Page 6

Mr. Monahan shrugged. “I am looking old. This situation out of Lancashire is doing my head in.”

James set two hands on his walking stick and leaned forward. “But has not this whole ordeal been a boon for you? While the blockade forces the cotton mills into ruin, your own works must surely flourish, for they rely on flax rather than the cotton?”

“My own fortunes suffered a similar blow when the war erupted in the Crimea all those years ago. Had I not possessed a steady supply of flax from Ulster, or the means to procure linen from Belgium, the mills surely would have fallen into ruin.”

James furrowed his brow, not catching his meaning.

Mariah who had sat down across from her father, leaned forward to catch James’s eye. “The m-majority of flax comes from the Baltic. The tzar bl-bloockaded the supply once the war broke out in the Crimea. Papa had to begin to cater toward a m-more…aristocratic crowd with what he purchased from Belgium.”

Ah, that made sense of why Monahan had dowered his daughter so heavily when they were wed. He finally had the money to spare.

“So in this current situation, despite the appetites of many businessmen, I would not have myself rewarded while others suffer.”

“But for an understandable cause,” Mariah began.

Frank Monahan patted his daughter’s hand. “Yes, my daughter reminds me that this blockade and the war against slavery are just. I only wish the blockade had not caused so much suffering to the workers from Lancashire. But Mariah here has taken it upon herself to do whatever she can to assist them.”

“Da-aa,” the brogue in Mariah’s voice came out in her endearing embarrassment and James’s blood rushed south at the huskiness in her voice.

A flash of color began at Mariah’s neck again, difficult to see from the collar of her carriage gown. Shame that. Then James realized that the flush was not from the huskiness in her voice but because she had called her father an Irish slang for father, not the typical British “papa”.

Attempting to smooth the moment, James went on, “Yes, she mentioned the construction⁠—”

“It’s not just the construction, she used to want to turn the old assembly hall into, what was it …a theater or something? She had been talking about it nonstop once she got your estate in order.” Monahan cast him a sardonic look, his bushy gray-black eyebrows furrowing. “But then the cotton workers and their families began to spill into Barnsley and she set up the hall for their womenfolk to sew and attempt to make a living.”

“Papa,” Mariah said this time.

“And that’s not on top of what she does for my workers. Mind you, I try to pay them a decent living wage or I would rather die, so help me. If I came to England with nothing, then turned around and attempted to extract blood from a stone of my fellow worker? I couldn’t live with myself. And now I have Barrymore, who used to own dozens of mills in Lancashire, who's been attempting to buy stock in my business, then begging me to lower my wages.”

At the name Barrymore, James’s blood ran cold. But this is why you came, he reminded himself. This is your chance.

“What?” Mariah gasped. “Why would he do such a thing, Papa?”

“Because he can’t lower his wages dramatically, which he wants to do, without a riot. But if I lowered them, then he could point to my mills and say, ‘See, even that supposedly benevolent Irishman lowered his wages,’” Monahan answered.

At this point, James was gripping his walking stick so hard that the fox on the head was carving into his skin, even through his gloves. “But, wouldn’t lowering your wages benefit everyone? Would it not mean more could be employed?”

Two pairs of dark blue eyes stared at him, and James never hated himself more than he did in that moment.

Think of Bedford Grange. Your dreams. The man you were meant to be.

“If I lower the wages,” Monahan began slowly, “I will be denying my workers the right to a full stomach, a roof over their heads, the right to feed and clothe their families. And who is to say that Barrymore will not take that opportunity to go lower and lower, until there is no wages, nothing for the Lancashire workers at all?”

“We need to find a solution,” Mariah began placatingly, her hand reaching out to her father’s thick forearm. “But cutting the Barnsley wages is not the answer. My father should not discuss such sensitive matters with you, my lord.” At that she gave her father a meaningful look before she went on telling James she did not fully believe his story of coming north. “Once the housing is built…”

“But that could be weeks away.” James gripped the letter in his pocket as Mariah jerked back as if he had slapped her. But he needed to convince Monahan. His future relied on this.

“It might be m-much sooner, hopefully by Christmas, Harrison said—” Mariah began.

“Oh, Saint Harrison said, did he?” James sneered, and the scowl on Monahans’ face told him he was seconds away from being hit in the face. “Forgive me, that was uncalled for.” He stepped back, holding up his hand again. Glancing back at his father-in-law, he cursed, recognizing his temper had led him astray.

He had lost his chance to convince Monahan to lower the wages that day. But he must find a way.

“You had mentioned visiting the children,” he began, attempting to save the conversation from the fiery crash it was headed towards.

Mariah gripped her hands together before her. “There is something I must do first, but if you would l-like to stop by the Crown and the Loom for lunch, I have heard their mutton is second to none. Then I could join you afterward to visit the school.”

Cocking his head, he regarded his wife. “Are you visiting the building site?”