Mrs. Goodnight turned to Graham.
“If you could talk to Mr. Throckmorten.” Her voice was hollow. “Even minimal concessions for children and expectant mothers…It would help not just our sweet Adella and little Victor, but dozens of others as well.”
“I understand,” Graham assured them softly. “We want to help everyone in the mill who needs it.”
“It won’t be easy. Mr. Throckmorten will not allow anyone outside of his employ on the manufactory grounds,” Mr. Goodnight said.
“Of course they can manage a conversation,” Mrs. Goodnight said. “They’re Wynchesters. Whether their words shall have any effect, on the other hand…”
“Because he has no heart, we tried to appeal to his pocketbook,” Mr. Goodnight explained. “Fewer accidents means less time lost—and more profit for Mr. Throckmorten.”
“He won’t hear of it,” Mrs. Goodnight said. “What does he care if some urchin loses an arm or some devoted husband his life? There are plenty of indigent souls who would eagerly take their place. We’re as interchangeable as spools of thread.”
“We haven’t the power to convince him, but you might. Half days for children under ten,” her husband repeated, his gaze firm. “And reduced hours for women in Adella’s delicate condition. Are we asking for a miracle?”
Perhaps, Graham acknowledged privately. But Wynchesters performed impossible feats every day.
“We will do everything in our power,” he assured them. “Come, you must be exhausted. You cannot have slept riding up in the mail basket, with all that wind and racket. Honor us by consenting to be our guests tonight.”
The Goodnights exchanged glances.
“We’d be in your debt,” Mrs. Goodnight said at last. “But we must be on our way before dawn if we’re to catch the next mail coach to Manchester.”
Graham touched her shoulder. “Please allow my family to return you to yours in one of our coaches. The gesture is not alms, but a symbol of our commitment to aiding your daughter-in-law and your grandson. We know what it is like to lose a loved one and are deeply sorry for your loss. Meanwhile, my family will work to rectify this matter for all your neighbors.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Goodnight held Graham’s gaze, her pale blue eyes shimmering. Then she threw herself into her husband’s wide chest and burst into tears.
He stroked her thick gray hair. “It’ll be all right now, my love. You’ll see.”
Philippa and Marjorie hurried to their sides.
“We’ll show you to your rooms,” Philippa said softly. “You can have some privacy.”
The Goodnights nodded and followed Marjorie and Philippa from the sitting room.
Kunigunde turned to Graham, her face stricken. “I’m sorry. I should never have interrupted—”
“We listen to our clients.” Graham kept his tone even, but firm. “When they finish relaying any information they wish for us to know, we help them in the waytheywant. For many, like the Goodnights, their desires have never been given consideration before, much less attended to. We empower them by honoring their wishes, whatever they might be.”
Kunigunde nodded jerkily.
Elizabeth flopped into the next seat, her eyes kind. “I know what it is like to want to leap in at the first sign of trouble. It is my personality, as well. I would much rather run Mr. Throckmorten through with a rapier than attempt toreasonwith him.”
Tommy pulled her chair closer to Graham. “Isthat the plan? Is this monster someone who can be reasoned with?”
Jacob dropped into the armchair next to Tommy’s, his weasel back in his lap. His brown eyes locked on Graham’s expectantly.
Graham swallowed his unease.
For almost twenty years, it had been Baron Vanderbean who had listened to the clients and devised the plans. Since Bean’s death two years prior, the siblings had struggled to find a new system. Their eldest sister, Chloe, had seemed the natural leader, but when she married the Duke of Faircliffe and went to live with him in Mayfair, the Wynchester hierarchy had been thrown into disarray once more.
As the head of a network of informants, Graham was used to commanding others, so he was unsurprised when his siblings looked to him as the new leader. Unsurprised, but not always ready.
Particularly when he bore bad tidings.
“I don’t yet have a plan,” he answered Tommy. “Almost all the cotton mills in England are run in similar conditions. Perhaps even worse.”
“Almostall,” Jacob repeated. “Which means there is a chance that we can help the workers at this manufactory.”
