The women had worked as hard as they could, but the strain had grown and grown until protests were voiced and arguments erupted and at last the entire experiment unraveled.
And now Mr. Obeney was coming back to Carrisford.
Maddie Crewe knew that meant one thing above all else: the Weavers’ Library was running out of time.
The fire in the hearth of the Mulberry Tree’s private parlor had been stoked into blazing. The heat made sweat bead beneath her gown and droplets roll down the length of her spine. Mrs. Money had shed her fur cuffs and wool coat in favor of night-blue silk, the hem heavy with ribbon medallions like children’s pinwheels, and the sleeves artfully puffed.
Maddie tugged at the neck of her gray wool and wished she’d worn something lighter. Between making the punch cards for the magic lanterns and rewarping her loom for the upcoming summer’s new ribbon designs, she felt as though she’d been sweating for days on end. “We’ll have to show Mr. Giles something soon,” she said.
“We will,” Mrs. Money replied. “I’ve acquired a key to Mr. Obeney’s factory—don’t ask me how—and we can begin putting everything together as soon as the pieces are ready.”
It would mean more late nights and extra work on top of their existing jobs. At times Maddie wanted to scream. She sighed instead. “Why is crime so often harder than honest labor?”
“Because it has a chance of paying much better.” Mrs. Money reached out and patted her wrist. Her Limerick gloves were made of kid so fine you could store them inside a walnut shell, and they easily let the warmth of her touch come through. Maddie, sitting so close to the fire, didn’t need more heat—but she appreciated the comfort all the same.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Money, “you’ve been so gallant through all this—steady and true as the North Star. But I wonder: Have you thought about what you’ll do afterward?”
“You mean when we have all that money to rely on and the Combination Acts are repealed so we can agitate properly?” Maddie laughed. “Oh, Mrs. Money, believe me, I have grand plans.”
“And what do you plan to do if Mr. Giles has you arrested?”
Maddie shrugged. “He can try. But I’ll look like I was just as taken in by you as he was. He’ll have no proof.”
“When has the truth ever stopped him before?”
Maddie had to concede the point. Mr. Giles had one of the pettiest souls in England. He would not hesitate to lash out in anger and disappointment. And Maddie had always been a target for him—she’d draw his ire even more now.
It would get in the way of the work, and just at the moment when they could least afford entanglements.
Another bead of sweat bloomed and fell, beneath her clothes.
Mrs. Money saw her grim face and pressed her argument. “I know you have goals for the Weavers’ Library—but you might consider letting the other girls take over for a time. You might consider leaving Carrisford altogether.”
Maddie’s laugh sounded rusty even to her own ears. “And go where? Everyone I know is here. Except my father. And who knows where he’s run off to.”
“You could come with me.”
Maddie stared.
Mrs. Money’s expression was uncharacteristically nervous. “I have more than enough to support us both for as long as you care to stay.”
So she’d explained, when she’d first come back to Carrisford. She had, she said, arrived in Australia a convict and married a ship’s officer—James Money, instead of the poor fictional Horace. Her husband turned merchant and built up a neat little empire before dying a neat little death. Finally free and wealthy enough to do what she pleased, Mrs. Money had outfitted herself as befit a wealthy widow, stepped onto an England-bound ship, imitated the other wealthy wives in secret until she had the high-born accent pitch-perfect, and come back to Carrisford to see if her beloved Marguerite still remembered her.
Maddie had reassured her: Marguerite hadn’t forgotten her at all. But Maddie had also lied to Mrs. Money, by omission. Marguerite hadn’t forgotten her beloved, it’s true—but neither had she waited to be rescued.
Marguerite Crewe had been busy trying to rescue everybody else. Maddie liked to think she took after her mother in this more than anything else.
Mrs. Money sighed, and her years seemed all at once to press more heavily on her. They creased her face and grayed the thick strands of her hair. “I was too late for your mother. Let me at least protect her daughter.”
Maddie’s temper flared up like a match struck against flint. “My mother would not thank me to abandon the work she devoted years to. Shediedfor this. She fought because she believed she could make life better for girls like me, in towns like Carrisford. And everywhere else besides.” She folded her arms. “I’ve been jailed before. I can accept the consequences if it means the others will be safe.”
Mrs. Money’s mouth was a harsh line. “You may have spent a few days in an English jail, my dear: so have I. Believe me when I tell you you have no conception of what transportation is like. Of what it will cost you.”
Maddie wouldn’t let herself imagine what lay behind Mrs. Money’s bleak tone. It would only frighten her into cowardice. “I won’t leave until I have no other choice. The Weavers’ Library is all I have. They need me. How can I abandon them to save my own skin?”
Mrs. Money’s voice turned sharp. “If the work cannot go forward without you,” she countered, “then it is doomed to fail. You cannot base a collective on the effort of a single person. No matter how dedicated that one person may be.”
Maddie’s rebellious soul flared again—and then her wiser self took over. With an effort, she choked back her temper. “You’re right,” she said more softly. “I know you’re right. Mr. Giles will want all of us arrested or worse, for taking his thousand pounds.” She stared grimly into the fire. “We have to find a way to makehimleave.”
