Chapter 8 #2
This comment captured enough of my attention to make me turn around entirely, resting my hands on a wingback chair. “Why would mill workers be angry at your father?”
“Because of the looms and machines.” She turned to Trevor for support. “There have been recent attacks against several other mill owners and their foremen.”
“She’s right,” Trevor confirmed, sliding a hand into the pocket of his trousers. “Vitriol has been used in a number of such incidents, particularly around Glasgow. Some of the workers are angry they’re losing their jobs to industrialization and that their wages are being cut in some instances.”
This wasn’t the first time we’d confronted growing discontent with the country’s increasing industrialization.
For all the advances made, I couldn’t help but feel empathy for the people whose skilled trades were being displaced.
Trades that oftentimes entire communities were involved in, their families having performed the same roles for generations.
Now they faced not only the loss of their livelihoods, but their very way of life as they and their family and neighbors were threatened with eviction and forced to seek employment elsewhere.
It was little wonder why they protested, and why violence was sometimes the result.
But Birnam’s factories and mills were in Glasgow, three hundred miles away from here. Not a short journey for anyone, least of all a poor mill worker.
“I see the merit of what you’re suggesting, but would a mill worker actually have the means and wherewithal to follow your father all the way here?” Most mill workers were paid barely enough to feed and house themselves.
“Maybe,” Matilda replied. “If they were determined enough.”
I supposed. Except from a logistical standpoint, it seemed more likely they would wait until the Birnams returned to Scotland to mount an attack.
Why squander the funds and effort traveling all this way and take the risk of breaking into a baron’s country manor when they knew Mr. Birnam—and his secretary—must return eventually? No, it simply didn’t make sense.
Though I could understand Matilda’s desire to see the crime blamed on some nameless mill worker rather than face the possibility it might have been someone from her own family.
But while anger and revenge against Birnam might very well have been the motive for the attack, there must be more to it.
There must be a connection to someone here we weren’t aware of.
Trevor would surely realize this as well. So rather than explain any of it to Matilda, I left the matter to my brother, hurrying from the library in search of Gage. I didn’t make it far before being cornered.
“Here she is!” Alana exclaimed to Lorna, who was mounting the grand south staircase, presumably in search of me.
I stifled a sigh of impatience, knowing I would never escape my sister without making some sort of explanation. It was better to submit than to waste time deferring her.
“Kiera, what really happened? I know there must be more…”
I grasped my sister’s arm, silencing her as I poked my head into the green drawing room.
The sound of clacking balls from the adjoining billiards room told me it was being used.
So I retreated, diverting to the great hall as I urged both ladies to follow me.
But I wouldn’t let either of them speak until we’d reached a point far enough from the balcony above to be able to see if anyone was lurking there.
Then I spoke in a hushed voice that would not carry far, swiftly relaying the information I thought pertinent about the murder that Lord Gage hadn’t already shared with everyone.
Their empathy as I stumbled over my words, struggling with the image seared into my brain of Miss Whitlock’s disfigured face, was tangible.
But for all that I appreciated their support, their compassion also undermined my composure.
I shook away their kind tokens of sympathy, knowing I had to remain focused on the tasks at hand or else the swell of emotion that threatened would render me useless, not only to our efforts to unmask the culprit but also to coordinating the house party.
“What can we do to help?” Lorna asked as I pinched the bridge of my nose, stifling tears.
“I need you both to help me manage the guests. Their needs can’t be ignored just because we now have an inquiry to conduct.”
Lorna touched my arm, her large green eyes wide with concern. “Of course.”
“What of Trevor?” Alana asked. “How is he weathering this? And Matilda?”
I glanced back the way we’d come. “I just left them and…they’re both still in shock.”
She nodded, but her eyes were alert, clearly sensing there was more I wasn’t saying. “I suppose that’s to be expected. How well did Matilda know Miss Whitlock?”
“I’m not entirely sure.” I frowned, realizing this was one of the things that bothered me.
“It seems she must have known her well once upon a time, but matters have changed in recent years.” I shared what little Trevor had told me of Miss Whitlock’s background, noting again with keener awareness the number of gaps.
Perhaps in filling those holes we would discover something that explained why she was attacked.
“I wonder why she was sent away,” Lorna ruminated, her brow furrowed.
“Had that always been the plan or was there a sudden reason for it?” Given Lorna’s background, I suspected she was even more sensitive than me or Alana as to the ambiguous nature of Portia Whitlock’s situation.
After all, she had lived a similar existence as both the beloved daughter and illegitimate offspring of a wealthy baron—cherished and yet unacknowledged by society.
“And then she was brought back,” Alana pointed out. “Had that also been the plan or did circumstances change?”
I stared up at the bust of a middle-aged gentleman I couldn’t identify positioned on the pedestal nearest to us—one of many that lined the room. “Both excellent questions, and ones I hope I can convince the Birnams to answer.”
“You think they won’t.”
I could hear the surprise in Lorna’s voice, so I answered honestly. “I think they’ll tell me what they want to tell me and not much more.” And unfortunately, they were our only immediate source of information about Miss Whitlock.
Alana and Lorna seemed to recognize this as well, or at least their faces conveyed the same displeasure I felt.
The half hour chimed in the tall case clock, telling me more time had passed than I’d realized.
We were all still attired in morning dresses with our hair loosely arranged and would need to change before the party set out for the River Arrow.
“I need you both to be prompt in meeting the guests who gather for the picnic,” I told them, suspecting I might be running late considering the tasks I still needed to finish.
“But before you go, tell me, what were the reactions of the other women when Miss Whitlock pulled me aside after dinner? Did any of them notice?” I’d not been there to witness them myself, but I strongly suspected at least a few of them had looked askance at what they might have perceived as boldness in the secretary.
Considering this was the last time most of them had seen her alive, I felt it might be telling.
Lorna and Alana turned toward each other, engaging in an unspoken consultation.
“Well, Mrs. Birnam was visibly…agitated,” Lorna said. “Is that the right word?”
“She was certainly irritated,” Alana agreed. “Though she didn’t say anything. She just kept darting peevish glances toward the door.”
“When I joined you, I noticed she looked unhappy,” I said. At the time, I’d figured her crossness could be attributed to any number of things that I doubtless didn’t want to hear about. “What about Matilda?”
“She was agitated as well.” Lorna tilted her head, causing the heavy braided cornet of pale blond hair to shift. She reached up to adjust the pins holding it in place. “But in a different way.”
“Her mother’s behavior obviously causes her a great deal of anxiety,” Alana concurred.
“She doesn’t like confrontation,” Lorna said, speaking of Matilda. “But the rest of her family doesn’t seem to care who they offend.”
I silently agreed. “Anyone else?”
Lorna and Alana exchanged another look, but this time my sister was the first to speak. “Both Lady Lyndhurst and Lady Brougham seemed to notice your absence, but they didn’t remark on it. At least not in my earshot.”
“Or mine,” Lorna said.
“And none of them left the drawing room?” I verified.
This made Alana’s eyes narrow at the corners, but Lorna didn’t appear to suspect anything as she answered for them. “No. You joined us just a few minutes later.”
My conference with Miss Whitlock had seemed longer, but I supposed it had lasted less than five minutes total. It had probably been closer to three.
I thanked them and then made my excuses, shaking my head slightly at Alana to deter the other questions I could tell she wanted to ask. Before she could stop me, I hastened off in search of my husband.