Starlight (3 page)

But Josiah Todd blended in with that opulence and wealth.

In the reception room, he sat on a bench padded with colorful brocade upholstery. Ankles crossed, his face was buried in the evening edition. A full head of silver hair glinted beneath the light of a massive crystal chandelier. The smokestack trail of his ivory pipe circled up toward a ceiling replete with white and gilt crown moldings. A familiar gold signet ring glittered on his right middle finger. Mamie had hidden the matching burn mark on her inner ankle for two years before finally admitting its existence to Alex.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Todd?”

“Alex.” The newspaper folded into itself, revealing a wiry mustache and muttonchops to match his silver hair. “Won’t you have a seat?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You Christies so enjoy being bombastic.”

Spine soldered, Alex kept his expression calm. Letting Josiah Todd see proof of how he riled an opponent was the quickest way to lose to the man. Mamie had never quite mastered the trick of letting his words slide over her, around her, past her.
They had hit her square every time, smashing whole chunks of her soul.

“You have me confused with my father, I’m sure.” Alex clasped his hands behind his back. He dug his thumbnail into the meat of his palm. Any tension he felt would find expression there, out of sight. “Now, if you please. The evening grows late and I have no intention of humoring you much longer.”

Mr. Todd stood with grandiose slowness. His paunch sat heavily at his waistline, concealed only marginally by the cut of his very expensive suit. Bright green eyes shone like the hard shell of a beetle. They briefly narrowed beneath his shiny silver brows before he once again found that ingrained hauteur. “You speak rather sharply for a man who only just learned he will inherit nothing.”

Surprise registered in Alex’s body as a slight tremor, like remembering the impact of a punch rather than receiving one. His prominent father-in-law, a direct descendent of one of the framers of the Constitution, had always been clever. Cronies and spies lived for his next dictate, greedy for how well he paid. That he might have learned the contents of the will, even before its divulgence to Alex and his siblings, came as no great shock.

“Mr. Todd, rest assured that I would speak to you just as bluntly, no matter the details of my father’s estate.”

“Ah, so nothing has changed. My daughter dies and you remain as arrogant as ever.”

“She stopped being yours the moment she married me.”

“Then she’s in a better place now.”

Alex dug his thumbnail deeper. “You are repellent, sir.”

“What I am is of no concern to you, but could mean a great deal to my grandson.”

The ice that had lined Alex’s veins tightened until no blood pumped to his heart. Edmund was Josiah Todd’s only surviving grandchild. Mamie’s younger sister had been unable to conceive before her husband convinced a crooked bishop to annul their marriage, and their brother had died of cholera just before his eighteenth birthday.

Mr. Todd handed over an envelope. “This is notice from my attorney and from Judge Keller of Portsmouth that, from now on, I am to share custody of Edmund.”

“Like hell.”

“Such language. And Mamie always claimed you were a gentleman.” With lifted brows, Mr. Todd regarded Alex as if looking upon a pile of rotting garbage. The feeling was mutual. “But perhaps that gutter talk is unavoidable considering your . . . lineage.”

Alex ignored the insult and quickly gathered the gist of the legal summons. He couldn’t stop the faint tremble that made the thick legal parchment shake at its edges, a show of apprehension that Mr. Todd surely caught. The reaction couldn’t be helped. No matter that he’d likely been bought, Judge Keller made his interpretation of the law very clear. Edmund would be raised in Alex’s care, but significant decisions about his place of residence, education,
and even a potential stepmother would be subject to Josiah Todd’s counsel.

“This is a farce,” Alex said with a sneer. “Whoever this Judge Keller is, he’ll be overruled by appeal.”

“Well, now, that is a worry.” But his tone and the slimy snake’s smile he wore said that Mr. Todd was not worried in the least. “Let me get this just right. You’re an astronomy teacher with no tenure, whose legendary father left you absolutely nothing.”

No. Not nothing.

Sir William Christie, who’d dragged himself up from the gutters of Glasgow, had given Alex a chance. In just that moment, the axis of his world tipped. The tremble in his fingers stilled, and his blood pumped with strong resolve. Forget games and forget old grudges. Dead in the ground, his father was hardly his enemy—not when faced with the rich, influential beast who had abused Mamie.

Alex would go to Scotland. He would earn that million-dollar bonus and protect his son. Or die trying.

“You will never see Edmund again,” he said. “Let alone possess the slimmest measure of control over his future.”

Their gazes locked. And held. Until Mr. Todd turned to tap his pipe in a marble ashtray—a subtle retreat that further strengthened Alex’s resolve.

“My boy, be reasonable. Do you really believe you have the clout to contend with me? Or the financial means?”

“I will, Mr. Todd. I guarantee it.”

Glasgow

March 1881

P
olly
Gowan had never heard the sound of a cannon shell ripping open, but the blast that rocked the rear of the textile mill must have been a small taste of combat. The south wall caved inward under the explosion. A blinding plume of smoke and debris slammed toward the looms below. Three giant machines disappeared in the wake of that chaos of powdered brick. Shocked, screaming workers stumbled and ran in all directions, as flames licked their heels.

Eyes wide, taking in every horrifying detail, Polly didn’t move. Her hands were still poised above the warp and weft of her own loom, the threads tangling from her lack of attention. She should move. Her thundering heart demanded flight. But she was consumed by one nauseating thought—one thought that meant the end of peace and safety for her people. And her family.

Tommy had gone through with his threat.

She held her aching stomach. The lightning-quick slam of that hideous realization gripped her hard, but not for long.

She kicked off the firing mechanism that powered the loom’s arms and pulleys. It was instinct; if the place didn’t burn to the ground, she might at least be able to salvage her work. Then she grabbed the hands of the nearest two little sweepers, Ellen and Kitty. They were sisters of only eight and ten, both as redheaded as Polly. At the next loom, Agnes Doward did the same with nearby apprentices. Together they gathered the children who worked the mill, most of whom had been scared into paralysis or equally useless screams.

“Come on now, lassies,” Polly shouted over the din. The harried calls of the other workers competed with the burn and crash. “Out we go. Out into the street. The fire brigade will be here in a wink.”

She doubted her own words. The fire brigade might eventually hurry to the scene, but only once they learned which building blazed. The chiefs knew how furious the mill masters would be if the factories were destroyed. The rest of Calton was simply not a priority.

“Polly,” Agnes called.

Looking back to where Agnes had nodded, Polly saw that a hole the size of a horse had opened in the south wall. Its near-circular shape was visible now that some of the dust had settled. Flames still crawled over the wool stores. Male workers did their best with water from an outside pump, working a chain of buckets and swatting the fires with overcoats.

What in the bloody hell had Tommy been thinking?

She tugged the girls’ hands a little too roughly. She’d sort out the culprit later, feeding him to the families of whoever came away from this sabotage with injuries. There were bound to be some. The explosion had been too large to leave everyone unscathed.

The crush toward the front and side exits was sizable and frenzied. Polly handed Ellen and Kitty to another worker, Constance Nells, and elbowed her way past a half dozen people. She hoisted her skirts and climbed atop two crates; an advantage of height made her feel as brave as she needed to be. The panic wanting to break free would just have to wait. She needed to keep calm and set an example for the others.

If the factory burned . . .

Cupping her hands over her mouth, she shouted at the top of her lungs—which her ma had always said were the equal of a booming dockworker’s twice her size. That was not exactly flattering, but her strong voice was most useful today.

“Everyone, listen up!” For emphasis, she shouted it again in the Lowland Scots dialect they all shared. “Keep panicking if you want to burn alive. Whoever did this will win the day. They’ll be glad for it, knowing we reacted like animals. I, for one, would rather breathe clean air again. Now, you’ll bloody well calm down, keep care of the young ones, and behave like the Calton survivors you are!” She hooked a thumb back toward those who worked to quench the flames.
“And men, if you have any meat between your legs, you’ll help save our livelihoods!”

For the span of a breath, there was no human sound. She had silenced them all. Nods and strong words of agreement followed. And, to her astonished pride, the seventy workers at Christie Textiles found their civilized minds. The men hurried back to help the efforts against the fire. The women hoisted children onto their shoulders and gripped their small fingers. Doors parted under the push of unseen hands, letting in a stream of misty spring sunshine. The smoke sucked out into the street, and Polly could taste the coming rain.

Two hands reached up to help her down from the crates. It was Les MacNider, a tall, skinny firebrand who talked as well as any professor—but only on the topic of workers’ rights and the oppression of their people. Otherwise he was just as likely as any man to grunt vague replies and talk sport, gambling, and women. He was a loyal friend.

Polly accepted his aid in descending. “It was Tommy,” she whispered.

Les shook his head. Although he was only in his late thirties, he was mostly bald. “I won’t believe it. Not of Tommy.”

“There’s no time. Go help the other men. I’ll make sense of whatever awaits us out in the street.”

Les nodded again and added a grunt of agreement. He worked his lanky frame back through the factory to take up a position in the line of buckets. In the distance, the clang of the fire brigade’s bells offered some relief, bringing with it a familiar flare
of indignation. Polly wondered how quickly they responded to emergencies in Blythswood Hill. But she didn’t indulge in bitterness. That way lay melancholy and a dependence on strong drink.

Or, in Tommy’s case, a yearning for violence.

She rushed out after the last of the escaping workers. The streets were full of people, from both the Christie mill and across the street. Her fellow workers wore soot and ash like an actor’s face paint, while those from Winchester’s appeared curious and concerned. Every building on the street was vulnerable if the winds shifted.

Already the scent of hot water and wet ashes permeated the air. Maybe they had a chance. The fire brigade had taken position in the alley, back near the stables and where deliveries of wool were stored. Whoever had planned the attack knew the establishment’s weakest place, right where the equivalent of dry tinder waited to erupt with the smallest spark—let alone actual explosives.

Rough hands grabbed Polly from behind. She yelped. Reflex helped her fight, but the hands were strong, implacable.

“You think you’re unstoppable, don’t you, Polly?”

A shudder ripped across her upper back. She stopped fighting, if only to process her shock. Although his sneak attack had been a surprise, Rand Livingstone never failed to single her out as a scapegoat. Winchester’s overseer held a grudge against her as deep as the River Clyde. That she’d nearly made him a falsetto for the rest of his life had something to do with it.

The shock passed, and she fought. Tooth and claw had nothing on a Calton girl in the grips of unspeakable anger. He was a reptile. Positively inhuman. A factory could burn to the ground, and he would rather enforce baseless accusations or grab at her breasts.

“Let me go, you pile of vomit.” She grunted and twisted in vain. Something in her shoulder gave way with a little pop. She cried out at the sharp pain. “Bloody let go!”

Livingstone held fast, and with all the men indoors, Polly could not rely on the scared, stunned women, who huddled to keep the children safe—especially the older lads who wanted a closer look at the blaze.

“You were warned,” he growled, giving her arm another painful jerk. “You and your lot. You know any hint of violence would mean no mercy.”

“As if
any
member of the Gowan family has ever advocated violence! Now, let me go. You’re not a pig in a uniform—just an overseer! You just want to maul me like a doxy.”

Leaning close, he breathed against her temple. “You’re little better, you uppity bitch.”