Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Harry Plumstead had replied to Tristan’s note immediately, requesting they meet at their soonest convenience before the opportunity was lost to them.
Tristan conveyed this to James during the Buxtons’ card party, and they set out for Mr. Plumstead’s office on Threadneedle Street the following morning.
Rain fell evenly, making traffic light on the road. Tristan folded up his collar as he left the carriage and entered the building his driver had pointed out to him as the correct address, James just behind him.
The office smelled of burning wax. A secretary sat at a desk near the door and welcomed them.
“We are here to see Mr. Plumstead,” Tristan said.
“Of course, sir. Just a moment.” The secretary wore a brown coat over serviceable trousers.
He was dressed well, but not expensively.
He returned shortly, followed by a man with a studious expression and straight nose.
Harry Plumstead wore similar serviceable clothing, his brown coat appearing more used than Dennison’s saddles.
“I am glad you could come to see me so speedily. Harry Plumstead, sir,” he said, reaching to shake their hands. He wore his dark hair in a Caesar cut and had well-trimmed side whiskers.
“Tristan Shepherd. This is my friend, James Whitby.”
“Please, come into my office.” Harry led the way and gestured for them to be seated. He selected a book from his shelf and brought it to his desk.
“My good friend, Rowan Ashworth, speaks very highly of you,” Tristan said.
“I am gratified to hear that. I’ve done my best to locate certain items for him, but the hunt is never ending.”
“With his adoration of old books, I am certain you will be in work for a long time.”
“Glad I am for it, too.” Harry rested his hands on the desk. “Please, tell me a little about what you are looking to accomplish here.”
Tristan exchanged a glance with James. They were in a similar situation, had similar goals.
He drew in a deep breath and did his best to explain what they were hoping for and why they needed it.
Without betraying too much information about the Whitbys’ losses, he gave Harry a decent idea of where they came from.
“The trouble is,” Tristan said, straightening in his seat again, “if we are to move forward with this cotton mill, it will take everything we have—both of us. Alone, I don’t have the funds you need, but together we can about manage it.”
Harry frowned. “I will need to ask the owner if he is amenable to an arrangement like that. He originally requested one investor to keep things tidy, but if the sum is the same, perhaps I can bring him around.”
Tristan swallowed his disappointment. “When shall you hear?”
“Relatively soon, I would assume. He is eager to begin.”
“As are we,” James said. “Though I will not pretend I feel easy about sinking all my blunt into one mill. That very action caused my father to lose my sister’s dowry.”
“He lost it in a mill?” Harry asked.
“Merchant ships.”
Harry nodded slowly, as though this made sense.
“The investment we are proposing has far less risk than ventures on the sea, but there is still a risk. You will never escape that, I’m afraid.
Crops can die, machinery can falter, men can fail.
It is part of business, and you must decide if it is worth the risk for you or not. ”
James pressed his lips flat. “I shall need to give it some thought.”
“Very well. But not too much thought, or someone else might take the opportunity.”
“You are skilled at igniting a sense of urgency in a man, aren’t you?” Tristan asked.
Harry smiled. “It is the nature of my occupation, sir.”
“Of course.” James rose, looking at Tristan, who followed his lead.
“Thank you for coming in,” Harry told them. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
Tristan shook his hand. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Plumstead.”
When they reached the street, the rain had abated and the stone buildings glistened in the weak sunlight. Unfortunately, Tristan felt no closer to having an answer about how he could support a wife and family.
“Am I no different from my father if I spend my money recklessly on a scheme such as this?” James asked. “He had been trying to grow our income, but one awful venture after another failed until everything was gone.”
The confession surprised Tristan, and he didn’t have an answer. “Harry seemed to think the risk was much lower in our endeavor.”
“Yes, but there is still risk.”
“There is. You will have to decide if you are comfortable with that.”
James scrubbed a hand over his face. It was clear he was troubled by not having enough to sustain himself prior to proposing.
But his wife, should Kitty accept him—or the widow Mrs. Rupper, for that matter—would have more than enough for the both of them.
If he was to lose everything in the mill, their household would hardly notice it.
Why couldn’t James accept Kitty’s affection and value that over his pride?
Tristan inhaled sharply.
Was his situation so different? Hadn’t Rowan brought up love as though it held its own weight when they had talked in the inn?
Surely, if he and Caroline cared so deeply for each other, they could choose their relationship over pride.
He had a home, after all. There would be some money, surely.
His quarterly allowance was not enough to support a family, but it was a start.
Tristan knew Caroline felt something for him. He needed to value that over his pride.
“Shall we take a hackney home?” James asked.
“Probably ought to.”
They flagged down a hack and climbed inside after providing their direction.
James let him off at his house before continuing to Berkeley Square.
Tristan trudged up his steps as the rain descended.
It was all very well for him to decide to choose Caroline despite his financial situation, but how to convince her of that?
Miller opened the door for him and took his coat. Voices sounded upstairs, causing Tristan to grow still. He cocked his ear toward the drawing room, but could not make out who was speaking.
“Do I have visitors, Miller?” Tristan asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” the butler said.
“What the devil does that mean?”
Miller cleared his throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd have arrived, sir.”
Just then, Mother’s joyous laugh rang out in the drawing room, echoing through the corridor.
Tristan’s body simultaneously filled with joy and dread.
He adored his parents; seeing them always brought him great satisfaction.
Though Mother had one goal in life: to see her sons married.
There was a measure of stress added to every interaction because of that.
Oh, how freeing it would be once he finally married and she could move on to other goals. But, knowing her, all the energy that went toward matchmaking would transition to a campaign for grandchildren.
Tristan chuckled softly to himself as he made his way up the stairs. He removed his hat, handing it to Miller, and pushed the drawing room door the rest of the way open.
Mother stood near the table, looking through a handful of playing cards, while Father sat on a ladder-back chair, smiling at her as though she had shared a humorous thought.
Tristan remained in the doorway for a few beats of the clock, but it felt like far longer.
His parents loved each other deeply, as was apparent to anyone who watched them together.
It was something Tristan wanted for himself.
It was something he knew he could have with Caroline. She did not care for expensive gowns or lavish parties. She would be satisfied with him. His heart told him it was so.
Mother glanced toward Tristan and startled, her hands going in the air. “Oh!”
Playing cards flew everywhere.
“Tristan!” Mother said, coming toward him with her arms outstretched, heedless of the mess she had made. “We packed our trunks the moment we received your letter. How good it feels to see you.”
“Hello, Mother.” He accepted her hug and his father’s handshake, then set about picking up the cards. He had written asking for advice. “I didn’t expect you to come to London.”
“We decided a surprise visit was in order. It has been ages since we’ve been to Town during the Season.”
Tristan was no simpleton—they did not come here for the balls. He smiled anyway.
“Charles and Marie deserve some time together without us forever standing over their shoulder, too,” Father said.
“How are the newlyweds?”
“Wonderful, as you would expect.” Father’s eyes twinkled. “I have never seen Charles happier.”
That sent a warm feeling through his body. He was pleased his brother had found true joy in marriage.
Mother clapped her hands together. “You could be next. Have you met anyone who has interested you?”
Well, not that happy. Silence was his best course of action. He stood, taking the other half of the cards from his father and putting them together on the game table.
“You have,” Mother said, following him toward the seats.
“Have you had tea? Are you hungry?”
“Mary is bringing a tray up anytime now,” Mother said. “You cannot distract me forever, you know.”
It was true. She was a bloodhound, capable of sniffing out even the slightest whiff of romance.
Tristan settled into his plush yellow chair, watching his parents sit close together on the settee.
The green silk walls and yellow furniture, accented in blue, had not changed in all of Tristan’s life.
Seeing his parents in this room sent him back to his childhood and the games he and Charles would play on a rainy day.
Who would be the next children to hide behind the blue curtains? Tristan’s children, or Charles’s?
If they were his children, he knew precisely whom he wanted to be their mother.
“There is a woman,” he finally said. He had written because he needed advice, after all. “But she is entertaining the attention of another man. There is every likelihood it will amount to nothing.”
“But Tris—”
“I hope that is not the case. Indeed, I am doing everything in my power to convince her to choose me.”
“Why do you need to convince her, son?” Father asked.
“Because she will be choosing a life with far less money if she selects me instead of the other gentleman, and money is something her family needs.”
The room grew silent. Tristan wanted to shrink under the direct attention of his parents. He searched for something further to say, anything to explain the situation better than he had.
Mary opened the door, bearing a tea tray and saving him. She set it on the low table in front of the settee, and Mother sat forward to pour.
“Thank you, Mary.” Mother prepared three cups exactly how each person liked it, her mind clearly set upon something. If her calculating gaze was an indication, she was already scheming. “What do you have planned for this evening, Tristan?”
He accepted his cup. “Are you familiar with Kitty Fielding? Her father is throwing her a ball.”
“We know the Fieldings, yes,” Mother said. “We shall come with you.”
Father didn’t dissent. He sipped his tea, looking perfectly at ease.
Tristan felt entirely the opposite. He was tempted to tell them Caroline’s identity now, but hesitated.
There was no predicting what his mother would do, exactly.
It had been clear she had somehow orchestrated Charles’s wedding, meddling in a way that led to him marrying a veritable stranger.
Charles might love Marie now, but it only proved their mother would stop at nothing to see her sons settled.
He sipped his tea, suddenly feeling like he had made the right call in writing to his parents. If his mother would stop at nothing to see him married, he was glad to have her on his side.