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  "I don't want this advice for nothing, Patrick. I'll pay you a retainer."

  "I'd rather have a one percent interest in your soap venture."

  Jonathan winked at James. "He's got a head for business that lad, probably richer than I am with his one percent of this and that."

  "You can't beat quality, Father. In Lancashire we manufacture some of the best goods in the world. I'm thinking of exporting to America."

  "Eh? What's this?" his father demanded.

  "Oh, I've been talking to a shipowner in Liverpool, Isaac Bolt. If I bought half interest in a ship, we could take over our textiles from the mills and perhaps some of your soap. We have so many things that are manufactured right here in Bolton, I’d be spoiled for choice. Dobson makes the finest steam engines, and Webster makes water pumps and windmills. There's Springfield Paper Mills and Walmsley's wrought iron. In Bolton we make everything--chemical dyes, furniture, glass, leather goods, carpets, even coffins," offered Patrick. He continued, "I'm thinking of sailing myself. Then, I could buy the best long staple cotton from the Carolinas.” He allowed his father to digest all this.

  James Leaver looked across at Jonathan O'Reilly and shook his head. “We thought we had big ideas when we started out, but if these two aren't careful, their names will go down in the history books," he said and winked.

  “How am I supposed to run three mills while you go running off to America?"

  Patrick said with a laugh, "Ah, well, it won't be tomorrow, Father."

  Kitty lay in her small iron bed on the third floor and went over every pretty article she had packed. She pretended the clothes were hers. She was deep into a fantasy now. She swirled around the ballroom floor in the most exquisite creation, and all heads were turned in her direction. Ladies, whispered about her behind their fans and she looked up into her partner's adoring eyes, and her partner was none other than ...

  Suddenly a stone fell onto her face. The drowsy sensations of near sleep she had been enjoying vanished immediately.

  She sat up quickly.

  "Psst, Irish."

  Kitty leaned out the little dormer window and saw Julia on the driveway below.

  "I'm locked out, Irish. Come and open the front door without rousing the house." Kitty was shocked at Julia's behavior. "I have to be up at five o'clock. How dare you wake me up at this ungodly hour, you selfish girl!"

  "Please, Irish?"

  "Me name's Kitty!"

  "Please, Kitty?"

  Kitty crept down the two flights of stairs and quietly opened the front door for her. The look she bestowed upon Julia was one of tight-lipped disapproval. Kitty had no Idea what she had been up to, but instinctively knew it was wrong.

  Julia looked at Kitty and said, "You look like you've been eating pickled Bibles." They both giggled and then shushed each other. By the time they climbed the stairs and Julia reached her room in safety, they were firm allies.

  Chapter 4

  On Monday morning, Jonathan O'Reilly was up at dawn and on his way to the mills, determined to take the reins back in his own hands. First at the Falcon, then at the Egyptian, and finally at the Gibraltar he had called in the men before work began on the new machines and made it clear that in return for this technical innovation, management would claim a substantial reduction in wage rates. The men were surly and instead of producing more work they produced considerably less. Trouble was brewing ominously, but it wouldn't erupt until after working hours, when they could get together and decide on a plan of action.

  Patrick, blissfully unaware of his father's intentions, decided to let him have the running of the mills to himself and went off with a friend to a horse race.

  Kitty emptied the bucket of dirty water after she had scrubbed the kitchen floor and Mrs. Thomson took pity on her. "It's almost ten o'clock, child. Mr. Parker will be here to give Miss Barbara her lessons. They are from ten to twelve each morning in the library. You be the chaperone today. Take your duster in there and after you're finished, just sit quietly until the lessons are over."

  Mr. Parker was a thin, ratty little man dressed in a shabby but genteel fashion. Kitty almost pitied him until she saw he enjoyed the way he could make Barbara cower. He insisted that she could not give him verbal answers, but that she must write everything down on the slate.

  Kitty moved about slowly so as not to attract attention as she went about the room dusting. When she came to the grandfather clock, she moved the hands ahead an hour, then moved over to the bookshelves and continued to dust.

  “Now, Miss O’Reilly, seeing you are hopeless in mathematics, we will put it aside and do spelling and let me tell you, young woman, every time you make a mistake you will write it out one hundred times. That should keep you busy all evening, for from what I've seen, your spelling is as atrocious as your mathematics."

  Kitty opened a dictionary and with her voice low and her back toward Barbara and Mr. Parker she began spelling the first word for Barbara. Kitty said quickly, "Just put down what I tell you, he can't hear me you know he's deaf as a doornail. That's why he makes you write everything on the slate.”

  They finished the list of words and she handed him her slate to be checked for mistakes.

  Kitty kept her face to the wall. "You mustn't be afraid of him Barbara He probably threatens to tell your father about you, eh?”

  "Now take a fresh slate and make proper sentences with the following words." Mr. Parker was clearly annoyed that Barbara had made no errors for which she could be punished.”

  “Employer," Mr. Parker dictated.

  Kitty said, "Put down: Does your employer know you are deaf?”

  "Employee," he continued.

  "Put down: Employees should not bully little girls."

  Kitty moved silently over to the desk behind Mr. Parker, picked up his pocket watch and altered the time to match that of the grandfather clock.

  "Employment," intoned Mr. Parker

  "You are about to lose your employment" whispered Kitty.

  The tall clock chimed twelve and Barbara arose to hand him her slate.

  "Where are you going, miss?"

  She pointed to the grandfather clock and he looked thunderstruck. He took his pocket watch from the desk, checked it and looked up, thoroughly bewildered.

  Barbara curtsied, handed him the slate and disappeared as fast as her legs would carry her, but Kitty lingered behind to see the look on his face when he read the slate.

  He looked down at the sentences and his pallor went from dirty white to dirty gray. He spluttered, "Little bitch!"

  Kitty held the feather duster to her ear like an ear trumpet and shouted, "Eh?" before following Barbara from the room.

  After the evening meal Jonathan went off to his club and Patrick decided to visit the theater. He very seldom told Bradshaw to bring the carriage to the front door, but usually went to the stables and coach house himself because he liked the atmosphere there. He had won a little on the horses and was in a good mood, blissfully unaware of how incongruous he looked in frilled shirt and tall silk hat, fondling the muzzle of one of the carriage horses. Patrick caught sight of Terry and somewhere in the recesses of his mind he was vaguely aware that he was familiar. "Who's this?" he asked Bradshaw.

  "That's the new lad I was telling you about this afternoon.

  The squire wants me to teach him how to drive the carriage, but to my way of thinking, he's not old enough." Bradshaw couldn't hide the fact that he didn't want any competition, and Patrick hid a grin. "He can come along tonight," he said, winking at Terry, who was delighted with the plans. Patrick knew it would annoy Bradshaw, but Patrick also remembered what it felt like to be denied things because you were too young. Patrick sat in his box at the theater considering the chorus girls very carefully. When he had made his selection he was just about to send a note backstage when the bookkeeper from the Gibraltar mill lifted the curtain and entered the box.

  "Mr. O'Reilly, thank God I've found you. There's trouble at the mill. I went up to t
he house, but your father was out and they told me where I would likely find you."

  Patrick stiffened. "What kind of trouble?"

  "Well, your father cut the wage rates today and there's an ugly crowd gathered outside the mill. I can't control them."

  "Let's go," said Patrick, gathering up his hat and gloves.

  He stepped inside the Man & Scythe Pub and caught Bradshaw’s eye. Terry followed them to the pub's coachyard, where the carriage was parked. "Gibraltar Mill, and hurry."

  The well-lit streets of the town center were soon left behind as they drove into the poorer district. The carriage rumbled over the greasy cobbles of the dark street. Despite the poor light, they could see that a large crowd was gathered. The bookkeeper was very nervous. "You can't tackle them on your own, sir; they're a bunch of mad buggers. You know what the Irish are when roused, nothing but brutes and savages. Oh! Beggin' yer pardon, sir."

  Patrick's teeth showed like a wolf’s. "I suppose we are," he said reflectively. A crowd of men, women and children hurled curses and abuse when they spotted the carriage. They brandished bottles, bricks and assorted clubs as Patrick looked out from the carriage and saw their hard-set features.

  "Put the clogs to 'im! Blood-suckin' bastard!" and a woman's shrill, "The old pisspot, let me get me hands on 'im!"

  Patrick's tall figure emerged from the carriage and someone shouted, "It's not the O'Reilly, it's Patrick!"

  He looked into the anger-filled faces where usually he saw only despair.

  "I won't let my father cut wage rates and that's a promise.

  Now disperse and go home. You know you are breaking the law or do I have to read you the Riot Act?" They stood back silently from the tall man. His evening dress told them clearly that they were slum rats and he was of the ruling class. He continued, "The saying is that the Irish would rather fight than eat, but I don't believe that. I think putting food on the table is more important to you than rioting. Now take my word about the wages and go."

  Slowly the crowd started to melt away. Patrick let out a relieved breath and cursed his pigheaded father. "By Christ, you can always tell a Lancashire man, but you can’t tell him much!" He glanced around. "Where's Bradshaw?" he asked Terry.

  "The minute the carriage stopped, he made himself scarce. I'm after thinking he was scared shitless, sir."

  "It looks like we've seen the back of them all, but before we go I'd better make sure there's nobody lurking about in the millyard. You'd better stay with the horses, lad.

  Patrick went around the back of the mill, heard and saw nothing and turned to retrace his steps when. a dark figure from the shadows darted out and attacked him. It all happened so quickly; Patrick grappled with the burly figure and saw the blade's glint just in time. He recoiled sharply and the knife that was intended for his heart slid against his breastbone and was diverted upward through the breast muscle. The impact felled him, and his attacker took off over the mill wall into the blackness. Terry thought he heard a scuffle, but he was loath to leave the horses alone. When Patrick didn't return he knew he had no choice. When he saw him, Patrick was struggling to his feet.

  "Yer bleedin', sor!"

  "Rather badly, I'm afraid. Here, take my scarf and wad it up against my shoulder."

  Terry helped him to the carriage, terrified that he would expire before he could get help for him.

  "Do you think you can drive?" asked Patrick.

  "Of course I can drive. Just tell me where to find the doctor, sor."

  "No. I don't want this news spread all over Bolton. Just get me home." Inside he fell back against the squabs. As the carriage jolted over the cobbles, the pain became almost unbearable and a couple of times he had to force his eyes' to focus on a point in front of him to keep from passing out. Terry drove like a demon and soon he swept up the driveway to Hey House and helped Patrick up the front steps. Terry put his fingers to his mouth and gave an ear-piercing whistle. Three girls came running.

  "Kitty, get some boiling water and bandages!" Terry shouted.

  Julia cried, "My God, what's happened?"

  "He's been stabbed," said Terry shortly. Barbara screamed.

  Julia said, "Bring him upstairs."

  Patrick leaned heavily on Terry's shoulder as he climbed to his bedroom and sank into a wing-backed chair gratefully. Barbara was before him on her knees clutching him, her face blanched so white Patrick feared for her. "Don't faint, sweetheart. Go and sit quietly over there. Everything will be fine."

  "My God, look at the blood! Stay still, Patrick, you're getting it on everything!" cried Julia. "I've got to get the doctor."

  "That's what I say, miss," Terry said firmly.

  "No, Julia love, please. I want to keep it quiet," gasped Patrick.

  Kitty came in with the bowl of hot water and towels; her heart was in her throat with fear for him. She knelt before him and said to Terry, "Take off his coat and let's see how bad it is."

  Patrick looked down into her face and thought he was hallucinating. Tears made her eyelashes spiky. He said, "Well I'll be damned-Lady Jane Tut!" Terry eased him out of his coat, and Julia took scissors and cut away the shirt, which now was crimson. Kitty's heart contracted as her fingers gently washed the ugly wound. Patrick never took his eyes from her. Her lips were slightly parted and her breath quickened. He was so close to her he could see the tiny blue veins in her eyelids and smell the wild heather fragrance of her hair. It was as if he were alone with her; the babble of Julia and Barbara faded away from his consciousness. Her closeness was like an aphrodisiac. His nostrils quivered and his hand went without volition to her curls.

  She sprang up and said, "It's not going to stop bleeding on its own; we'll have to bind it tightly. I'll fetch a clean sheet to tear it into strips," and she was gone.

  Patrick looked at Terry with recognition. "That's where I've seen you before."

  Julia said, "I'll fetch Mrs. Thomson and send a message to father's club."

  "You'll do no such thing, Julia. I don't want that bloody woman fussing over me-I've got three now! As for Father, he won't be long. Now, Terry, be a good lad and pour me some brandy."

  Kitty darted in, tearing the sheet into strips. She began to bandage him by wrapping them around his chest and over his left shoulder. When her fingers came into contact with his bare flesh she lowered her eyes and tried to keep from blushing. His closeness disturbed her; she couldn't think straight with his eyes on her. She finished tying the bandage and rose to her feet. Patrick sipped his second brandy and the fiery liquid spread its fingers across his chest. His head felt impossibly light. He grinned down at Kitty "I thought you were going to be a great lady with a carriage. How come you're only a maid?"

  She looked into his mocking eyes and couldn't bear the arrogance she saw there. She leaned slightly forward placed her hand upon his bandaged wound and squeezed cruelly. He went white from the pain and only just managed to hang onto consciousness.

  "If you hurt me, I'll hurt you," she told him softly. Desire flamed up in him. He could have taken her right there on the floor in spite of his sisters' presence and the awful pain.

  Jonathan O'Reilly came into his son's bedroom like a pasty ghost. His usual high color had drained away with dread of what he might discover. He began shouting to cover that fear. Patrick glanced over at Barbara and knew h shouldn't be subject to the harsh words that shortly would be hurled about.

  "Julia, take Barbara to her room; she's had enough excitement for one night."

  Jonathan shouted, "Why in hell isn't the doctor here?" Patrick kept his voice level. "I don't want a doctor I don't need a doctor. It's only a scratch."

  Kitty immediately covered the crimson bowl of blood with a towel. She curtsied to Mr. O'Reilly and left the room.

  “We’ll get the police. Not only are we going to put this assassin behind bars, but whoever it was who started this business, whoever it was who incited them to this behavior ...."

  Patrick’s head ached vilely and his vision blurred
slightly, but he pointed an accusing finger at his father and shouted, “Goddamn it, that was you!"

  The old man's jaw sagged open at the vehemence behind the words.

  "I won't have the police involved in this, or the doctors. I don't want it spread from one end of Bolton to the other. Tomorrow I have to put right what you set wrong. I have to tell them that there will be no wage cuts and I have to gain back their confidence. Now hear me well, Father, for I'm fatigued. They tried to kill me because they thought I was you! It's not safe for you here, and tomorrow you'll take the girls and go down to London."

  Jonathan O'Reilly sagged visibly. He looked at Terry and said quietly, "Let's get this lad into bed."

  Kitty returned with a brass scuttle of coal to replenish the fire.

  "I'll sit up with you tonight," Jonathan said firmly.

  "I want everyone out of this room immediately. I can't stand another minute of this bloody hand-wringing. You'll have me buried before morning. Kitty! Fetch me some fresh water before you leave. Good night, Father." He pulled up the covers to his chin and closed his eyes.

  Kitty returned with a supply of drinking water and a lovely crystal goblet on a silver tray. Patrick's hand gripped her wrist firmly and he pulled her toward him. They stared fiercely into each other's eyes for long minutes. His mouth was dry and he couldn't keep his thoughts clear. As he gazed at her she saw the arrogance leave his face for the first time since she met him. Her eyes softened, then also her heart. He mumbled thickly, "I don't think I should be alone." She placed her hand on his fevered brow and whispered comfortingly, "Neither do I."

  Patrick fell into a doze and Kitty curled up in the armchair by the fire. In about an hour he was thrashing about the bed so wildly that she feared he would open the wound again. She tried to hold him still but it was impossible. He was extremely fevered, so she held water to his lips and he drank avidly. She bathed his brow, but still he would not settle so she brought a chair over to the bed and sat holding his hand and murmuring soothing words. Gradually he grew calmer and fell into another fitful doze. Another hour passed this way and then he began to babble and became completely delirious. She stayed with him all night, giving him water, washing his face and hands and comforting him as best she could. She daydreamed that he would fall in love with her and ask her to marry him. She had seen the loving, generous way he had with his sisters and longed to be included. She was determined to learn all she could and improve herself. She already copied the girls' table manners and speech and declared that the first thing she must do was get rid of her Irish brogue.