Not a Gentleman (North and South Fanfic)

Chapter Eight: The Shroud

John opened the gates to the mill at half past five. Normally this was a task for Williams, but the man was sick in bed with a summer cold. John was glad he had not caught it, as the illness had affected different members of the mill staff with varying levels of severity. John stood for a minute in the cobbled yard as he regarded the yellow-brown sunrise illuminating long strands of soot reeling forth from the many chimneys of Milton. Today was going to be scorchingly hot- he could tell after many years of living in the place. The grey, insulating batt laid down in great quantities by the factories made summer days worse than they would have been otherwise. But such was the price the city paid for progress, and the price England paid for its position as largest manufacturer in the world.

A cart pulled by two draft horses jangled to a stop, and a burly man, dressed in well-patched fustian jumped down from the pile of tools thrown in back. John recognized him instantly. It was Higgins.

John sighed. He was in no mood for a confrontation in the middle of the street, directly in front of his mill. The bruise on his cheek was beginning to heal, and had now entered its even uglier purple-green phase, but it had elicited any number of rumors that had been very difficult to put down. And now arrived the source of said rumors.

But Higgins had carefully uncovered the pic-nic hamper from the pile, John noticed, which he now carried toward the manufacturer. What's more, the man looked contrite.

"Might I have a word, Master?"

"You'd better come inside," John said begrudgingly. It was preferable, he knew, to move things to his own turf. That way any altercation would remain unseen by his workers and passersby. John led Higgins into his office and shut the door firmly.

The former mill worker set the hamper carefully in a corner and removed his cap. "You can punch me, if you like. You owe me at least that."

John raised an eyebrow. This was not at all what he expected.

"Is everything there?" he asked, instead.

"Ah. Yeah. All but the brandy. I'll owe you that, then."

John shrugged. "I expect it would have been consumed if you'd joined our party."

Higgins said nothing. Apparently that was the sum of his apology, John guessed. His tolerance turned to irritation.

"Where are you off to this morning, then? Fomenting more unrest?"

"Keeping my family fed as best I can, which is hard, as I can no longer use my hard-earned skills."

"That's no one's fault but your own." John did his best to control the sneer that threatened.

Higgins narrowed his eyes. "There's some would disagree. But I must be off. My team won't wait forever, and there's ditches t' dig." Higgins returned his cap to his head, and left with haste.

John carried the hamper to his desk and opened it. Every dish and jar inside was spotless, he noticed, and replaced with care to its original location. And despite the fact that the hamper had traveled on the back of a cart destined for some construction site, the wicker container was itself as clean as it had been when it had arrived at the Higgins house. That had taken some ingenuity, given how filthy the streets of the Princeton district were. John realized that although he might not like Higgins, there was much to respect about the man. And there were some things the pair shared in common: pride, for one thing.

Margaret puttered around her mother's room tidying away the detritus of a several days spent abed. She would open the windows to clear the air of the sickroom smell, except in recent days the air outside had been more soot-filled than usual. It was strange: one might expect that in summer the usual Milton fog would dissipate, the warm weather carrying clear skies with it. But instead the city was enshrouded in a thick, sulfurous blanket that tinged the dawn and sunset skies with sickly tones of yellow, brown and grey. Even in full daylight the city and its residents seemed more sallow than usual, and sadly this look of poor health was mirrored in its residents' attitudes. People were ill-tempered, and more than one small altercation had broken out, even in the normally well-behaved streets near the Hale's residence.