Page 20 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 19
Quandary
B ea had always prided herself on her ability to keep calm in any circumstances. However, as the Sandiford brougham carried her home after the classes, she admitted she’d never had to deal with challenges like the ones she faced now. The gaping students in her mathematics class must have thought she was having some sort of stuttering episode. She’d been on edge, half expecting a furious Roger to come charging into the study.
She tried to organize her chaotic thoughts. If the late baron had squirreled away the mortgage money, it was imperative she and Glenda find it before Peter and Odlum did. The difficulty lay in searching without her cousin realizing that’s what they were doing.
And what of her papa? He seemed to think the new financial realities precluded a relationship between her and Roger. He claimed he’d have no choice but to repossess the mill and the house if Roger defaulted. That seemed ludicrous to her. What would they do with an unproductive mill? Would her father really toss Lucinda Sandiford out of her home? Had the windfall and his new title changed him so much? Or perhaps his wife’s death had stolen more of his wits than she realized. Wouldn’t a true Christian be willing to carry Broadclough Mills until the American war was over? They’d survived before without the income from Roger’s payments.
If her father insisted she marry Peter against her will, then he really had changed. She refused to accept that.
Preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn’t notice the rain had started until the carriage halted in front of the Grange. She might have known. The skies had a habit of clouding over as soon as she reached the moors.
The inclement weather matched her mood.
As usual, the driver climbed down from his perch, opened the door and let down the steps. Efficient as ever, he opened a large umbrella. She paused, certain no one from the house would appear with an umbrella to protect her from the downpour.
Roger’s driver walked her to the door, bowed and took his leave. It struck her he was more of a gentleman than either of the manipulative pair in the house.
She’d accused Roger of not being a gentleman. She now realized she hadn’t known what a true gentleman was. Preconceived snobbish beliefs had cost her the man she loved. She feared her heart might break.
A red-faced Glenda hurried to greet her in the foyer. “I spent the afternoon searching in the attic,” she whispered. “Nothing.”
“Did Peter not get suspicious?”
“Told him it was high time we did something about the attic since the workers left it in a jumble of unwanted furniture.”
“What did he and Odlum do while I was gone?”
“I’m not sure, but I heard cupboard doors banging and they’re in the cellar at the moment.”
“Papa too?”
“No. He’s reading a book in the sitting room.”
So, they hadn’t involved her father in their search. That news brought a glimmer of hope. There might not be another opportunity to speak with him privately.
“You’re missing your newspaper, Papa,” she began, as she breezed into the sitting room.
“Yes,” he agreed, closing his book. “A daily newspaper is a luxury I never had in Milton Abbas. I fear the time we spent with the Sandifords spoiled me.”
“I suppose we’ll get used to this place eventually.”
Her father removed his spectacles. “I admit I’m not looking forward to living here alone when you marry.”
Bea flopped down on the settee in an effort to appear nonchalant. “What makes you think I’ll be moving away?”
“Well, my dear, Peter’s a Londoner. He won’t want to live here.”
She realized the time for subtlety had passed. “I won’t be marrying Peter. I don’t trust him and I certainly don’t love him.”
“But …”
She got to her feet. “If you had any love at all for my mother, you’ll understand why I won’t marry anyone if I can’t marry Roger Sandiford.”
She regretted the pain that contorted her father’s face. She’d never in her life argued with him.
“You know that’s out of the question now,” he replied. “You’ve never liked Sandiford in any case.”
Bea hadn’t realized what a masterful performance of disdain she’d given. “You’re wrong. I love Roger Sandiford. Why is it out of the question, Papa?” she retorted, feeling the heat rising in her face. “Is the money from the mortgages more important than my happiness? What on earth will you do with Roger’s mill if you have to repossess it?”
“We’ll sell it, of course,” Peter said as he and Odlum entered the drawing room unexpectedly.
Taken by surprise and afraid they might have overheard too much, Bea swallowed the lump in her throat. It was as plain as the nose on her face what these two were up to, but she was outnumbered, and had been brought up never to question a man’s authority. “Is that what you want, Papa? To ruin a man you respect?” she asked as she fled the room.
* * *
Roger retreated to the spinning room. Despite the heat, the noise, and the cotton dust, he’d always found it to be the place he did his best thinking. Brownlow’s bales wouldn’t last long, but at least the mill was producing again.
It was the persistent coughing that drew his attention to one of his workers—Bridget, the girl Beatrice had befriended, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Miss Parker had more or less accused him of causing the girl’s illness. Coughs were a fact of life in any mill, but Bridget’s seemed particularly deep in her chest.
When the spinning mule came level with him, he took the opportunity to speak to her. “You’re Bridget?” he asked.
She glanced at him for only a second, but he took note of the wariness in her eyes. “Aye, sir,” she replied, before the mule advanced again, taking her away from him.
“Don’t be nervous,” he said, when the mule moved backwards again. “Miss Parker came to see you.”
A smile lit her haggard face. “She did, Mr. Sandiford. Brought a basket.”
Still coughing, she advanced with the mule.
“Thinks the world of you, she does,” Bridget told him hoarsely when she reached him again.
It was obvious the girl was sick, yet she’d come to work. He didn’t need to ask the reason. “Can no one at home take your place until you feel better?” he asked, walking forward with her as the machine advanced.
“I’ve a sister. Meg’s over yonder on t’other mule. Da works at Hampson’s.”
He toyed with the idea of sending his mother’s doctor to Bridget’s home, but Richards would likely balk at venturing to Red Lane. He had a pathetic urge to question her further about her assertion Miss Parker held him in high esteem, but their conversation had already attracted too much attention. The master had taken the time to talk with a mill girl. Tongues would wag. Nodding, he walked off to another part of the mill.
But Bridget’s claim set him thinking. If Miss Parker liked him, why had she rejected him in favor of her cousin? He’d been sure she didn’t even like Peter Leigh. Had his unfailing instincts about people suddenly gone awry? Had the blow to his pride blinded him to what was really going on?
* * *
Obliged to travel into Bolton each day to keep up her work with the classes, Bea had no choice but to leave the searching up to Glenda. She’d been able to thoroughly search her own room, though she hadn’t expected to find anything there. At least it could be crossed off the list.
She assumed Peter and Odlum had found nothing in the cellar since they continued to comb through every other room in the house.
“I’m beginning to think there is no hidden treasure,” she whispered to the maid before leaving the morning after the argument with her father.
“So, what became of the money over the years?” Glenda asked. “He didn’t spend it on the house, nor on wages to pay servants.”
The quandary preoccupied her all the way into Bolton. It was imperative she and Glenda find the cache, if it existed. Peter only wanted to marry her so he’d have access to her father’s income from the mortgages. He and Odlum would fritter away the funds. It seemed her father couldn’t see he was being manipulated.
And she had to set things right with Roger. Make him understand this situation was none of her doing.
Of one thing she was certain. The unemployed workers needed the money more than she and her father did.