Page 7 of The Heart’s Choice (Cotton Cops Mysteries #1)
Chapter 6
Mrs. Sandiford
R oger regretted having to deal with John Smythe in front of the Parkers, but if his mother had seen the man smoking from her window, he’d have been dealt with in a far worse manner. He seized the tattered lapels of Smythe’s jacket and shoved him against the dock. “Put it out,” he growled.
“It’s out,” Smythe replied, resentment blazing in his eyes.
“Throw it down,” Roger insisted, lifting the idiot off his feet. “Let me see.”
The still glowing butt fell to the ground where Roger stomped on it. “You’re sacked,” he shouted, punching the man squarely in the jaw. “Get off the property.”
Smythe dropped to his knees. “Sorry, Master,” he pleaded, fear in his eyes now. “My children will starve if I don’t work.”
“You should have thought of that before you risked the mill and your fellow workers. Your own children work for me; do you want them burned alive?”
“Ain’t no work anyways,” Smythe hissed, as Roger shoved him out the mill gate.
“And don’t come back,” he yelled, dismayed by the horror on the faces of Arthur Parker and his daughter when he turned.
“They never learn,” he growled, taking up the burden of Mrs. Parker once more. “I’ll not tolerate smoking on mill property and they know it.”
* * *
Bea’s original opinion was confirmed. Sandiford definitely was not a gentleman. He was, in fact, a bully, a brawler, a man who used his fists to solve problems. Surely there was no need to render a worker and his family destitute simply because he’d smoked one of those nasty cigarettes.
Yet, he took her mother back into his arms with great care. “He’s a contradiction, for sure,” she muttered to herself.
On the outside, Sandiford’s two-story home appeared to be part of the mill. Closer inspection revealed it to be a separate building. Large, mullioned windows overlooked the mill yard. Made of local stone, it looked solid and substantial. Stepping inside the front door, held open by a liveried footman, Bea discovered the Sandiford family lived in very opulent surroundings. Despite the lack of activity at the mill, he must be wealthy. Of course, it was wealth built on the backs of the working class. In Dorset, there’d always been a divide between rich and poor, but there’d also been families like her own who weren’t poor, simply not well-off. And everyone respected everyone else, despite the differences in their stations. From what she’d seen of Lancashire, there seemed to be only two classes, the masters and the workers. So far, she’d seen only animosity between the two. She wondered how the late Baron Belmont had fit into this structure. And how would she and her family fare in this very industrial setting?
It seemed the baron had isolated himself out on the moor. She couldn’t imagine her father accepting such a role. Nor did she wish to live in isolation amid bleak surroundings. She’d always taken an active role in her father’s good works in Milton Abbas, and wanted to be part of this society that was so very different from all she knew. She sensed that here in Bolton, there was an even greater need for good works. Perhaps she’d have to pluck up her courage and accompany her father if he did take a tour of the mill.
Before disappearing up a flight of carpeted stairs with his burden, their host gave clipped commands to a butler who took their hats and gloves. Traversing the highly polished tiles of the foyer, Bea glimpsed several tasteful Greek statues and elegant floral arrangements before she and her father were led into an enormous drawing room.
A sour-faced older lady dressed in a high-necked frock of black bombazine rose quickly from an upholstered Georgian settee. “Who are you people?” she demanded to know.
“Yer pardon, er … Mrs. Sandiford,” the butler stammered, clearly intimidated by his mistress. “Baron … er…”
“You’re the new baron?” Mrs. Sandiford asked, eyes narrowed. “That’s all we need.”
Bea was left in no doubt that the unfriendly woman who eyed them up and down had found them wanting.
* * *
When Roger returned from depositing Mrs. Parker in a guest bedroom in the capable hands of a maidservant, the grim expression on his mother’s face left little doubt she was annoyed. For a woman who’d endured untold hardships, Lucinda seemed to grow increasingly short-tempered with age. “Good, Mama,” he declared, in an effort to smooth her ruffled feathers. “You’ve met Arthur Parker, Baron Belmont, and his daughter, Beatrice.”
“I have,” she replied sarcastically.
“May I introduce my mother, Lucinda Sandiford.”
“My honor, ma’am,” Parker said, as he bowed. Miss Parker bobbed a polite curtsey.
Still, his mother’s stern demeanor didn’t relax.
He invited the Parkers to be seated. “The Grange is in deplorable condition,” he explained to his mother. “Not fit to live in, so I invited our newcomers to stay here until I can get the house livable.”
“There is no Mrs. Parker?” Lucinda asked.
“The journey took a toll on my mother,” Miss Parker replied.
“I’ve left her in a guest room with Polly,” Roger added.
“I suppose you had no alternative but to bring them here,” his mother said. “But it isn’t a good time, as you well know.”
Lucinda had never been one for social niceties, but Roger wished she’d at least try to make the Parkers welcome. He didn’t want Beatrice to think all northerners were Neanderthals. His earlier fisticuffs had probably left that impression in her mind, and when she heard about the murder …
He was mildly annoyed that he even wanted her good opinion. She and her family would eventually move out to the moor and he’d likely see very little of her.
The prospect was keenly disappointing.
* * *
As the only vicar in Milton Abbas and the surrounding area, Arthur Parker had always been greeted with respect wherever he went. The family might not be wealthy, but they considered themselves genteel.
Mrs. Sandiford’s unfriendly reception shocked Beatrice and left her in no doubt that the structure of society was very different here in the north. Mrs. Sandiford maintained her stern demeanor even after being informed she was speaking with a baron. Clearly, noble titles meant nothing to the woman. Nor did she welcome this intrusion into her home.
To his credit, Roger Sandiford did his best to keep a conversation going. Uncharacteristically hesitant, Bea’s father supplied stilted replies. Mrs. Sandiford sat as stiff as a ramrod. There was no offer of tea.
After ten uncomfortable minutes that seemed more like half an hour, the butler was summoned and instructed to lead Bea and her father to the guest suites. They took their leave and followed the butler.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t take long to ready the Grange,” she whispered, when they were left alone in a pleasant sitting room between the two suites.
“Yes, Mrs. Sandiford isn’t a happy woman,” her father replied. “Do you get the feeling there’s something they’re not telling us?”
His insight and his query gave Bea pause. She’d simply assumed the woman was unfriendly, but there could be more to it.
* * *
“The girl has her eye on you,” Roger’s mother told him after their guests left the drawing room.
“Nonsense,” he replied. “We’re from two different worlds.”
“Mark me well,” Lucinda insisted. “I saw the way she looks at you.”
“She doesn’t even like me,” he retorted. “And I’m not sure I like her.”
“Now you’re talking rubbish. I know when a man is interested in a woman.”
Roger acknowledged he’d never win the argument, and in truth, he was attracted to Beatrice Parker. His mother knew him too well. “We should be more concerned with this cotton famine and the murder. We’ll have to take drastic measures soon. I assume worrying about that is the reason you were so unfriendly to our guests.”
“Borden tells me we have house guests,” his sister declared, as she swooped into the room.
“The new Baron Belmont and his family,” Lucinda explained. “The Grange is apparently a ruin.”
“Well, they can’t stay here,” Philippa declared.
“It’s temporary until the house can be made ready,” Roger replied, weary of his sister’s temperamental outbursts.
Philippa pouted. “But I’ve invited my friends to stay for a house party. It’s bad enough we have policemen crawling all over the mill.”
The hackles rose on Roger’s nape. There was one policeman on the case, and the tall, well-muscled Halliwell certainly wasn’t a man who crawled. “Sister, dear, you’re obviously unaware the mill is in dire straits. You must cut down on these frivolities. Is that another new frock I’ve paid for?”
Philippa glowered. “So, I’m expected to live like a nun simply because you can’t make the mill pay?”
Roger fisted his hands, angry that his mother tolerated this nonsense from her daughter and didn’t come to his defense. “Let me explain the situation in terms you might understand. The Americans are fighting a civil war. There is no cotton coming from there. Our cotton mill depends on a steady supply. Do you see?”
“Pooh,” his sister exclaimed. “I’m sure the other mill owners have found alternative sources of cotton, and I’ll warrant they don’t have dead bodies littering up their spinning rooms.”
With that, she turned abruptly and flounced out.
“And cancel the house party,” he yelled at the door.
“You’re too hard on her,” his mother said.
“Then you speak to her,” he retorted. “She might listen to you.”