As Louisa’s breathing settled into the steady rhythm of sleep, Maxwell’s mind pondered the events of the day. In particular,his young wife’s newly acquiredtrinket. Her encounter with Samuel.
The man’s reaction to Louisa had certainly been odd, though not particularly troubling. Such had been Maxwell’s first impression, at least. That she had not fled or fainted at the gruesome sight of Samuel’s face said much about her strength of character. She should not, however, have entered the man’s room unaccompanied.
Maxwell would not prevent her from visiting St. Giles House in the future, but never again would she be left alone with Samuel. First impressions, it seemed, were not necessarily accurate, given what Charles had told him.
When they’d returned to the rectory that afternoon, the ladies had gone inside to refresh a little, while Maxwell and Charles waited outside for the carriage. That’s when Charles related the strange truth about the clatter they’d heard. It had, indeed, been the sound of dominoes tumbling to the floor. But it had not been caused by clumsiness on Samuel’s part. It had been deliberate.
The dominoes had been swept from the table. Every last one of them.
Samuel, however, was where they had left him. Seated at the table, unmoving and silent, staring at the empty chair opposite.
Chapter Fourteen
The following Saturdayrolled around, bringing miserable weather and Clarence Ashbridge with it, the first of Maxwell’s business colleagues to visit Northcott Manor. Louisa disliked the fellow from the moment of introduction, though if asked, she wouldn’t have been able to say exactly why. It was just an overall impression. Tall and slight of build, the man regarded her with slate-grey eyes void of warmth.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Harlow.” He smiled without revealing his teeth, lifted her hand with his gloved one, and bent over it in greeting. Louisa was met by the sight of his bald spot, which had been covered by combing long, threadlike strands of his remaining hair over it.
“Likewise, Mr. Ashbridge.” Wearing a false smile, she removed her hand from his grasp as a chill settled on the spot between her shoulder blades. “Welcome to Northcott Manor. Osborne will show you to your room, if you’d care to refresh yourself.”
*
“I don’t likehim,” she said, later that evening as she and Maxwell readied themselves for dinner. “He seems very coldhearted to me.”
She was rewarded with a frown. “I’ll grant you he’s not the most charming of fellows,” Maxwell replied, “but I don’tnecessarily do business with someone based on their grace and charm. Those attributes can easily be forged. At least Ashbridge speaks as he sees it.”
Louisa decided not to pursue it further. This would be the first time she had played hostess to one of Maxwell’s business colleagues, and she knew it was important to him. She simply told herself that she’d be glad when the evening was over.
Dinner was served at seven o’clock; the menu comprised of five courses. Louisa watched as their guest picked and poked at each one, her irritation growing each time he pushed his plate aside, having eaten little from it. At one point, she caught Finlay’s eye, whose brow lifted a smidgen in obvious understanding. Maxwell seemed oblivious, but then, he and Ashbridge were chatting about the growing demand for coal, the preference for iron-ore from the Basque region of France, and the American demand for quality-made knives from Sheffield.
Louisa wasn’t exactly stifling yawns, but any interest she showed in the conversation was totally fabricated.
“The output at my Durham colliery is down this month,” Ashbridge said, pushing aside his main course, having barely touched it. “Bloody cholera outbreak. Dropping like flies, they are.”
Louisa regarded the man’s plate and simply couldn’t help herself. “Is the beef not to your liking, Mr. Ashbridge?” she asked.
He regarded her and then glanced at his plate. “The beef is fine, Mrs. Harlow,” he replied. “I’ve never had a particularly large appetite, I’m afraid.”
Louisa smiled. “Ah, I see. Well, that explains it.”
There followed a moment of silence and then Maxwell cleared his throat. “You were saying, Ashbridge? Cholera?”
“Aye. The deathrate is declining now, but the damage has been done.”
“How awful,” Louisa said.
“It could have been worse, Mrs. Harlow,” the man replied. “Output will pick up next month, I warrant.”
She blinked. “I was talking about the people, Mr. Ashbridge. Your workers. How many did you lose?”
He huffed. “Enough to be inconvenient.”
A flush of heat rose up Louisa’s throat as she pushed her own plate aside. “Forgive me, sir, but I find your lack of compassion in the face of so much suffering to be somewhat ruthless.”
“You might change your tune if you saw how these people live, dear lady,” he replied. “They spend their wages on drink and live in filth.”
“Might I suggest we halt this conversation immediately?” Maxwell regarded Ashbridge, but also gave Louisa a brief, telling look. “It is not appropriate for a woman’s ears.”
Louisa gave Maxwell a look of her own. “To casually dismiss the deaths of these poor people is not appropriate for anyone’s ears, Maxwell.”
