them, Paul merely shrugged at
Nicholas' pointed words. "My father, bless his soul, understood that his
only son and heir never had a head for business. Which is why, after his death,
he entrusted the daily operations of Fines and Company to you, his ever
industrious partner."
Nicholas
shook his head. "I told Jeremiah it should be you running the company, not
me."
"What
difference does it make when I receive half the profits? You know I've never
held a grudge against you for all your canny mercantile ways," Paul said. "If
it hadn't been for your timely appearance in our lives, Father might have forced
me to put in a hard day's work. Then where would I be?"
Nicholas
shot Paul a look of exasperated affection. "Doing something useful, one
would hope."
"Please."
Paul shuddered visibly as he rose. "Do not mix the word useful and
I in the same sentence. We have a constitutional aversion to one another.
Rather like water and oil."
They
descended two flights to the main floor. Nicholas did a quick survey of the cavernous
warehouse. Stacks of wooden crates and barrels stood neat as hedgerows, while a
mountain of sugar sacks leaned against one wall. All appeared as usual, save
for the group of men huddled by the spice containers. When they saw him, the
men stopped talking, their expressions mulish. He was about to issue a sharp
reprimand to return to work when Jibotts, his trusted office steward, hurried
over.
"Good
morning, Mr. Fines. Lord Harteford, I did not see you come in this morning."
Behind his spectacles, Jibotts' faded blue eyes had a pinched, tense look. "I
was here by six o' clock. When did you arrive?"
Aware
of Paul's interested gaze, Nicholas cleared his throat. "Slightly before
that. I heard the commotion. Apprise me of the situation."
"It
was one of the rum barrels, my lord," Jibotts said. "Jim Buckley, he
slipped on account of his bad back, and the weight became too much for the
other two. I've had the spillage cleared."
"How
is Jim?"
"I
sent him home to bed rest. He wished to convey his apologies to you personally."
Jibotts paused. "He was quite concerned that his wages would be garnished."
"For
having a bad back?" Nicholas asked.
It
was a rhetorical question as he knew intimately what the life of the laboring
class was like. He had begun his career on the docks just as Jim Buckley had.
If Jeremiah hadn't taken a chance on him, he might be there still, hefting the
immeasurable weight of poverty upon his shoulders. At least this explained the
mutiny before him. Nicholas could feel the daggered looks of the workers as
they listened to every word.
A
stocky, bearded man, clearly the leader of the group, spoke up. "Jim 'as 'im
a wife and eight young 'uns countin' on 'im. A man breaks 'is back but 'tisn't
enough fer your lordship —now you want to rips the bread outta the mouths
o' women an' chil'ren. Pox on this place, I says!" He spat, the action
inciting angry murmurs from the others.
Nicholas
turned to face him. "Your name?"
"Isaac
Bragg," the man said. His barrel chest puffed like a peacock's, and his
small dark eyes gleamed with insolence.
"Mr.
Bragg, what position do you occupy in this company?" Nicholas asked
sharply.
"I'm
a porter," Bragg said, with a swagger true to his name. "An' you can
fire me. Always work fer the likes of me—Milligan's 'iring a block away wif
wages that a man can live on. Isn't that right, boys?"
Muttered
assent rose from behind him.
Nicholas
silenced the group with a look. "As an owner of Fines and Company, let me
make myself very clear. We have not in the past, nor shall we in the future,
punish workers for sustaining injuries in the line of work. Any man who says
differently will answer to me."
"'Tis
exactly as his lordship says," Jibotts said in brisk tones. The steward
scanned the small group of workers, his eyes settling on a thin, red-haired man
in the back. "You there, James Gordon. What happened when you broke your
arm several months back?"
Gordon
shifted on his
Nicholas' pointed words. "My father, bless his soul, understood that his
only son and heir never had a head for business. Which is why, after his death,
he entrusted the daily operations of Fines and Company to you, his ever
industrious partner."
Nicholas
shook his head. "I told Jeremiah it should be you running the company, not
me."
"What
difference does it make when I receive half the profits? You know I've never
held a grudge against you for all your canny mercantile ways," Paul said. "If
it hadn't been for your timely appearance in our lives, Father might have forced
me to put in a hard day's work. Then where would I be?"
Nicholas
shot Paul a look of exasperated affection. "Doing something useful, one
would hope."
"Please."
Paul shuddered visibly as he rose. "Do not mix the word useful and
I in the same sentence. We have a constitutional aversion to one another.
Rather like water and oil."
They
descended two flights to the main floor. Nicholas did a quick survey of the cavernous
warehouse. Stacks of wooden crates and barrels stood neat as hedgerows, while a
mountain of sugar sacks leaned against one wall. All appeared as usual, save
for the group of men huddled by the spice containers. When they saw him, the
men stopped talking, their expressions mulish. He was about to issue a sharp
reprimand to return to work when Jibotts, his trusted office steward, hurried
over.
"Good
morning, Mr. Fines. Lord Harteford, I did not see you come in this morning."
Behind his spectacles, Jibotts' faded blue eyes had a pinched, tense look. "I
was here by six o' clock. When did you arrive?"
Aware
of Paul's interested gaze, Nicholas cleared his throat. "Slightly before
that. I heard the commotion. Apprise me of the situation."
"It
was one of the rum barrels, my lord," Jibotts said. "Jim Buckley, he
slipped on account of his bad back, and the weight became too much for the
other two. I've had the spillage cleared."
"How
is Jim?"
"I
sent him home to bed rest. He wished to convey his apologies to you personally."
Jibotts paused. "He was quite concerned that his wages would be garnished."
"For
having a bad back?" Nicholas asked.
It
was a rhetorical question as he knew intimately what the life of the laboring
class was like. He had begun his career on the docks just as Jim Buckley had.
If Jeremiah hadn't taken a chance on him, he might be there still, hefting the
immeasurable weight of poverty upon his shoulders. At least this explained the
mutiny before him. Nicholas could feel the daggered looks of the workers as
they listened to every word.
A
stocky, bearded man, clearly the leader of the group, spoke up. "Jim 'as 'im
a wife and eight young 'uns countin' on 'im. A man breaks 'is back but 'tisn't
enough fer your lordship —now you want to rips the bread outta the mouths
o' women an' chil'ren. Pox on this place, I says!" He spat, the action
inciting angry murmurs from the others.
Nicholas
turned to face him. "Your name?"
"Isaac
Bragg," the man said. His barrel chest puffed like a peacock's, and his
small dark eyes gleamed with insolence.
"Mr.
Bragg, what position do you occupy in this company?" Nicholas asked
sharply.
"I'm
a porter," Bragg said, with a swagger true to his name. "An' you can
fire me. Always work fer the likes of me—Milligan's 'iring a block away wif
wages that a man can live on. Isn't that right, boys?"
Muttered
assent rose from behind him.
Nicholas
silenced the group with a look. "As an owner of Fines and Company, let me
make myself very clear. We have not in the past, nor shall we in the future,
punish workers for sustaining injuries in the line of work. Any man who says
differently will answer to me."
"'Tis
exactly as his lordship says," Jibotts said in brisk tones. The steward
scanned the small group of workers, his eyes settling on a thin, red-haired man
in the back. "You there, James Gordon. What happened when you broke your
arm several months back?"
Gordon
shifted on his
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