Starlight (37 page)

Breath seared inside his chest. “For what?”

“For you to say
anything
. Anything to make me feel like more than some refugee you pulled out of the slums.” The flush of her cheeks had turned as pale as milk. “I’ve turned myself inside out in the hope you might see me as more than a lover wearing a wedding band—or the means to some industrial end. Turns out I’ve been blind to how far a master will stoop to add to his riches.”

Alex shrugged, as if their disagreement was no more devastating than being unable to agree on a wine to serve with supper. “That cannot be true because I am not a rich man. I’m worth little more than my largest telescope. To earn my inheritance and keep full custody of my son, I need to make this wretched company profitable by the end of 1883.”

She nodded curtly. “That year and a half you mentioned.”

“That’s right. And I’ll do anything—
anything
, Polly—to make it happen. Don’t believe for a second that your union is exempt.”

“I’ve shared so much with you. Tried to make you happy. Hoped you’d make
me
happy. You’ve treated me no better than gutter trash. Gutter trash, Alex.”

He’d thrown Winchester into the street for leveling that same insult at Polly. She looked just as he felt, as if ready to vomit.

He could tell her,
I love you, too
. He could tell her how wrong she was, that he respected her more than any woman he’d ever known. But his honesty would only muddy the situation. The mill and the union, his son and his wife—he needed to choose, just as he’d sacrificed passion for Mamie’s sake.

No one could have it all.

Cold. So cold. When had his room full of sunlight and love turned into four walls stuffed to the ceiling with ice?

“If you can’t live with the decisions I’ve made, then an annulment is for the best.”

The spark in her eyes faded. A layer of cloudy gray shaded their bright green beauty. She nodded. Stiffly. But her shoulders no longer bowed. She stood regally. “Have it your way, master. I’m used to that by now.”

The door to his bedroom shook. Agnes knocked roughly, her words raw as she shouted through the wood. “Mr. Christie? Where’s the missus, sir? Come quick. It’s her da.”

P
olly
pinned her hair back in a severe bun, using the looking glass above her mother’s Georgian porcelain basin—one of her family’s few treasures. It had been passed down from mother to daughter, just like the genuine tortoiseshell combs she brought out for the funeral. Her hair finished, she donned the black she’d worn for her grandma’s funeral three years before.

She was wearing her own clothes, not the ones Alex had ordered made for her. And she was back in the home where she’d been born. Her old pallet had held her, not his strong arms. That she shared the tiny space with her mother and brothers was no longer such a dire concern. That she succumbed to random fits of tears . . . she tried constantly to hide that truth.

Her da was dead.

Hours later, after the somber service at the church, the mourners arrived at the graveyard where her
father would be laid to rest. Flanked by her brothers, Polly supported Ma and worked to keep her steps even, slow, determined. She would not let the weakness in her knees get the best of her. They were as soft as the veil whipping across her line of sight. May leaves rustled on that breeze. Such a beautiful spring day. But black lace darkened her view.

Ma had never appeared older or more haggard. Whatever grief Polly felt paled by comparison. Maybe, in some odd way, she was lucky. The loss of her father competed with other gut-twisting emotions. A raging, red anger. And heartbreak. Both burned in her chest.

Dozens of people—maybe as many as a hundred—crowded around the gaping mouth of his open grave. Heath and Wallace joined Hamish and Les as they carried the coffin out from the church. Even Tommy was there, protected for a time by a community bound together in mourning.

Polly said nothing when the reverend paused in his recitation to allow last words from family members. Instead, fingers numb, she held her mother’s hand as they each tossed a clod of dirt into the grave. The pale pine of his coffin no longer gleamed. That beautiful wood had seemed such a waste, but the union membership had pooled donations to buy the finely crafted piece. The ground would own it forever. But, swallowing thickly, Polly was grateful now that they had insisted. It was a final measure of respect for a man few, if any, outside of Calton would remember.

No one said a word about her marriage. Her
father’s final gift had been to shield her from talk on this, her first day back among her people. But she would’ve borne the worst whispers to have Alex at her side. She loved him. She
needed
him. That he remained at home flayed her down to muscle and bone. Her face hurt from holding back screams that yearned to come blaring out. She remained a married woman standing alone at her father’s funeral.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Reverend McCormick intoned.

He dipped his chin and led that final service for Graham Gowan. Every disagreement and grudge was set aside. Everyone wore the same drab black—for most, the best clothing they owned. They prayed the same prayer, which Polly could only mouth. Her throat hurt too badly to speak.

She supported her mother through the rigors of the day. The church food churned in her stomach as she endured best wishes from those who’d idolized her father. Soon, most of the men would slip away and raise a pint in his honor. She wished she could join them.

Shoulders aching, she pressed her back against an elm that stretched its newborn leaves high over the football pitch where she had watched Alex compete, seemingly ages ago. Some boys and young men did so now. Sunday was their only freedom from the workweek, and no one—not even those grieving most deeply—begrudged them an hour of play.

Hamish Nyman joined her. The expression he wore was nearly . . . sheepish. She hadn’t expected that in the least.

“Here to offer your congratulations on my wedding, or your condolences for my loss?”

“He was a good man,” Hamish said, skirting her question.

“That he was. I wonder what you’ll do with the mantle you’ll pick up in his stead. Wear it or burn it?”

“Depends on you.” He hadn’t argued against her assumption. Hamish intended to make a play for the leadership.

“On me? Hardly. You’ll move on without me, and with good reason. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

He added a noncommittal noise, then worked to roll a cigarette. “You did what you had to. Only the worst of this lot would begrudge you that.”

She shook her head. “Don’t talk bollocks to me. I know better. And I know exactly what I’d be calling a girl like me.”

“You’ve never been just any girl.” He lit the cigarette and drew in a deep breath. Silvery smoke caught the breeze as he exhaled. “More than that, you’re still Graham’s daughter. If we want this strike to hold firm, we need you. Your support. Your blessing.”

Strike.

It was exactly what she’d hoped to avoid. The masters were planning to punish everyone for the actions of a few, whose identities remained unknown. They wanted to destroy the union her father had worked decades to forge. The wage decrease would cause an internal split—accept it for the sake of hungry children, or risk worse by fighting for more.

But no. They’d hold the line together. No one would take advantage of them.

“No violence, Hamish. We can’t have it.”

His shoulders slumped, as if relieved. “I didn’t think you’d agree at all.”

She pushed away from the tree. The weakness that had invaded her joints upon learning of her father’s death was nowhere to be found. “Just where do you believe my loyalty lies? After all these years? Don’t be absurd.”

“You could lose everything.”

“No worries on that score.” A single word repeated as a droning chant in her mind.
Annulment.
“I have all that I need when I stand with my kin.”

He faced the setting sun. His beard obscured the set of his mouth. “Well, well. Seems one of the masters thought to pay his respects.”

Eyes narrowed, he nodded to the walkway leading to the church.

Polly knew whom she’d find, even before she turned.

Alex Christie wore a suit that cut close to his lean hips and flared across his shoulders, accentuating their breadth. He didn’t hesitate but strode forward, face straight ahead. The eyes that followed him up the walkway did not alter his focus. With his top hat in place and walking stick in hand, he played the part of the mill master to a most convincing end.

Only, now she knew it wasn’t an act.

Curses bunched on her tongue, but she kept silent. He greeted the reverend. He bowed respectfully to her mother where she sat among dear friends. He shook hands with her brothers. Polly squished her sense of disloyalty. Her family couldn’t possibly
know that she and Alex had fallen out. Coming home to comfort her mother for a few days didn’t imply permanence.

Hamish touched her on the shoulder. A conspiratorial gleam in his eyes filled her with a dread she couldn’t name. “We decided to move quickly. The meeting’s tonight. Eight o’clock at the old Gorman warehouse.”

“Why not the meeting hall? We’ve held our assemblies there for ten years.”

“We can’t trust anyone from outside our circle to make plans. Understand?”

“Hamish,” she said, trying to stay composed. “It’s a bad precedent to set. The meeting hall is available to any peaceful organization in the city. It’s one of our few claims to legitimacy. We’ll look like anarchists!”

He flicked his small green eyes back toward the church, where Alex still mingled with the mourners. That he remained, offering his condolences, constricted a place in her chest that had flared hot and greedy at the mere sight of him.

“Make your choice,” Hamish said. “Eight o’clock.”

Polly swallowed. Her father was dead. Hamish was not the man she wanted to take his place—or even
her
place. But she knew where his loyalties were. Maybe with a little luck and the right words, she could keep him from pushing the membership toward disaster.

Alex had taken his side. She would take hers.

“I’ll be there.”

“You’re your father’s daughter, girl.” He snubbed
his cigarette out in the grass. “Now, I think I’ll leave you two alone.”

“Hello, Polly.”

She closed her eyes. Breathed in. When she faced daylight once again, Hamish had walked away to rejoin the congregants. Alex took his place.

The setting sun burnished his sandy hair. Hard lines radiated from his eyes toward his temples, and deep grooves dug around his mouth. His expression was rife with sympathy that made her knees weak. The unrelenting cleverness that shone out from his green-and-gold eyes admired her every feature—as concentrated as a caress and as eloquent as a thousand questions.

Kissing. Touching. Making love. He’d ruined all of it.

Even declaring her love hadn’t been enough.

She wanted to hate him but found only sadness. How could she feel any grief beyond what was due her da? Yet it was right there, pounding out from her bones. She mourned for the marriage she’d been forced into accepting, and for the loss of the man she’d only just come to adore.

“Hello,” she said quietly.

“I’m glad so many people are here for you and your family. That support must be reassuring.” His mouth drew downward in an even deeper frown.

She wanted to shout at him.
I don’t have your support! My own husband!

But her heart went out to him, as it always did when people suffered. Maybe all those years, letting the happiness in, she’d been holding the ugliness
at bay by reaching out to others. At that moment, no matter their differences, she sympathized with a fellow human being who had also recently lost his father. Six months on from Sir William’s passing, and eleven months on from Mamie’s, Alex appeared weary from the grief she’d only just been forced to bear.

“Did you have . . . support?” she asked.

He looked down to where his walking stick dug into the soft spring loam. “Many people attended his funeral.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No, it’s not. But my siblings were there. We’ve always had one another.”

Polly smoothed her hands across her stomach. Inside crocheted black gloves, her palms were damp with sweat. “I’m glad you came.”

He faced the sun easing toward the western horizon. She’d always admired the strength of his profile, the aristocratic surety of it. Beautiful, yet stalwart and capable of great passions. The thought of passion, so recently shared and so recently lost, was particularly devastating. “I’m sorry for your loss, Polly. I wish I could’ve come to know him better.”

The line of his back seemed especially straight, his shoulders square and stiff, as he turned to walk away.