Starlight (15 page)

“We do what we can, Da. That’s all we can do.”

She stared into the fire, where the memory of Alex’s eyes watched her right back. She had not seen him in three days. What, exactly, had he been doing down by the docks? Sniffing out some information she should’ve found? Already she took two hours longer than usual to walk home from work. Asking for information. Cajoling reluctant workers to give up what they knew. Looking for Tommy. Not even Connie’s blandishments to his aunt had produced results.

With a decided effort, she pulled her gaze away from the mesmerizing flames. “I’m worried none of this conniving will come to anything. Mr. Christie doesn’t seem to care for business at all. Then he behaves as if the mill is the most important thing in the world. I can’t figure him.”

“Do your best and keep at it, my girl. Then at least we’ll have fought. We’ll have looked this life in the
face and said it’s not enough.” He turned his regard to her. He took her hand. “Because it isn’t, Polly dear. This isn’t enough. Not for you.”

Polly clutched his hand, giving it a good squeeze. “Why are you telling me all of this, Da?”

“Because you’re going to the meeting by yourself tonight. I no longer can. You’ll speak for both of us.”

“Alone?”

“Aye. And don’t you let Hamish or Les upstage you. You hear?”

He waited for her nod. He expected so much from her, even when she didn’t believe herself ready to bear those expectations. And yet, she always had.

“Yes, Da. I won’t let anyone down.”

“There’s my girl.” After putting out his pipe, he tugged the blanket across his lap. “Now, be gone with you. You have a long day ahead.”

Alex
arrived at a community hall in Calton at just after nine that evening. He hadn’t gleaned much from his trip to the docks except for the time and place of the next textile workers’ union meeting. In fact, all he’d earned through a day of hard work, frustration, and arguments with the board of directors . . . was a letter from his father-in-law.

The sharp evening cold had nothing on the cold in Alex’s heart. The letter had outlined the exact measures Josiah Todd intended to take in order to retrieve his grandson. Additional legal actions. Punitive measures. A campaign in the papers. The threats sounded rational enough, but beneath the flourishing vocabulary and condescension was fury. Impotent
rage had practically vibrated off the page as Alex read it in his study.

Your offense to my family will not go unpunished. I will have my grandson returned to me at any cost.

Alex had needed to sit down, and he’d needed a drink.

Rather than burn the letter, as was his temptation, he had carefully secured it in the top drawer of his desk. A reminder. He had come to Calton for a reason. The fulfillment of that reason meant attending a union meeting. He had done so on several occasions while supporting Mamie’s reform efforts, but he’d never stood by as an interloper. A businessman. A father who would do anything to win security and safety for his son.

The winds swirled away as he walked through the heavy double doors and down a long corridor. Voices and laughter streamed out of a room at its end. He tugged the flat cap lower over his eyes. Although he would be recognized if approached directly, he hoped to cling to the shadows. The identity of the saboteur was, of course, drastically important. But he also needed to know more about Polly’s involvement in what the other masters called
agitation
.

The atmosphere inside the small hall was far more festive than he would’ve imagined for such a function. He expected . . . snarling? Restlessness? Maybe a sense of violence to justify what had happened at his mill.

Several dozen men and women, perhaps sixty in total, mingled in loose clumps. More than a few mothers carried babies on their hips. Young children
of all ages dodged around and through their parents’ legs. The assembly was almost as much a party as the Sunday luncheon. Only here, some still wore the detritus of their professions. Flecks of cotton. Strands of weft thread. Perhaps they had come straight over from the ends of their shifts.

Thinking of his own son, he wondered if the children had eaten. Or their parents. Just what was it about this meeting to make burdened workers relinquish their precious free time?

He slowly moved to a rear corner of the room. From there he could see a small stage where a lectern awaited the man of the hour: Graham Gowan. Alex crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, still sifting through what scant information he’d gathered since Sunday.

Sunday.

Christ.

He rubbed two fingers along his bottom lip, where the memory of Polly beat the strongest—even stronger than the cuts and bruises that lingered from the football match. Four nights of erotic dreams revealed what he could no longer deny. What he felt for Polly Gowan was pure, undeniable lust. Funny, he had thought himself immune to that potent drug, as if he had simply . . . disconnected. He had done so for Mamie’s sake, and for the sake of his own sanity.

He had come to love Mamie, but his initial impulse toward courtship had been chivalry. Their youthful friendship had blossomed softly along the beaches of Cape Cod—the summering place for wealthy families. Her slow, slow moves toward trust
had provided clues enough to understand what life meant under her father’s roof. The man had taken liberties. Ungodly liberties.

By the age of sixteen, Alex had planned to marry Mamie when they were grown. No passion beyond their shared political causes had ever been part of their union. Instead, they had forged on with mutual respect, common tastes and pursuits, and the wish to honor years of companionship.

He had nothing in common with Polly, nor had he known her long.

Yet there he stood, scanning the room for a glimpse of her bonfire hair.

Connie Nells stepped forward to the lectern. She was a solid woman, hearty and stout, with blond-brown hair swept back in a bun. Her husband, Walt, stood toward the front of the crowd. He had crossed his arms in an intimidating way, but the encouragement he offered Connie in the form of a smitten smile belied his posture. He didn’t seem upset with his wife’s position in the union, just protective of her place.

Alex stayed close to the wall, curious. He still couldn’t see Polly. Made sense, since she was so short. In a lot of ways she reminded him of his dear stepmother. Same fire. Same surprising strength in a small package. But whereas Catrin—the only mother he’d ever known—had used subtle tactics, Polly charged at the world with browbeating smiles. He didn’t understand where she pulled up such reserves of optimism. But it was infectious. Her brightness was slowly, furtively sneaking into his bones.

Connie raised her hands and tried to quiet the crowd. After a try or two, she looked to her husband. Walt cupped his hands and shouted, “Shut up!”

The assembly quieted enough for Connie to offer her welcome. “As you know, Graham Gowan suffers from white lung and has been housebound for some time.” Many nodded, their expressions brimming with sympathy. “But I am pleased to say that he remains strong enough to advise his chosen second. Part of our purpose here today is to approve or reject his choice.”

Alex frowned and stood straighter. Murmurs blanketed the crowd in a buzz of expectation.

Connie raised her hands again, which achieved her ends this time. “You probably suspect who I mean, but let me introduce her formally. She’ll speak for a moment, and then we’ll vote.”

Alex spotted Polly making her way toward the front of the crowd, then right up to the lectern. The jump his heart made was as annoying as it was predictable. Her gown’s dark forest color accentuated pale skin and vibrant hair. Red flushed her cheeks and brightened her freckles. She kept her keen eyes level and her chin up. If the rules of Society were written down somewhere, Polly Gowan had never received a copy. She did as she pleased.

“I want to thank you all for coming out tonight,” she began, beaming as broadly as Alex had ever seen. “And thanks again to Hamish for reserving our space here in the common hall. It’s just small enough to ensure none of us will feel the cold.”

Laughter met her remark, which had been delivered
with just the right amount of sweetness. Even Hamish grinned, his body language as formidable as Walt’s. Polly glanced across her people with obvious satisfaction. Then her gaze caught on Alex. He kept his expression as neutral as possible.

She blinked. Her bright eyes widened only a fraction. Quickly, she looked away.

“And on a Wednesday, no less,” she said with a laugh—that one slightly strained. “Forgive my father for forgetting what a challenge it can be to feed and bed children in the middle of the week. Obviously my brothers and I have become far too independent.” She nodded to two young men standing off to the left, both of whom shared Polly’s distinctive coloring: pale skin, green eyes, and hair like flames. “Although I’m doomed to continue my independent ways, Heath and Wallace will be more than happy to burden our da for as long as humanly possible.”

Slowly, Alex began to relax. She was a marvel. Often he had stood at the front of a lecture hall or, more recently, at the head of a boardroom. But that was not his forte. Polly’s example was one of confidence, cheeky humor, and some untenable magnetism. He could not help but be pulled in. She had the whole assembly in her power.

“Of course you know why we’re here.” Her voice took on a serious timbre. “No one has yet come forward to claim responsibility for the destruction at Christie Textiles, which resulted in permanent damage to Mary Worth’s right hand. That reminds me—Heath has the collection for Mary and the other victims. Please donate what you can.”

The taller of the two brothers, who sported a ragged young beard, held up a glass jar that rattled with coins.

“But even more seriously, our failure to find the saboteur risks our reputation as lawful citizens. We have an opportunity to prove to the masters that we can, indeed, police our own. We can show them that we are not the mindless droves they believe us to be. My da has clasped that dream close to his heart for nearly three decades. I intend to continue his policy. Whether you wish that to happen depends on your vote.”

“We’re behind you, Polly,” Les called. Shouts of approval followed his.

“Thank you. All of you. So please . . . do this for your community. If you know anything about the explosion, talk to me. Talk to my father. We seek only a fair resolution to this chaos.”

Alex listened, transfixed. What sort of childhood had inspired her current position in life? So many questions, each chasing fast on the heels of his fascination.

“And if someone comes forward to press for violence?” came a voice from the crowd.

Scowling at Polly was a tall, skinny young man with dark hair that poked out raggedly around his ears. He had the face of an attack dog. The hairs on Alex’s arms stood straight up. The union had gathered for measured debate, but the skinny lad was a provocateur.

Polly’s stare was a direct challenge. “Air your grievance.”

“Why bother? No one fights the Gowans.”

“Watch yourself,” she said. “You’re speaking out of line and you know it.”

Polly flicked her eyes toward Alex. For three heartbeats, they clashed.

She’s hiding something.

In particular, she was hiding something with regard to that young man.

To conceal the fists he could not help tensing, Alex crossed his arms. Then he nodded to Polly as if to say,
Continue.

By all means, continue, Miss Gowan.

A
lthough
Polly felt her smile slipping, she forced her expression to remain bright and encouraging.

Alex had come. And so had Tommy.

The two were as volatile as the explosives used to rip a hole in Christie Textiles. And, with a shiver of recognition, she realized that she’d kissed both men. The only other man who’d ever touched her was Rand Livingstone, but that memory evoked a very different shiver. No pleasure. Only the fear of having been completely powerless, even just for a moment—until she had grabbed back her control with a swift knee to his bollocks.

Alex had the potential to control her. She felt it as her body leaned forward at the lectern. Greed. Curiosity. A hundred emotions, none of which agreed on a course of action. He wore a flat cap that nearly concealed the angry red slash above his eyebrow. His garments were practically those of
an ordinary laborer, yet something about his posture gave him away. Not so combative. Just more
assured
. For some reason she’d never realized how tall he was. The assembly hall held no power to diminish his height.

He’d snuck in. Blunt on occasion and so clever underneath it all, of course he had. Polly could not help her sense of having been duped. She would’ve invited him had he asked.

But she couldn’t concern herself with Alex right then. Tommy looked as if he’d spent the last week in an alley. Perhaps he had. Others in the crowd clapped him on the back and smiled at his return. She only prayed Alex wouldn’t overhear some incriminating remark. Given the right clues, he could easily put two and two together. She wanted a moment alone to brain Tommy before anyone else had the chance.