Starlight (8 page)

The board could decide to sell, however, especially after the sabotage. The cost of rebuilding might outstrip the benefit. They were under no obligation to ensure that Alex turned a profit. Their only genuine obligation was to the shareholders.

“Yes, such as myself,” Bennett said. “My backers are prepared to pay cash within the week, not stock or options. Cash. What do you say to that?”

“That it’s a very generous offer, one the board will most certainly hear. But I have no intention of giving up my inheritance without a fight. I haven’t had time to assess the damage,” he said, pointedly referring to the clock on the mantel. Bennett had appeared unannounced on his doorstep at half past seven, demanding an audience. The first of many such meetings Alex was likely to field.

Vultures on a carcass.

He understood professional competition. Truly he did. Yet clamoring over a tenured position at a prestigious university proceeded with quite a different
timbre. Polite exchanges at dinner parties. Comparing others’ accomplishments against one’s own. Subtly negotiating into higher circles of influence. Alex had not played the game particularly well, but his steady work led to good opportunities, no matter the politics.

The frenetic pace of industrialism was a very different animal. Little peace to be had. Little time to reflect and contemplate. He was swimming against the currents of so many streams. Steady work would not be enough in Glasgow.

“But why resist, Christie? You could be done with this place and home before summer.”

“I have my reasons.”

And he had no reason whatsoever to reveal them to the likes of Bennett. The terms of the will had never been made public, not beyond the necessary board members. That by no means ensured total secrecy. Anyone could be bribed, as Josiah Todd had demonstrated. News of a million-dollar bonus would only cause trouble. Suddenly people might agree to Alex’s proposals only in hopes of earning a piece of it. The cost of securing consent would be determined in dollars rather than negotiations.

Bennett finished his breakfast of Scotch. “You’re a bloody fool if you think you can chase your father’s legacy. No one can fill Sir William’s shoes, not even his firstborn.”

Alex hid an inner wince. He knew that as surely as he knew the sound of his son’s soft cry. But damn it all if he wouldn’t try. Although he had never shared his father’s lust for business, he had observed every
trick, every tactic. Sir William Christie had insisted, and Alex had always been a quick study. He had never applied that latent store of knowledge. Now he would.

“I’m well aware of my limitations with regard to trade,” he said without false modesty. “That does not mean I’ll change my stance. From now on, deal directly with the board regarding these matters. They may want to sell, but I do not.”

Pulling to his feet meant Bennett led with his copious stomach. He swallowed a belch. “I’ll do that. In the meantime, you have a duty to stand with us masters when it comes to those union agitators.”

“Oh?”

“We won’t let them pollute our industry with violence. The ringleaders
will
be brought to justice. Maybe your misfortune has been a blessing in disguise,” he said with no attempt to hide his satisfaction. “With the union discredited, we’ll dismiss their wage demands and calls for safety improvements.”

Alex’s temper pulsed beneath his ribs. He did not like Julian Bennett. The magnate’s opportunistic smugness reminded him not of his father, but of Josiah Todd. Such a bully believed everything was his. He just hadn’t claimed it yet.

Instead of indulging in his burgeoning anger, Alex pulled a meticulous note from a stack of papers he had culled. “Speaking of safety improvements, I feel compelled to point out two facts. Since the installation of the fans at Christie Textiles, instances of illnesses and absences have dropped dramatically, and employee turnover has been halved. Quite the return on an investment, you must admit.”

Bennett actually laughed—a wet, grating sound. “You won’t need me to buy the factory from you, Christie. You’ll give it away to the union whips instead!”

“So, you know how they think?”

“Think? They’re animals. They want as much as they can snatch from unwary men. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Tell me then your opinion of those maggots.” He set the empty tumbler on the desk with jarring force. “Good day.”

The chuckle in his voice did nothing to alleviate Alex’s disquiet. He had worked alongside unions in Philadelphia, hoping fairness in legislation would promote a better society. Fewer children working. More people educated. Mamie’s passion for fairness had obvious origins in her father’s abuse, but that did not mean Alex believed in it any less passionately.

Yet the sabotage was undeniable. He needed to find the culprit, all the while keeping men like Bennett at arm’s length and proving his authority to the board.

For a moment, needing to quiet his agitated brain, he leaned against the wingback chair. His brother and sisters had all been assigned similar tasks, with Viv sent to Cape Colony and the twins, Gwyneth and Gareth, to equally unfamiliar locales. Although busy lives meant few opportunities to spend time together, they had corresponded frequently. He’d known all about Gwen’s latest auditions and opera performances, as well as Gareth’s stylish friends and his string of female admirers. He’d shared sympathies
with Viv as her marriage teetered on the verge of collapse, just as she’d pulled him past his dark sense of failure following Mamie’s death.

Even his father had written once a week, as regular as he was gruff. He had been a hard man to understand and even harder to love, but Alex missed him with a sharp ache. He missed them all. Surely word would come from them soon, and he would be able to report his successes.

Yes. Success.

It was just past eight. He stood and inhaled deeply as anticipation heated his skin. Time to see his factory . . . and to track down his key to understanding the weaver’s union.

Polly Gowan.

A
lex
skipped the cab, preferring to work the tension out of his limbs. Spring suited Glasgow well, layering a bright shimmer over the harsh industrial architecture. The citizens remained as spirited as ever, with their steps quicker and their smiles wider as the day stretched its legs. That robust spirit reminded him so much of his father that it almost hurt to watch them. Rough people. Hard. Crude, even. Yet they lived with an abandon he envied.

A half hour later, he arrived at the factory, where the first shift was already busy and loud. Employees operated what looms they could. Thirty such looms bordered the large square building, poised beneath windows to keep their gears and engines cool. The clamor of whisking machinery was equal to that of a barreling locomotive.

A haze of white fluff was being sucked toward where steam generators powered massive fans. The blades dragged cotton fibers out of the air in a steady river of
minuscule white specks. Over their hair, women wore kerchiefs, which were made pastel by fibers and lingering ash. Most of the male workers sorted through the rubble of the back wall. A hole as big as a hackney offered an unnatural view of the rear delivery area. Charred black places licked up along the bricks.

But most of the looms had survived. Hundreds of threads. Thousands of movements per minute. Alex remained impressed. Before this mill, he hadn’t stepped foot inside a factory since his youth. The success of the mill would be owed to the many hands working so many machines.

Another thought came unbidden. Had his father been anyone other than stubborn, resourceful, dubiously immoral William Christie, work in a factory would’ve been his best opportunity. Otherwise, a life on the streets would’ve been brief and violent, leaving no more lasting impact than a strike of lightning. Instead, he had clawed free. This factory was only one example.

Pride welled in Alex’s chest. He had never quite put those pieces together.

News of his arrival swept over the factory floor like the wind swirling in through that gaping hole. The work did not cease, but idle chatter did. What attention could be spared was directed at him. Rarely had he felt more conspicuous.

Howard McCutcheon met him at the door. “Sir, good to see you here.”

“Thank you for directing the cleanup so soon. How does it look?”

“We’ll need to hire an engineer to be certain, but
the local men with building experience say we were beyond lucky. The structural damage doesn’t extend to the ceiling. The supports weren’t affected.” He shrugged. “For all the fuss and bother, the explosion did less damage than the fire.”

“How so?”

“We lost two looms to the initial blast, but the belts of another five were melted beyond use. The fire also cost several shipments of wool and three days’ worth of finished product. Two horses suffocated. And Mrs. Worth, a weaver, may lose the use of her right hand.”

Alex nodded. The stink of wet ash and burnt wool still lingered. “Thank you, McCutcheon. I authorize you to hire an engineer to confirm that initial assessment.
Today.
I won’t have these people working any longer than they must in an unsafe building. And I’ll discuss with the board what can be done to compensate Mrs. Worth.”

McCutcheon tipped his head, wearing a slightly puzzled look. “Yes, sir,” he said slowly. “That’s . . . decent of you, sir.”

“And I want a progress report delivered to my office at noon and at the close of second shift every day. Now, bring me Polly Gowan.”

The squat, dark-haired overseer was good enough to squelch his flicker of surprise before turning away.

Alex looked over his new domain, alive with hope. Although the damage would be costly, they could rebuild and repair.

Technically, he was a manager, and he had never been further out of his element, yet the factory
felt
like his. He had first thought his father’s will absurd,
just another attempt to goad his children toward the family business. Then, later, Alex had considered the assignment a means to an end: banishing Josiah Todd from his life.

But this was elemental. This was a chance to prove his mettle, in a way academic success had never quite offered. To make this place
his
. To stamp it with hard work and ingenuity. What would that be like?

He watched McCutcheon’s progress past dozens of machines as the overseer beelined toward Miss Gowan. She stood before her loom, but the work was far from stationary. Activity twitched down her spine in quick jerks. A plain gold-brown frock hugged her rib cage and flared over animated hips. Her lithe yet sturdy body moved nearly as quickly as the machine, but her elegant neck remained graceful, held at a proud angle while others stooped.

McCutcheon tapped her on the shoulder and nodded back toward Alex. Her jaw dropped. Apparently she hadn’t believed that he would arrive so early at the mill. He enjoyed taking her by surprise.

She took up a tartan shawl that she wrapped around her shoulders and, to Alex’s frustration, obscured the flow of her curves. Silvery light caught the flecks of cotton that salted her clothing, glittering as she walked. Like snowflakes. Or stars. Alex had yet to catch sight of the stars over Glasgow, what with March still so overcast and the air smoky—proof of Glasgow’s commitment to industrial success. Maybe that explained his mind’s turn toward whimsy.

Snowflakes and stars.

He shook his head.

As Polly neared, she smoothed her expression to placidity. Only when she met him face to face did she reveal true feelings; a fierce scowl ruined the line of her auburn brows. “Do you have any idea what this will do to my reputation?”

“Your position within the union offers safeguards few women can claim. You know a lot more than you’ve told me, Miss Gowan, and you
are
going to help me.”

“You’re cracked in the head, Mr. Christie. No one here did that damage. Why would we have reason to? Your search needs to start across the street at Winchester’s, or down the road at the Bennett factory, or McGovern’s.”

“In time. But for now our goals are in alignment. You need to clear every member of your union.” He leaned in close, catching the scent of some sweet floral soap—a fresh morning smell. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll tear it to tatters by the end of the week.”

“You’re
a bastard.”

Polly’s insult was almost swallowed by the grumbling factory, but she looked around anyway. She could only imagine what everyone must think of her—perhaps conspiring with the new master, or even flirting with him.

That they might think she was sticking up for their interests, as she always did, was her only hope. She had worked for years to build a solid reputation among her peers. Her word was worth a lot more than that of a master fresh off the boat from New York.

“Name-calling, Miss Gowan? I thought you’d be above such pettiness.”

“And why’s that?” she asked, hands on her hips.

“Because your tongue’s as sharp as your mind. Calling me names seems unworthy.”