Annie Burrows - Four Regency Rogues

‘No, Aunt,’ she said, determined no one should ever know what had happened in the coach. ‘Nothing so fantastical. His lordship is, after all, a gentleman.’

The old lady seemed not to notice the irony. ‘Yes, of course he is.’

The hot water arrived and Meg prepared to help Charlotte wash and change and they could not talk in front of her, so Emily left to tell Mrs Cater the mistress was home and required something to eat. By the time Charlotte had finished her toilette and sat patiently while Meg brushed the tangles from her hair and pinned it up, she was, on the outside at least, once more the Miss Cartwright everyone knew. She went downstairs and, over her meal, gave her aunt a carefully edited account of what had happened, which only confirmed the lady in her opinion that the Earl of Amerleigh was a gentleman of the first order and would make her great-niece a splendid husband.

The last stage of their journey had been made at a fair canter and Roland would not subject the tired horses to further work. He drove home and had his riding horse saddled, then he set off for Shrewsbury, leaving Bennett and Travers to see to the carriage. He had undertaken to arrange for the broken coach to be fetched and he would honour that undertaking, but he doubted Charlotte would allow him to do anything else for her.

Everything had been spoiled and it was his own fault for acting on impulse. If he wanted to live in harmony with Charlotte again, to share the lessons with Tommy, to work together for the good of the village, then he must somehow put things right. Could he explain himself to her satisfaction? Would she let him? And what could he say? ‘Sorry,’ or ‘I did it because I love you’, which would be the honourable thing to do, followed by a proposal. ‘Sorry’was not enough and she would laugh in his face if he said he had fallen in love with her. And who could blame her for that?

Being on horseback, he could take the short cut over the hills and his errand was soon accomplished and he was on his way home, still musing over what to do about Charlotte. Dipping down into Scofield, he became aware of a noisy crowd outside the Cartwright mill, grouped around a man standing on a flat cart. ‘I told you,’ he was shouting. ‘I told you no good would come of putting a female in charge. Now she has ruined the business and some of you are already without work. Tomorrow it will be a few more and the day after, a few more…’

‘What would you have us do?’ someone shouted from the crowd.

Roland dismounted and led his horse forwards to the edge of the throng to listen.

‘Walk out. Every one of you, walk out and join your unemployed brethren. Without workers she will have to sell to someone who can manage the business properly. I know a gentleman ready to buy her out. Then you will be given jobs again.’

‘Ain’t goin’ to do that.’ Roland recognised Beth Biggs, about three rows from the front. ‘Miss Cartwright hev always treated us fair. Ain’t ’er fault if ’er ship’s bin delayed.’

‘A sensible employer would have made provision in case such a thing should happen, not let stocks run down to nothing. Proves she’s not up to the job.’ He turned to the men in his audience. ‘Do you like bowing and scraping to a chit of a girl?’

Roland pushed his way forwards. Some, seeing who he was, parted to make way for him, while others continued the argument among themselves. Once at the front, Roland sprang up on to the makeshift platform. He was several inches taller than the man and his commanding presence silenced those near the front. He waited until he had everyone’s attention. ‘You have been misinformed,’ he said. ‘There is cotton on its way here. It will arrive tomorrow.’ He prayed he was right in saying that. Geoffrey seemed sure that he could manage to find some.

‘Too late,’ someone called out. ‘We’ve been stood off.’

‘Not by Miss Cartwright?’

‘No, Mr Brock.’

‘That was a mistake.’

‘What’s it to do with you?’ someone else asked. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘I saw Miss Cartwright in Liverpool yesterday when she arranged for the yarn to be delivered.’

‘Oh, yes,’ another jeered. ‘I’ll wager you were having a grand time of it too. Enjoy yourselves, did you, frolicking about while we went home with no wages?’

Roland’s jaw tightened. He did not know how to answer that without having a verbal battle with the man and that he would not demean himself to do. His best defence was to attack. ‘This man is a troublemaker,’ he told his audience, indicating the man on the cart beside him. ‘He has his own reasons for inciting you to break the law. I suggest you find out what they are before you listen to him.’

‘And what reason do you have for interfering?’ the man demanded. ‘This is a matter between Cartwright’s and the mill hands.’

‘You may think it is, but I am a magistrate, empowered to read the Riot Act, and I am telling you to disperse or face the consequences.’ He watched as one or two drifted away. ‘Report for work tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Miss Cartwright will confirm what I have told you.’

They murmured among themselves and began to disperse. Relieved that his strategy had worked, he jumped down and made his way back to his horse and it was then he came face to face with Charlotte, who had just driven up in her curricle. She evidently had two sets of her working apparel, for she was dressed once again in a grey skirt and a tailored jacket, both in pristine condition. He swept off his hat and bowed, stiffly formal. ‘Your obedient, Miss Cartwright.’

She had seen him on the cart and her workers grouped round him, but had not been in time to hear all that was said. Could she go nowhere without him turning up? What was he doing addressing her workers? ‘Can you not keep your nose out of my business?’ she demanded.

‘ My business, ma’am. As a magistrate I am obliged to prevent riotous assembly. I was doing my duty as the law demands.’

She could not quarrel with that, but she had heard him mention her name. ‘Riotous?’

‘I believe so. One of the men was definitely inciting them to strike. At least they listened to me and dispersed.’

‘And what is it I am to confirm?’

‘That there is yarn on its way.’ He picked up the reins of his horse, which was nibbling the wayside grass, and walked it over until he was standing beside the curricle. ‘I gather Mr Brock put them off for lack of it.’

‘Then I hope, for everyone’s sake, Mr Temple is as good as his word.’

‘I can vouch for that, ma’am.’ He paused. ‘I have just come from Shrewsbury. Your coach will be fetched tomorrow by Guthries. I have asked him to let you know the extent of the repairs and how long it will take. In the meantime, if you have need of a carriage, please avail yourself of mine. If my mother is not using it, that is.’

‘Thank you, my lord, but I can manage very well with my curricle.’ It was said politely, but there was no warmth there. She had obviously decided he was not to be forgiven and meant to keep him at arm’s length.

He put his hand on the side of the vehicle, preventing her from driving off. ‘Miss Cartwright, I hope you will still come to Tommy’s lessons. He—we—will miss you if you do not.’

‘I am much occupied with more pressing matters at the moment—perhaps later, when I have more time.’ She flicked the reins and he stood back to allow her to drive into the mill yard.

The evening was far advanced and in an hour or so it would be dark. He wondered if she would be safe. Would any of the mob wait around to waylay her? Leading his horse, he crossed the road and leaned against a tree where he could see into the yard of the mill. A pool of light from the upstairs office window spilled out onto the curricle and its patient pony. She would certainly not welcome his watchfulness, but he felt responsible for her. He asked himself why, but could think of no convincing reason.