said. “My failure to discover the saboteur does not stand as your biggest threat of violence. They’ll strike.”

Bennett banged his meaty fist on the tabletop.
“Then we’ll crush them until they
cannot
strike. The police will be involved. The ringleaders in jail. They must understand the consequences for standing in the way of progress.”

Or profit.

That word had the power to shock Alex to stillness. What was he doing arguing against such measures? He was in Scotland to earn a profit. Nothing else mattered.

Or at least, nothing else
should
matter.

He gathered his hat, greatcoat, and attaché. God, he was angry. He wanted just one man in the room to look at him the wrong way. No one did. The decision was his to make.

“Very well. Have it your way. With the consequences on all our heads.” Alex tipped his hat. “Good day, gentlemen.”

He strode out of the room, needing air and time to calm down. His true colors—bloody and dark—yearned to take control. There in an austere meeting room, his first instinct had been toward violence. Findley and Larnach. Winchester, Bennett, and the specter of Josiah Todd.

What the hell was happening? When had the thought of disappointing a factory girl become tantamount to a criminal act?

After all, he’d just agreed to the masters’ cost-cutting scheme. Against all logic, his legs grew heavy and his chest tensed around each breath—the feeling that he’d just agreed to something very, very wrong.

O
utside
Polly’s tenement, Alex climbed into the carriage behind the swish of her skirts. The air between them was thick with tension, although that was mostly his doing. He kept a great many secrets from her now, just as she likely kept a wide variety to herself.

Then why the impulse to see her? He’d started the morning with the intention of dragging the truth out of her. But the sky had cleared unexpectedly, even if his thoughts remained overcast and gray. No matter the masters’ opposition and Alex’s renewed distrust, he wanted to show her something beautiful before her ambitions and hopes were crushed.

After all, he was one of those masters.

When the wage decrease became known, she would never speak to him again. Yet he hoped that one day she could look back on something of their time together and think it worthwhile. He would give her an experience that had nothing to do with unions or mills or even sex.

“Griggs,” he called. “Alexandra Park.”

Polly angled him a curious look.

He returned her confusion. “You’ve heard of it, yes? On Cumbernauld?”

She crossed her arms beneath her breasts and looked straight ahead. “I thought we were going for a drink. But maybe it’s some sort of test. How much of my own city don’t I know? How small is my world?”

“Nothing of the sort. Just more of me showing off. We don’t always have to be at odds.”

“You still haven’t told me what happened at the masters’ meeting the other day, and I don’t think you will. How
can
it be any other way?”

Guilt hit him like a blow. He defended his reasons as doggedly as he would’ve defended his own body.

“I enjoy your company, Polly. And I like to think you’re not with me just because of union ambitions.”

“Are you flattering yourself?” Her smile returned. He could always breathe easier when she smiled, even if a tease propelled it into being.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.”

He unfurled her tight hands and took one in his own. Asking her about Tommy—and receiving a true answer—remained his intention. Maybe he could do that without arguing. She no longer looked on him with suspicion. If Polly trusted him with the truth, they could avert disaster on all sides.

The lamps along Cumbernauld Road tinted the air pale orange. Soon they would be out of reach of those artificial beacons. He had thought to bring his telescope, but what he intended to show her was amazing enough when seen with the naked eye.

“Would you tell me about his mother? Edmund’s mother?”

Her question jerked his gaze away from the carriage window. Forget the politics of Glasgow. Her question dug straight into his heart, dragging him back to the moment Mamie died. Polly couldn’t know the flood instigated by her question. Mostly he felt guilt. He’d never been able to do enough, with her death as the ultimate failure. Only Edmund remained—a slim hope of redeeming himself to the woman he’d sworn to protect.

To endure that crush of emotion, as he always had, he turned to logic. A recitation of facts.

He let go of her hand and cleared his throat. Then again. “Mamie was never a robust woman. I think . . .” Training his eyes on a distant pinprick of lamplight, he said, “I think her body couldn’t stand another moment of pregnancy. She died three hours after his birth.”

“Alex, I’m sorry.”

“I am, too. She didn’t deserve what happened.”