Page 4 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

“ A h! Cray, isn’t it?”

“Gray, sir.”

“You’re the butler here, now? I remember you being my uncle’s valet,” Marcus stumbled into the large hall at Holcomb House, a house he had seldom set foot in. Footmen trotted past, carrying his trunks and cases. Marcus stretched and strained, his back complaining after hours on the cold, cheap seats on the train.

“Mr. Whitley retired and has since passed, sir. Your uncle has left instructions for your belongings to be placed in your rooms, which are just as you left them before you went to university, sir.”

Marcus nodded and smiled. “Capital!” He gave the man his best and most ingratiating smile. It never hurt to be chummy with the servants. They were the most useful sources of knowledge and the ones to cover for you after a late night.

“I’ll be happy to show your man to his room, sir. Mr. Chambers, I believe?”

“Ah. Mr. Chambers and I have parted ways, Gray.” A little misunderstanding over wages, Marcus thought, his smile trembling at the corner. “Is my uncle about?”

“He received your telegram and went straight out at a very early hour, sir. I believe he was heading to the station to see if your train had arrived.”

“But he sent a coach.”

“He did, sir, because that is Mr. Holcomb’s way. He likes to be prepared. Upon arriving at the station, he will see the coach is gone and can speed straight home. Had it still been waiting, he would have known there was no point in wasting time hanging about and continued on to the town to see his solicitor.”

“Solicitor? What about his solicitor?” Marcus almost dropped the small china ornament he had picked up and was idly twisting in his fingers.

“He did not confide in me, sir. Perhaps he’ll discuss it with you over supper.”

MARCUS UNPACKED THOROUGHLY—WELL , after he shooed the footman sent to serve as his valet from his rooms. He didn’t just want one suit of clothing put out for dinner. He wanted the wardrobe filled, his shoes polished, his desk topped with paper and ink, and important-looking correspondence scattered about. Fictitious correspondence, sadly.

I must look well and truly entrenched. Bound to stay. Unwilling and unable to be shifted until I find a wealthy wife whose money I can call my own. In the meantime—I must be sober as a judge and pious as a clergyman.

He looked out the window of Holcomb Hall. Nothing but green grass and white and brown dots—smaller ones for people and larger ones for outbuildings.

“I shall go mad, sober and pious or not. I shall go mad in a sober and pious fashion,” he sighed to himself, an edge of mirth in his voice. He’d have to learn to ride or hope his uncle was generous with his carriages.

“The nearest town is at least five miles,” he muttered, looking at the sky and noticing the gray streaks and tufts blowing apart in the wind. Had his uncle opened a factory out here? Had those distant smokestacks existed before, and he’d never noticed? Trees and woods cut across some sections of land. Perhaps they’d hidden them from view.

More than likely.

Marcus had never had much interest in the view before, for he hated the house, bought with money from his father and uncle’s first business ventures in paper mills. Everything was looms and spinning now, textiles and such things.

If Father had been content—and Mother hadn’t suspected him of philandering...

Marcus abruptly shut the drapes as if, in so doing, he could close out his memories.

This was not the house where he grew up, the house where his mother, sister, nannies, and governesses spoiled him and petted him from the moment he woke to the time he went to sleep, lulled with sweets and stories. This was not the house where his father would come home from the city, smelling deliciously exciting and exotic, like spices and flowers, and sometimes tobacco and spirits.

Mother became distrustful of those smells, especially when Father began to travel abroad. He even spoke of going to America one day.

Instead, his father would head to the continent, eager to expand his portion of the business—exporting their finished cloth.

He recalled the day his father had been practically wild with excitement, pacing through the drawing room while Jane worked on her embroidery and mother feverishly scribbled letters to the ladies in her circle, no doubt bragging about her trip abroad.

“Think of it, Marcus! Prussia gets the vast bulk of its cotton from the American South—and that war has sorely disrupted their supply. Now, Uncle Horace was clever, my lad, very clever, to read the winds! We began shifting all of our supply to the East Indies and Brazil. Five-sixths of England’s cotton comes from America, but that one-sixth—ho, ho! We have that one-sixth all sewn up, my boy!”

“Yes, Father.” He replied with a bright smile and an obedient nod. He didn’t care much for his father’s prattling on about bits of cotton wool, unfinished thread, and those sorts of things.

“What is the shopping like in Prussia? Mrs. Rochester’s brother works for the Home Office. He says that there will be a war between the French and the Prussians before long—possibly even this summer.”

“Mrs. Rochester is a thoroughly stupid woman. She probably misunderstood anything of any intelligence.”

“I suppose you’re right. She’s rather a pessimist. Should I expect the quality of the goods to be quite poor because of these tariff things you speak of?” His mother looked up from her paper long enough to ask.

“Ah! The tariffs, Marcus! Von Bismark is always threatening them, but we still have room for movement. They have no supply of raw materials—but we have. And we can charge them a great, whacking increase for the finished cloth!”

“James! The shopping? Mrs. Rochester will want to know, and I must finish this letter before I can supervise Millicent’s packing!”

“The shopping, the shopping! Why do you think I need to travel so much, Elsie? Between your insistence on supporting every seamstress in Manchester and your conviction that Jane shall be an unwanted old maid if she doesn’t have a new gown every other week, I absolutely must find new clients.”

“Abroad? You’ve exhausted the length and breadth of England?” his mother challenged.

Jane looked up with wide blue eyes in a pale face, golden ringlets framing her like some pretty angel. “Please don’t quarrel again, Mother. You want to go abroad, don’t you?”

“We never quarrel, my poppet!” His father hurried over and kissed Jane on the forehead.

Marcus knew that was a lie. At nineteen to Jane’s mere sixteen—and as a man instead of a child and girl, he was allowed more freedom and as such, overheard more things. Rows. Accusations in his mother’s stilted, angry whisper lest the servants hear.

“It will be a wonderful time, of course.” His mother always smoothed things over with a patient smile that brought fresh life to her fading beauty.

And suddenly—he knew he would miss her. Miss her awfully, in a way that was new and terrifying. Mother was always at home or would be soon. He was the one who went out, to school, to London, to university. Mother was meant to stay put, to be there when he needed her.

“Don’t go, Mother. You’ll be awfully bored, dreadfully bored. You don’t speak a word of the language. Father will be busy at all hours of the day and night with meetings and wooing clients to accept his goods at his prices.”

“The wooing is the best part, my boy. Comes with fine wine and excellent food—well, at least on English soil.”

Marcus ignored his father and sat beside his mother. She instantly stroked her fingers through his curls. “I’m home for another week. Why shouldn’t we stay and take Jane out to Mrs. Rochester’s dreary musical lectures, or whatever it is you women get up to?”

For the first time in his life, his mother actually held firm, laughing with her hand upon his cheek. “Marcus, what absurdity. We’ll be gone two months! Less than one term at school! You’ll have your studies and all those friends to keep you occupied. Think of poor Jane, all alone with Mrs. Porter and only Uncle Horace to visit on weekends—if he can tear himself away from the mill.”

“I rather hope he doesn’t. Every time he comes ‘round, he’s eager to marry me off to someone’s son,” Jane shuddered softly. “Couldn’t I go with you, Mother? I’d much rather. Father?”

His father took a seat beside Jane, pinching one pink cheek. “Ah, my turtledove, not this time. As for your Uncle Horace’s matchmaking? Don’t be too hard on him. The fact that you’re a beautiful little thing has escaped no one’s notice. Why do you think your mother and I wanted you to have your first season so soon? As soon as I return, Uncle Horace and I will certainly set to finding you a husband. You’ve had your first season and been a grand success. A pretty daughter is a great asset to a businessman!”

“And so is a clever son,” his mother praised.

His father stared at him for a moment. “Not quite so clever as he thinks. I’ve noticed there’s rather a drain on your account, Marcus.”

“Father! A few evenings in London when I went into town with William Cranford. He’s the son of an earl, you know. I can’t go about looking like a poor relation. Bad for business. People might talk. Say the mill is failing.”

“Hm, I suppose there’s some truth to— No, no. I’ve decided. Before we leave on Wednesday, I’ll be putting some temporary restraints on your spending. Put Uncle Horace in charge while we’re away—just so we don’t come home to find you’ve bet the mill and the house on a horse!”

MEMORIES OF THE OLD brick house in Manchester with its sprawling back garden and mother’s endless fleets of roses and hollyhocks faded.

The journey to Prussia was excellent. Deals were signed. Money was made. Uncle Horace capered about like a young man of twenty instead of a portly walrus of forty-five. Rumors of a looming war hastened their trip and they set for home in early June.

His mother went first on the voyage back. Some illness spread rapidly and violently through the ship. Seventeen people perished—including his parents.

He never got to hear his mother’s laugh again, or feel her fingers through his curls. Never got to tell his father that his little flutters were harmless—unlike his father’s coercing wagers with the housemaid.

The restrictions on his account stayed and passed into permanency, with Uncle Horace being beleaguered with twice as much work and two wards when he’d never shown the slightest interest in matrimony and children.

The house was sold.

Jane was married off almost as soon as she was out of mourning.

“I hate this house,” he whispered suddenly, and the old craving to drink, gamble, and carouse came ripping back.

It was never about the thrill—well, not only the thrill.

It was a powerful distraction.

Then again... so is courting.

“UNCLE!”

“My dear boy!”

Marcus was surprised to be received so warmly, wrapped in a fervent embrace, and whisked straight down the long hall with newly laid marble floors, his Uncle Horace half-dragging him in his haste.

“A spot of bother. Trouble in London, I know, I know,” his uncle began speaking as soon as the door to his study was shut, tone hushed and soothing. “But you’ve been wise to return to the family home, my boy, and all will be right.”

“It will? It will! Naturally!” Marcus was startled at how easily the old fellow was forgiving him and how kindly he was welcoming him, not that his uncle had ever been a hard man. He was simply driven by business and little else.

“Your telegram spoke of finding a wife, and found you a wife I have. You’ve been utterly useless to the legacy of my dear brother, Marcus.” Uncle Horace’s tone was suddenly severe.

Anger flared up, then died down. It was true. Unpleasant, but true.

I don’t want to end up married to my work, dying for the sake of bales of cotton and yards of fabric. The words welled up in his throat, and he swallowed them. “I know, Uncle.”

“But now you shall be of great use! Nelson Winthrop is one of our largest competitors, and his mill lies just east of here. His home, Littlewood, is as fine a place as you could imagine, and he is much respected in Lancashire—born and bred here. People trust him, even if they do not much care for his company. He has three fine sons, all hardworking young fellows who spend each day at the mill. The eldest, Philip, hopes to marry soon, and if I recall aright, he is much favored by the local M.P. The son-in-law of the local M.P.!”

“Me?” Marcus asked in alarm.

“No, young Philip Winthrop, in all likelihood.” Uncle Horace poured them each a sherry and fixed him with glittering eyes, mustache twitching in excitement. “The daughter of the house is just what you need. Older. Intellectual—but not unattractive. She is not pockmarked or bespectacled. Her hair is a pleasing shade. Her figure is quite suitable, neither fat nor thin. Her father will grant you a handsome sum for marrying her—and in marrying her, you will also receive a share of Winthrop Textiles! When I die, and Winthrop dies, you and your brother-in-laws will merge the two, of course. As last, a decent and fitting legacy for James Holcomb!”

Marcus licked his lips and drained his sherry, wincing at the acidic taste. He far preferred wine or something that burned with warmth instead of pinched like a needle. “Uncle, if the girl is so well-placed in wealth and society, why is she still unmarried?”

“Because she needs a firm hand, Marcus! A firm yet suitable hand. Now, Barrow-on-Wood, Lancashire, is different from London, or even CAmbridgeshire, as different as eels from elephants.” Horace Holcomb began to hunt through the top drawer of his desk with one hand, his eyes never leaving his nephew’s face. “Even Liverpool is a far cry from this place. Winthrop’s mill is the largest in all of Lancashire, even larger than mine.”

“Ours,” Marcus mumbled, keeping a pleasant smile on his face. By rights, the mill should belong to them both. His share would be smaller, yes, but still, there should be a share.

“Quite. Yes, ours—although some would say that you’ve done nothing but empty its coffers, Marcus. That’s hardly grounds to claim an inheritance your father asked me to mete out carefully, increasing money with maturity.”

“And Father was a fine one to talk, wasn’t he?” The bitterness escaped him and took both men by surprise.

Horace found his pipe and began to go about stuffing the bowl, silent for a moment. When he spoke, he ignored Marcus’ outburst. “Winthrop has a mill that he will never part with, despite the fact that it is placed here, quite out of the way from any major city. I cannot beat my competition, so I’d best ally with him. Barrow-on-Wood doesn’t attract many visitors, as you must know. Aside from landed gentry, who consider industrialists to be nothing more than money-grubbing upstarts, there are few men of property or social standing in the district. There are merchants in the town, but they are hardly of the same standing. To get the most profit from a daughter, a man must ensure her union will not only provide for her, but that it will also be advantageous to him! Winthrop has limited options for suitors. He’s a widower and has no time to entreat young men to come from afar to pursue his daughter. No, no, what he needs is a man like you— and he’d love to get a toehold in Holcomb Industries!”

“Indeed. Naturally.” Marcus nodded, but his thoughts of self-preservation were struggling to stay at the forefront.

Jane. Dear little Jane. She was a delicate flower, pretty and always seeming near to budding. After their parents’ deaths, she had faded and never quite bloomed. She’d changed her mourning attire for a wedding gown in a matter of months, and she was gone. He rarely heard from her and wrote to her even less. “Jane... How is Jane’s marriage, Uncle?”

“Hm? Oh, most profitable. We get a tremendous reduction in all shipping conducted through her father-in-law. With James no longer here... Well. Handling imports and exports was essential. Jane’s husband will come up from Southampton in a year or so and expand into Liverpool. Better for all of us.”

And yet tells me precious little about Jane, Marcus thought. He longed to refill his glass of sherry, but his image of piety and sobriety prevented him. He watched his uncle fiddle with his pipe and finally insert it between his lips, unlit.

“You are just the sort of man Winthrop should seek out for his daughter—as far as he knows,” Uncle Horace’s tone darkened like a sudden summer storm. “It was I who approached him, saying my nephew had enlisted my aid in finding a suitable bride as he returned home to devote himself to the family business.”

“Ah! But I can hardly court a young lady in Barrow-on-Wood while I oversee things in Manchester or even Liverpool, Uncle.”

“Nor would I allow it. You will stay here—and work under my watchful eye to manage the estate accounts, starting with the household staff and their wages. Yes, that should prove enough distraction in addition to wooing Miss Winthrop.” Uncle Horace reached for his pen and dipped it in the inkwell on the corner of his blotter. “Mr. Winthrop expects you at your earliest convenience—say tomorrow mid-morning, when Miss Winthrop is doubtless waiting in the parlor to receive callers—such as there are in this out-of-the-way place. I shall provide you with a letter of introduction and leave the matter in your capable hands.”

“Capable may be a misnomer, Uncle! I haven’t given much thought to affairs of the heart.”

“And you should have. You have a duty to the Holcomb name.” Uncle Horace looked thoughtful for several moments. “Indeed, you are to receive all of my fortune, in addition to the sizeable sum your parents left. If you don’t produce an heir, I suppose I shall have to give serious consideration to matrimony.”

“Matrimony?” Marcus gulped his sherry like a gasping trout. Had they not been discussing the means to that end?

“Yes. I’m not a young man, by any means, and I find women so... cumbersome.”

A death knell to easy living and a pile of money began to ring. If Uncle Horace began to contemplate marriage and producing an heir of his own... The bulk of the fortune would vanish like a London fog. After all, his uncle had continued to invest and grow the business, amassing wealth that would command envy from most men. His father—

He’s dead. And you’ve refused to shoulder his burden. Uncle and Father were both hard at the grindstone by your age.

And dead by forty. He worked himself to death. Dragged mother with him. Jane wanted to go—suppose Mother had let her? And what of Uncle Horace? He had no wife or children to think of. He should have been the one traveling, not Father. But no, Uncle Horace was the elder brother and far more forceful. He liked his familiar comforts and hated foreign food and open water.

Or was Father simply looking for ways to get away from his wife and children? Can you recall him having much of anything to do with you before you went away to school? What did Mother always say when you asked where he was?

“Working, darling.”

He didn’t need to work so hard. Not hard enough to kill him.

“Marcus? You look as if you’d had a funny turn. That train journey, I expect. Perhaps a bath and something to eat are in order. One cannot woo on an empty stomach.”

Marcus eyed his uncle’s corpulent figure and wisely declined to comment.

“Tomorrow, I will present myself to Miss Winthrop, Uncle. You won’t be disappointed.” Marcus replaced his glass, bowed, and backed from the room.

He won’t be disappointed.

I shouldn’t be. This was my idea in the first place.

So why do I feel so utterly miserable?