For some strange reason, my eyes suddenly watered with tears. Carrot…Carrot asking about me. I heard again my brother’s terse words: You surely do not think that the nephew of the Prince Regent of England is really interested in what became of a clerk in a countinghouse in Maysbeck, do you?
Perhaps not. And yet, he was Carrot and we had shared a great deal together, and he had asked about me. He himself had said it: I missed you, too, Jam.
Besides, I was no longer merely a clerk, for all the difference that might make to the Earl of Lanham. I sat down a dozen times to write to Carrot, struggling to find words that would reintroduce us, that would convey my hopes of seeing him again without sounding maudlin, but each time I threw away my attempt, and it was nearly a month after I received Mr. Lincoln’s correspondence when I got up my courage and wrote something that might have been suitable. I posted it before I lost my nerve.
Four days later Mr. Wilson crashed down onto the mill floor with apoplexia. The mill foreman came for me and I sent Wrisley for a carriage, and the three of us managed to get Mr. Wilson outside and installed into it. I accompanied him, still unconscious, to his home.
Mrs. Wilson was all aflutter and Mrs. Brewer hurried Miss Little upstairs when we arrived. The coachman helped me carry Mr. Wilson into the house, and then I ordered him to collect the physician posthaste. After an examination, the physician shook his head and would not forecast the future but only ordered nourishment when he regained consciousness, and complete rest—as if Mr. Wilson could do anything else. Through it all, Mrs. Wilson clung to me, weeping into my chest, and I comforted her as best I could.
She was determined to spend the night in the parlor with her husband, but I convinced her to go upstairs and sleep in her own bed; I would hold vigil with him. He did recover consciousness the next day, but his speech was muddled—it was harder to tell about his mind—he had lost all control of the limbs on his left side, and that side of his face seemed almost to have melted. After breakfast I felt it imperative to return to the mill to ascertain that all was running properly, though Mrs. Wilson begged me to return as soon as possible. Mr. Landes came as soon as he heard and offered whatever help was needed, which was kind, given that he had his own mill to run and his own house and his own wife, who had been poorly for years.
Mr. Wilson owned the mill outright, and that was a good thing in the respect that there was no doubt who should have been in control, if only he were capable. But now there was only I and Bob Wrisley—who, though he had many more years’ experience of the mill than I, was still only a countinghouse clerk—and Jeremy Hardback, the overlooker. Jeremy was a good enough man, as Mr. Wilson had often said, but not cut out to be more than he had already risen to. In other words, it was now up to me to run Maysbeck Mill, with Mr. Landes’ help and advice.
Those workers who had been at the mill for many years still saw me as the near child I had been when I arrived, and it was difficult for them—especially the men—to countenance the fact that I was now truly acting in Mr. Wilson’s stead. Somehow, I needed to establish myself in their eyes, if only by force of will. Mr. Landes laid it out for me in no uncertain terms: “I imagine these folk are decent people, most of them, but they, like servants, must keep to their places, and you must keep to yours. One cannot converse with them on terms of equality; one must keep them always at a distance, or one will lose all authority.”
I worked at doing that, and I was aware that some at the mill disliked it, but steady work was scarce enough that no one dared to leave. It was always the men who grumbled behind my back; women, I thought at the time and still think, are more practical than men, perhaps because they are used to being powerless and therefore bear what they must, and often more honorably. Certainly, I was often nervous about my new responsibilities, worried that I would fail and let Mr. Wilson down when he needed me most, but I also learned that even if one is unsure, one can play the role with no one else the wiser.
Mrs. Wilson insisted I come back to stay at the house, and I did so out of pity for her. However, that was not an easy choice, for Miss Little continued to abhor the sight of me, and she screamed whenever I appeared, until Mrs. Wilson, who could neither abandon her sister nor bear life without my presence, came up with a solution. I was to move into the second-floor guest room that Miss Little and Mrs. Brewer had been using, and they in turn would take up residence in the third-floor room, where meals could be brought to Miss Little, and she would never have need to come down, nor ever accidentally meet me on the stairway. With that resolved, quiet and almost peacefulness returned to the house.
*
It was weeks later that I heard from Carrot. My letter, sent to him at Lanham-Hall, had followed him to Bath and then to Baden-Baden, which was just gaining a reputation for all the pleasures that aimless young men enjoy. His return letter exhibited a gratifying level of enthusiasm at having heard from me, and he invited me to join him at my earliest convenience. I noted with a kind of schadenfreude that Rowland was not mentioned. I responded that I could not leave my present position, as I was direly needed, but that I would be delighted to see him as soon as possible after he returned to England.
His reply was pure Carrot:
Surely you have nothing to do there in that godforsaken town that is as important as reestablishing our friendship. Nevertheless, I know that sometimes one must do what one must, and I look forward to seeing you soonest. At the end of May we will be going to Epsom Downs for the Derby. Have you been? You must join us there; it is wonderful fun! My friend Willy’s father owns the favorite, Tiresias. We shall be sitting in his box.