money, he wasted it.” She pounded the arm of the sofa with a closed fist. Jem Hanks watched her with an interest that Alec found unsettling.
“Have you any other questions?” Alec said.
“Only one, sir.” He turned to Charlotte. “Is there anyone your husband mentioned in perticular? Friend, enemy, person he envied? Anybody at all that I should concentrate on, like?”
Charlotte frowned, took her time. But in the end, she shook her head. “Not that I remember. Henry talked mostly about things , you know—things and their history—not people. He didn’t much like people.”
“Ha.” Jem Hanks closed his small notebook. “Well, I’d best get back to it. More than likely I’ll have other questions as matters develop. You let me know if anything comes to mind. Anything at all. Don’t matter if it’s small. Thankee, ma’am, sir.” He nodded, turned, and slipped out of the room without waiting for a response.
Silence descended. Charlotte frowned at the carpet. No doubt she was unsettled by the encounter.
“An odd sort of man, Mr. Hanks. But he seemed to know his business,” she said.
“He came highly recommended,” replied Alec. She rose, took a step toward the door, stopped. What was this awkwardness that rose between them, Alec wondered? First the breakfast table, and now here. He generally found conversation untaxing; he was known among his friends for smoothing over sticky encounters. But something about this young woman paralyzed his skills. And yet he didn’t want her to go.
“You have a great many letters,” Charlotte observed.
“Estate business.”
“Do you have many estates? My father never received so much correspondence.”
“It’s the times.”
“The…?”
“The current state of the country.”
“What do you mean?” She grimaced. “I’m horribly ignorant. Henry didn’t take any newspapers, as my father used to do, and he refused to let me subscribe to the circulating library.”
“What the deuce was wrong with the man?” burst from Alec.
“Just selfishness, I think.” Her expression was sad now rather than outraged. “Complete and utter selfishness. Tell me about things in the country.”
Unlike his sisters and brother—or Frances, who actually seemed to blame their tenants for his father’s death—she seemed sincerely interested. “You’ve heard of the new textile machinery?”
“Some. Where I grew up it was all agricultural.”
“Well, machinery is changing the world, and for the worse, right now, for many families. People on my land, or in nearby villages, who used to sell what they wove on their home looms have been put out of business by cheaper goods from the factories.”
Charlotte nodded. She didn’t appear bored.
“Some leave their homes to work in the mills, but those jobs are backbreaking, and still don’t pay a living wage. So either way, they starve.”
“Couldn’t they just… do other things?”
“Such as?”
“I… I don’t know. Grow more food?”
Alec sighed. He was all too familiar with the futility of explaining this problem to members of his own class. “Most of them were already growing all they could. A few go into service or join the army. But this is a massive change. And by and large, there are no other things for them to do.”
“Can’t they be offered assistance, to find new…?”
Alec’s bitterness overcame him. “Our government feels that protest equals treason, and we should hang those who object to these conditions.”
“Surely not!”
It was always the same, Alec thought. Now she would recall that she had urgent business elsewhere. A cup of tea, perhaps, or a thrilling novel. He waited, but Charlotte merely gazed at him as if waiting for a solution to the intractable. “You like to read?”
She looked startled. “Yes.”
“You’re fond of Lord Byron, perhaps?”
“I have read some of his…”
“But not, I imagine, his work about the plight of the weavers, and the fact that the
“Have you any other questions?” Alec said.
“Only one, sir.” He turned to Charlotte. “Is there anyone your husband mentioned in perticular? Friend, enemy, person he envied? Anybody at all that I should concentrate on, like?”
Charlotte frowned, took her time. But in the end, she shook her head. “Not that I remember. Henry talked mostly about things , you know—things and their history—not people. He didn’t much like people.”
“Ha.” Jem Hanks closed his small notebook. “Well, I’d best get back to it. More than likely I’ll have other questions as matters develop. You let me know if anything comes to mind. Anything at all. Don’t matter if it’s small. Thankee, ma’am, sir.” He nodded, turned, and slipped out of the room without waiting for a response.
Silence descended. Charlotte frowned at the carpet. No doubt she was unsettled by the encounter.
“An odd sort of man, Mr. Hanks. But he seemed to know his business,” she said.
“He came highly recommended,” replied Alec. She rose, took a step toward the door, stopped. What was this awkwardness that rose between them, Alec wondered? First the breakfast table, and now here. He generally found conversation untaxing; he was known among his friends for smoothing over sticky encounters. But something about this young woman paralyzed his skills. And yet he didn’t want her to go.
“You have a great many letters,” Charlotte observed.
“Estate business.”
“Do you have many estates? My father never received so much correspondence.”
“It’s the times.”
“The…?”
“The current state of the country.”
“What do you mean?” She grimaced. “I’m horribly ignorant. Henry didn’t take any newspapers, as my father used to do, and he refused to let me subscribe to the circulating library.”
“What the deuce was wrong with the man?” burst from Alec.
“Just selfishness, I think.” Her expression was sad now rather than outraged. “Complete and utter selfishness. Tell me about things in the country.”
Unlike his sisters and brother—or Frances, who actually seemed to blame their tenants for his father’s death—she seemed sincerely interested. “You’ve heard of the new textile machinery?”
“Some. Where I grew up it was all agricultural.”
“Well, machinery is changing the world, and for the worse, right now, for many families. People on my land, or in nearby villages, who used to sell what they wove on their home looms have been put out of business by cheaper goods from the factories.”
Charlotte nodded. She didn’t appear bored.
“Some leave their homes to work in the mills, but those jobs are backbreaking, and still don’t pay a living wage. So either way, they starve.”
“Couldn’t they just… do other things?”
“Such as?”
“I… I don’t know. Grow more food?”
Alec sighed. He was all too familiar with the futility of explaining this problem to members of his own class. “Most of them were already growing all they could. A few go into service or join the army. But this is a massive change. And by and large, there are no other things for them to do.”
“Can’t they be offered assistance, to find new…?”
Alec’s bitterness overcame him. “Our government feels that protest equals treason, and we should hang those who object to these conditions.”
“Surely not!”
It was always the same, Alec thought. Now she would recall that she had urgent business elsewhere. A cup of tea, perhaps, or a thrilling novel. He waited, but Charlotte merely gazed at him as if waiting for a solution to the intractable. “You like to read?”
She looked startled. “Yes.”
“You’re fond of Lord Byron, perhaps?”
“I have read some of his…”
“But not, I imagine, his work about the plight of the weavers, and the fact that the
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