Chapter 9.
A Helping Hand.

The week flew by, and before Abigail knew it, Saturday had arrived. She stood by the office of Farllow Mill, waiting for Lord Righton to arrive. She was filled with anxious dread that nothing could shake off. Mr. Smith was a particularly disagreeable person, and she hated dealing with him. She had no idea what sort of lawyer Lord Righton was and wasn't sure if he could handle the sneaky, greedy, and crafty mill owner.

Lost in thought, Abigail never noticed Lord Righton arrive and jumped when he called her name. "Forgive me, Lord Righton, you gave me a fright," she gasped. A small chuckle escaped from his lips.

"I thought I told you to address me as Mr. Righton, or," a twinkle appeared in his eyes as he lowered his voice and leaned forward just a little, "you could call me David as you used to. You do know what the name means, do you not?"

The color rushed to Abigail's face, and she cleared her throat. "I will remind you that we are here on business, Mr. Righton. Also, I thought we agreed to let the past stay in the past. I must warn you that Mr. Smith is not an easy man to deal with. You could say his character is straight out of Mr. Dickens' novel. From what you have told me, you are still only studying law, and he may try to take advantage of that."

"Tut, tut, my dear Miss Havisham, what are you fretting about? You must know that whether I am aqualified lawyer or not I am still a man of the world, and I know how to hold my own. Come, let us get this unpleasant business done and over with."

Mr. Righton opened the door for Abigail, stood back to let her enter first, then followed after her. They entered the small, stuffy office and were greeted by Mr. Smith, who sat behind a large, oak desk. He was a thin man with firey black eyes and a thick mustache. He was well dressed and well groomed. He held a large cigar in his right hand, which with his left he drummed the heavy wood of his desk. The windows of the room were sealed shut and because of this the office air was thick with the smell of dust that covered the papers sticking out from everywhere.

"Miss Havisham, you again," Mr. Smith greeted her. "Who is this with you?"

"My lawyer."

"Lawyer, huh?" Mr. Smith looked Mr. Righton up and down.

"Lord David Righton," Mr. Righton stated as he pulled a chair for Abigail. She looked over at him in surprise. Just a moment ago he had made such a fuss about how she should call him Mister Righton and now suddenly he was a lord?

"Lord Righton?" Mr. Smith stared intently at Mr. Righton. "You're the younger brother of the Marquess of Farrowsworth."

"Just so."

"How did you get roped in with her lot?" He used his cigar to point to Abigail. Mr. Righton glanced over at Abigail and she felt the heat rising to her face. God forbid the man was going to tell where and how they were aqauinted. She opened her mouth to reply, but Mr. Righton was ahead of her.

"At the Reform Society, where else?"

Abigail relaxed. Mr. Righton was smart after all. Perhaps she should give him the benefit of the doubt and trust his ability to handle the situation.

Mr. Smith was obviously shocked by his words. "You? A lord? A member of the peerage? You who is of the nobility with a title to your name? You are part of the Reform Society?"

"I don't recal the Reform Society having a rule that nobility with a title was disqualifed from being a member."

Mr. Smith laughed and puffed on his cigar. "Of course there is no such rule, usually you and your kind don't care for such annoying societies."

"I cannot answer for 'my kind', but as for me, I care enough to come down here and remind you of what the law states concerning the certificates that Miss Havisham issues for the children who are employed at your mills."

"Miss Havisham is not a good teacher and her lessons do the children no good."

'Then find another teacher, Mr. Smith. However, you are obligated to accept her certificates for the previous weeks of learning."

"Says who?"

"The law. Also, I have been made aware that you make the young children, those under the age of nine, to work twelve hour shifts. The law makes it clear that they are to work ten hour shifts."

"Does it now? I've been told otherwise."

"Word of mouth is an unreliable source. I have with me both Acts issued by Parlimant." Mr. Righton reached into his pocket and pulled several papers. He divided them into two stacks and placed them on the desk. "I have brought two copies of each. One for your and one for your lawyers, who seem to be quite ignorant of labor law."

Mr. Smith reached out and brushed the papers away. The flew about before landing on the floor. "Who are you to come here and make demands?"

"A representative of the law. You have no right to demand that Miss Havisham pay back the money taken from the children's wages to pay for their lessons. If you keep on being so stubborn, we shall have no other option but to call for an inspection of your mill. I'm sure you don't want that happening."

Mr. Smith puffed the last bit of his cigar, smashed the ashes into the ash tray, and leaned forward. "You really think an inspection is going to change something? I have connections, my poor young man, and if I need to get away with something, I can."

His tone was sharp and menacing. His dark eyes sparkled with displeasure at being threatened. Abigail was reminded yet again why she hated this man and how she wished she didn't have to have any dealings with him. Everything about him was just pure awful. Mr. Righton seemed amused, however. A slight smile came to his lips and he also leaned forward.

"I had hoped we could sort this out like gentlemen, but since this is the game you want to play, so be it. Mr. Smith, you may have connection, but remember so do I. My connections are of the aristocracy and the peerage. My connections sit in the House of Lords . My connections have a particular dislike for you and yours. My connections think that your money is cheap, your manners poor, and you as a whole are simply an uneducated, uncultured man who dared to rise about his station and thinks his wealth puts him on the same level as us. Now, in the event that you and I shall both have to turn to our connections, whose connections do you think will be of more use?"

The lecture had Mr. Smith clenching his fists. "Does your brother know what you are up to, Lord Righton?"

"How is that any of your business?"

"I happen to be well aqauinted with your brother and you can be sure I'll tell him what you are up to."

"You want to tell him that I am upholding the law and making sure greedy buisnessmen like you don't make more dishonest money? Please, Mr. Smith, inform him all you want. But I warn you, if you continue to harrass Miss Havisham and break the labor law, I will take action, and I will do it with great pleasure. We bid you a good day. Miss Havisham." Mr. Righton rose and pulled out her chair. Abigail cast Mr. Smith a triumphant sneer and rose to her feet. She sauntered out of the office and marched confidently out of the mill. When they were on the street, however, she turned around and faced Mr. Righton with some aprehension.

"What happened to all that confidence you were showing off a minute ago?" He asked.

"What if he really does tell your brother?"

Mr. Righton laughed. "My brother is in Italy. The most he can do at this moment is to either contact his agent at the estate, his butler at the London house, or his lawyer. My brother looks down on men like Mr. Smith and even if he were to complain, none of the above would bother the great Marquess of Farrowsworth with such trifle matters."

Abigail wasn't exactly convinced. Perhaps it would be better to avoid Mr. Righton from now on. "Thank you for you help, Mr. Righton. I shall keep you informed of whatever actions Mr. Smith does, or does not, take."

He gave her another of his charming smiles. Abigail had to admit that those smiles were, in fact, very charming. "Here is my card, Miss Havisham. I bid you a good day."

She took the card and was about to go, but suddenly hesitated. "Thank you for the book, Mr, Righton."

"You are welcome. Think of it as a late Christmas present."

The word Christmas present had Abigail remembering what had happened last December and before common sense could stop her, she blurted out, "Mr. Righton, last year, on Boxing Day, where were you?"