A Secret Ambition

XI

"People often believed they were safer in the light, thinking monsters only came out at night. But safety – like light – is a façade." C.J. Roberts, Captive in the Dark

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XI.

Callan had not been in a good mood for such a long time that the euphoria that was currently flowing through him felt entirely unnatural. He had secured the sale of his cotton and the bank loan that would save his business, his pride, and his father from rolling over in his grave, all in one day.

Certainly nothing could happen now that could spoil this feeling.

"I half as much thought that the bank would turn us out the minute that we opened our mouths," Fionn remarked as he walked alongside Callan.

Callan completely agreed, and he had expected as much, as well. Perhaps some might think him too much of a pessimist. But in actuality, he was a realist. He was an Irishman asking a London bank for money. He might as well have been asking for Catholic emancipation.

But with the sale of his cotton to an English buyer, Callan had everything that he needed to apply for a skin saving loan. He had maintained all professionalism in the bank, barely letting the officer know that he cared much at all about the money. Internally, he was singing.

"Are you telling me that he wasn't fooled by the posh accent I was putting on?" Callan smirked as he strode, standing taller and far prouder than he had in months.

Fionn gave his cousin a wicked grin, before he pulled a face and stuck his nose up in the air with a sneer. "I'll not shite unless my chamber pot is made of solid gold. Porcelain hurts my arse!"

Fionn's accent was as thick as mud, just as Callan's was, and there was no escaping it. But his nonsense made Callan laugh, and it was nice to laugh.

Callan elbowed his cousin and smiled to himself. He could see his father clearly in his mind. He could see Sean McCarthy's struggles, as well as his hopes for Callan. That man had fought every day so that Callan could be better than what he was, and Callan had made a deal that would shame his father if he failed. This loan ensured that Callan's dream, as well as his father's, was still alive.

Callan would die before his father was shamed.

"What's next then?" Fionn asked. "Surely the pub for a pint? You're buying, I'll assume."

"Get your head out of your gold chamber pot, would you?" Callan rolled his eyes. "We're back to work, the both of us. Lily will be wanting the good news."

As Callan and Fionn rounded the corner on Brunswick Street to approach the office, he immediately froze when he spotted a large black carriage waiting idly outside his front door.

Callan was well aware of the owner of that ostentatious contraption. It had made many unexpected and unwelcome calls at Callan's door ever since he had secured his first trade agreement. Surely Sir Richard could not have found out about Callan's sale to Norwood Mills already. But then, Callan would not have put it past the man to have his hand on every northern mill. Was he coming to bargain?

Or was he coming to gloat?

Whatever euphoria that had been coursing through Callan suddenly dropped out of his body and spilled all over the street beneath his feet. It was quickly replaced with dread as the arithmetic of interest, repayments, and due dates were suddenly at the forefront of his mind.

"What in the bleedin' hell does that gombeen want?" Fionn cursed.

Callan did not stop to reply. His legs immediately began charging towards his front door, bypassing the carriage and ignoring Sir Richard's footmen as he launched at the handle.