“Make yourself useful and bring him his things,” Du Montfort told her.
Before Adam could stop her, she walked briskly to the tree and collected his belongings, folding the jacket carefully over her arm.
“Thank you,” he said when she got back. “How far is this place?”
“Just to the Casemate.” She pointed to a collection of cottages surrounding a large, central warehouse. It was a fair way still, probably twenty minutes’ walk on a bumpy path.
“Surely there must be a truck or some kind of transport.”
“Yes,” she answered with a resigned look at the old man. “We have a horse-cart, but it was a nice day, and he wanted to walk.”
“Stop fussing, the two of you. I gave them my word and I won’t break it. The longer you two stand here clucking, the later we’ll be.”
The old man reminded Adam of his grandfather. Too proud. Even when very sick, he would do his own shopping, visit old friends or even post letters at the post office with the same stubborn independence. It had, in the end, killed him.
“Alright, let me handle the chair.” He smiled at the nurse so she wouldn’t think he didn’t trust her, but she didn’t seem to take offence.
“I’m Ann Connolly,” was all she said in a quiet Irish accent. And that was all. She walked silently beside them as Adam pushed the wheelchair along the uneven path.
Despite the old man calling her Nurse Hatchett, she seemed caring, kept an eye on the path, and occasionally hurried forward to kick away loose rocks that might unbalance the wheels. But then, elder abuse was often perpetrated by those who seemed caring. Adam had never been any judge of character. God knew he’d made some catastrophic mistakes in the past.
“Mr Du Montfort,” Adam asked when at last they reached the entrance to the warehouse. “Perhaps you could use the horse-cart for the return journey?”
“I’ve already messaged the house to send it.” Ann said. “Evans will be here in an hour.”
An hour might be too long; Adam should wait in case he was needed.
Du Montfort must have read his mind. “You can come in as my guest.” Then he lifted his gaze to the nurse. “Could you find the sweatshop manager?”
What Du Montfort insisted on calling the sweatshop turned out to be a weaving plant. A space had been cleared in the middle by shoving rolls of cloth to the back to make room for thirty or forty women of various ages and ethnicities who’d gathered in a semi-circle. If these were all workers, some of them were surprisingly young. Teenagers, Adam guessed.
"We are honoured," a large official-looking woman in an expensive suit announced loud enough for a much larger audience, "to welcome Lord Du Montfort today.” She waited for polite applause.
Lord?The man in the wheelchair sat there patiently and accepted the manager’s deference as if used to people curtseying to him. Adam turned to the nurse beside him. “Lord?”
She nodded.
The manager continued, “We are very fortunate to have his support. As seigneur and free-holder of the island, this company would not exist without his permission and backing.”
She went on talking but Adam’s mind snagged on one word. Seigneur? A couple of things suddenly slotted into place. Someone had mentioned about one of the islands in the channel being feudal, owned and governed by a lord. And this explained Du Montfort’s very far back aristocratic voice.
The mystery deepened. Why would a lord travel in an uncomfortable wheelchair with no one to care for him but a nurse? Shouldn’t he have family and hangers-on?
Du Montford, Adam could see, was one of those who made little effort to adapt to the changing world. He probably still thought of himself as a younger, healthier man.
A hush fell on the room as Lord Du Montfort pressed one of the gear controls and his chair moved forward to face his audience. He lifted his head. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Gone was the peevish, slightly shaky voice. He sounded strong, in command.
“Two years ago, when I was told about plans to create a factory with housing for single mothers, refugees and women of ethnic minorities here on our island, do you want to know what I said?”
He scanned the room but no one answered.
“My first reaction was: Over my dead body!” he continued.
The manager smiled uncertainly. This was not what she had been led to expect. Several women looked at one another.
“Over my dead body am I letting a gaggle of immigrants and scroungers spoil our beautiful island with drugs, criminal boyfriends and uneducated children.”
