Authors: Jessica Nelson
“This is it.” He held open the factory door, his breath captive while he waited for her denouncement. This was his reason for bringing her, wasn't it? To prove that while she wished to avoid ruin, marriage to him could be a far more riskier matter. “What a man of business does while the beau monde sleeps.”
Bitt tossed him a frosty look, no doubt catching the gist of his words and taking offense. Let her. He didn't have the time nor the inclination to tiptoe around titled snobbery. Unlike some people, he worked for his money.
Thus armed with that bit of logic and bitterness, he surveyed his acquisition, trying to see it through her eyes. Or rather, smell it.
As they entered the breaking room, noxious heat slammed into Miles. He was ready for the change, used to the odor of machinery, human sweat and dirty cotton, but Elizabeth was not prepared for such a blast. She halted immediately. The sounds of the machinery were muted in the front entrance, but as soon as they entered the spinning room, the clamor would be ceaseless.
She fumbled in her skirts, pulling out a lacy handkerchief and pressing it to her nose. Her eyes were saucers. “How can anyone work here? Surely this is unhealthy.”
Lips pressed together, Miles surveyed the breaking room. It was wide and open. On one side, hundreds of bales of cotton were stacked up against the wall, waiting to be broken open in the blowing room and carded. The door on the other wall swung open.
“Mr. Hawthorne, good to see you.” His manager, John Grealey, hurried over. His slight frame and pallid skin testified to his history working in the mills. The man's knowledge was a boon, which was why Miles kept him on when he bought the factory. Unfortunately, Grealey was used to horrid working conditions, and since he'd been a child laborer himself, he displayed neither sympathy nor compassion toward his workers. He had become hardened toward humanity.
An attitude Miles sought to remedy.
“Good day, Grealey. This is my betrothed, Lady Elizabeth Wayland.”
His manager's smile froze when his gaze alighted on Bitt's face. He stared too long, attention fastened to the birthmark on her cheek. Anger surged through Miles in hot, undulating waves. The man's nose twitched and he quickly bowed, perhaps to hide the play of emotions on his face.
“My lady,” he said.
“Mr. Grealey.” Elizabeth's eyes flickered. Miles noted the flash of hurt, followed by resolve. She nodded to Grealey, the tilt of her head regal and cold.
“I wish to look in on things,” Miles said as his manager straightened, eyes averted from Bitt. “We will be touring every room. I trust my changes were implemented speedily?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I've been working on it, sir.” Grealey swept his palm through the air. “We installed windows and thoroughly washed the walls. That did cut into processing time, though. We are behind and hired out extra positions to fill the gap. Mr. Shapely was by just yesterday to approve the changes.”
Miles nodded. He'd check the books himself. Mere maintenance should not be such a detriment to production. He touched Bitt's elbow and, nodding a goodbye to Grealey, they left the room. They turned into a hallway. The sounds of the machines grew louder. Before taking her into the gut of the factory, he stopped at a small square of a room on his left where his employees ate during breaks.
Four women sat at the table. Their tired gazes met his. One woman raised her hand in greeting. Beside him, Bitt was silent. The swish of her dress was a faint sound. She looked like a bright flower, clean and fragrant, in this dank room.
There were only four windows and the grime kept out the sun. They had obviously not been cleaned in years, despite Grealey's assurances.
Something akin to regret filled Miles. He gestured to his employees. “Good morning, ladies. I am Mr. Hawthorne. This is my betrothed, Lady Elizabeth Wayland.”
Several
my lady
s were uttered, but he did not miss the suspicious eyes nor the resentful gazes of the women, whom looked to be Bitt's age, though one could not tell it for the lank hair and gray skin.
There were several more changes to be made here, he determined. The people in his father's mills had been happy and healthy. Indeed, his other factory was productive despite the humane changes he'd implemented, changes which other mill owners had warned him against.
Elizabeth performed a curtsy, expression shuttered. They left and traversed the long hall to the door at the end, which would lead downstairs to the main part of the mill. To fill the silence which Bitt so readily allowed to bloom, Miles talked of mechanics. How the bales of cotton arrived and must be sifted through in the blowing room. The way the children pulled twigs from it to make it ready for carding and spinning.
“Children?” Her head snapped up.
“Well, yes, most families work all day here.”
“But children? Miles...” The disapproval in her voice set his teeth on edge. He guided her to the door, pausing before opening it. He did not need his employees to hear her remarks and start a riot like the ones happening in other parts of the country. One of the reasons he wanted her here was to gain a feminine perspective, but he had not expected accusation.
The air here was no better than in previous rooms. He struggled to take a deeper breath, knowing part of the problem was his irritation at Elizabeth's criticism.
“I told you there are changes to be made. Laws are being created to help the underprivileged and protect them from being taken advantage of, but in the meantime, it's my duty to provide these people with a wage so that they can eat. Do you understand? I purchased this factory knowing I had much to change in it.”
“Thou doth protest too much, sir.” Bitt's eyes flashed at him in the dim hallway.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I did not bring you here to criticize my work. This is how I make money, Elizabeth. I'm not some titled earl who lives off his wife's dowry. Nor am I a wastrel making my fortunes at the gaming table.”
“And how did you come to be in possession of your factories? Did not your father start this family business? In essence, you are living off his hard work.”
Miles felt not the slightest hint of amusement at her jab. “It is my own work ethic that has continued the prosperity of my mills. And what do you know of our business?”
“I know many things.” Her chin lifted. “I know you've a brother who also owns factories, and that you have a reputation for being a gentleman who treats all who meet you with fairness and courtesy. I know your father died while you were at university.” Her voice faltered and despite the glare still residing in the icy depths of her eyes, the cut of her lips softened. “I was sorry to hear of your loss.”
“You came to the funeral.” He remembered her hair, still the bright red of youth, and the sorrowful look she'd shared with him at the grave site. As though she understood his pain. Though they had not spoken, it had been an odd moment of comfort he'd never forgotten.
“Yes.” She looked down. The concrete floor was dirty and littered with all the dregs of a cotton mill.
What was she thinking? Did she hate this place? Even he disliked this aspect of business, but he saw too many possibilities for betterment to let the factory go. “These people deserve a better life, Bitt,” he said quietly. “With God's help, I can give them that.”
“By hiring children? By exposing them to noxious fumes and long hours of labor?” She glanced behind him, to where they'd left the exhausted women. “Their youth is gone. What joy can they find in life? How do they even have time to read?”
“Read? My dear Bitt, the majority of these employees are illiterate.”
Her lips flattened into a frown. “I don't understand why you insisted I visit this place.”
“I want you cognizant of what my life is. What my daily duties consist of. I hoped for a feminine viewpoint, not a lecture on impractical ideals. Marriage will make turning a blind eye to my business impossible.”
“I turn a blind eye to nothing,” she said crossly.
“You are irritated.”
Mouth set, she looked away but high color tinted her cheeks. “Show me the rest of your factory, then.”
“Bitt...” He hesitated. Despite his earlier thoughts of protecting her, perhaps it was better if she did not marry him. A place like this lent no protection for an innocent heart. He had entertained the small hope that she would add womanly softness to the factory. Perhaps a kinder ambience. “If you want to reconsider our betrothalâ”
She gave him a sharp look. “And be ruined? I think not. I can certainly manage a factory tour without succumbing to hysterics. I understand your logic in having me visit. These requirements you've set forth are all a part of your stubborn plan to force me from the safety of my library.”
“Not safety,” he said gently. “Confines.”
“Our perspectives are markedly different. Open that door on which your hand has been resting. Show me all that I have missed whilst
hiding
in my library.” Her words reeked of bitterness.
Miles grimaced. “Are you really so naive that you did not know who made those fancy fabrics you wear?”
“My dresses are specially ordered from Paris. Grandmother's doing, not mine,” she added, as though it made a difference.
“And who do you think makes them in France? Silkworms?”
She did not laugh at his words. Indeed, her mouth was altogether too grim. Dread pooled in his gut. If she hadn't liked what she saw with the women, then she would not like this next room at all. He hadn't expected her reaction. He'd anticipated sorrow for the people, not enragement at the unfairness of life. Not anger toward him. He only wanted her to see the world as it was and not colored by fancies caused by too much reading.
Now he wondered at his own wisdom. Perhaps Elizabeth was better off staying in her comfortable world. Maybe God had put her there for a reason.
He turned the knob to the next room, the handle as cold and hard as the life his employees led. As the door opened, the sounds of machines assaulted them. The aggressive clacking, the constant hawing of the looms set up throughout the room. From one end to the other, they were lined like sentries. At first no one saw him. His employees were busy emptying spools, refilling them. Checking threads and tying knots.
He'd been debating how to change the flow of duties. Unfortunately, little boys were best at doffing, but climbing on the machines to remove lint was dangerous. As was the spinning the girls did. His brow pinched. He was in a conundrum of sorts, as the families needed the income from their children, yet he could not countenance the employment of these little ones when the risk of harm remained high.
His other factory had been opened by his father. No child was allowed to work unless over the age of twelve, and then for a maximum of six hours per day.
But this place proved to have different needs. The families counted on the children's income to make ends meet.
Elizabeth gasped, drawing his attention from his thoughts. He glanced at her and winced at the accusation in her eyes.
Miles clenched his jaw. For all Bitt's angry words and verbal jabs, he'd always known she held a measure of affection for him. He had never felt that she truly despised him.
Until now.
Chapter Seven
A
child without a smile cracked Elizabeth's resolve to stay detached. She stared at the room filled with noise, cotton and children. There were both women and men in the room, but it was the children who snagged her attention, their tiny faces painfully hooking her like the trout John used to catch from the stream at Windermar.
Wan, listless, they were sprinkled around the machines like faded versions of everything a child should be. She did not know much of children. When she went into the village, she avoided them. But always she heard them. Running and screaming and laughing. Hardly ever holding still, that she could tell.
These children stared at her with large, soulful eyes, as though begging her to take them from this dungeon, this horrid, terrible place. How could Miles allow this? Her heart felt like it might split right down the seams.
She wanted to close her eyes or cover them, anything to block out the sight of suffering. Miles claimed to pay them, but then why were they so emaciated? So bent and pallid? A little girl wobbled forward on bent knees, looking like an arthritic old woman.
She asked a question, her voice reedy. Her accent was too strong, her grammar too improper, Elizabeth supposed, for she could not understand her with all the noise in the room. Reluctantly, she looked at Miles.
It was quite unfair that he could stand there and be so vibrant and strong, all piercing eyes and vigor when everyone else acted like automatons. She recalled reading a book once about a cadaver animated by electricity. The being came to life but he was not human.
It had been a frightening novel and yet the theme of the story, of unconditional love and the power of kindness, quite affected her for some time to come. She must make a note to look for that novel when she returned to Grandmother's.
If she returned.
Such a depressing realization that her former home was no longer home.
A tug on her dress brought her back to the present. She looked down. The little girl peered up at her and asked the question again.
“She wants to know if you'll meet Sally, her doll,” Miles said in a monotone.
Too surprised by the request to worry about Miles's strangeness, emotion tugged within her chest. She nodded, allowing the little girl to take her hand and lead her to a door on the far side of the room. They descended a flight of stairs, entering a dim room with dusty air and lint everywhere. Far from the chattering looms, this room teemed with people sifting through cotton, plucking out impurities. There were machines here, as well, and the dirtiness of it all bothered her.
The little girl chattered, dropping down next to a pile of cotton and digging through it until she found what she was looking for. Smiling broadly and showcasing several missing teeth, she brandished a surprisingly neatly stuffed bit of rag. The sound of scuffling feet alerted Elizabeth to the presence of other children.
Their small statures gave little insight into their ages, but she supposed by their eyes that they were older than they appeared.
“Katie loves her dolls,” one boy said. “Mr. Hawthorne gave them to her.”
Elizabeth repressed her surprise at that information. It explained the even stitches on the otherwise ragged doll. How very kind of him.
“Sally is beautiful.” Elizabeth felt no remorse at the exaggeration. The rag was lovely to Katie, and that was all that mattered.
The little girl pressed the doll into her hand. Tufts of cotton peeking out from the doll's worn clothing warmed her palm. Katie obviously played with this doll often. Memories transported Elizabeth to her own childhood, to the frolicking openness of it. What must it be like to work from sunup to sundown? She guessed these children must, for their skin bore no trace of sun exposure.
Elizabeth looked more closely at the doll, marveling at the fine stitching of the cloth that made up its head. Someone with a fine hand had made this.
“Beet.”
“Beet?”
“She means Bitt.” The little boy moved closer, followed by the other children.
Elizabeth's eyes prickled. She'd always hated that name, but for some reason, hearing that a little girl's treasure carried the same moniker filled her with unaccountable emotion. She glanced at Miles but he was speaking with that ferret-faced man they'd met earlier.
Mr. Grealey.
She turned her attention to the small group surrounding her. Apprehension rippled through her. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she handed the doll back.
“That's my name, too,” she said.
“Your name be Bitt?” Another child spoke. An older girl with long, dirty braids and bright eyes.
“You may call me that, if you wish,” she found herself saying.
The children were silent, studying her, measuring her, she thought.
But no, as one pointed at her face, she realized they were looking at her birthmark. Realization barreled through her. In the midst of her shock at what it meant to work in a factory, she'd forgotten all about the disfigurement. How silly to think the children wouldn't notice it, though.
“My name is Louise,” the older girl said. “Did your man do that to you?”
Katie reached out and touched Bitt's cheek. Alarmed, she pulled back, out of the range of the little girl's touch. She covered her cheek with her fingers.
“My man?”
“Mr. Hawthorne.” Louise's gaze was far too grave for a girl her age. “Did he scar you?”
A flush washed through Bitt. She shook her head forcefully, making herself meet the girl's eyes when she truly wanted to run and leave this place. “Oh, no, not at all. This is not a scar. It is a birthmark. I was born with it. A great-aunt of mine had one, as well, so it is hereditary.”
A terrible thought occurred to her as she spoke. If she had chosen a love match rather than a marriage of convenience, she could have passed this monstrosity on to her own children.
Another reason that marriage to Miles was the wisest course of action.
Swallowing hard, she shrank from the eager faces of the children. They seemed closer than before, surrounding her, trapping her.
Her pulse pounded, and her mouth dried.
Stand up
, she told herself, but her legs refused to obey. Heat accosted her. She became aware that her clothes were damp. The children were all talking now, pointing at her, but she couldn't understand most of them. Why didn't they speak proper English? Why were they pointing?
“Elizabeth?” Miles parted the children, holding out his hand.
With a relief so profound it shook her, she grasped his fingers and stood. The stifling air remained, but she was once again taller than the little people around her. They dispersed, perhaps going back to their jobs.
“Thank you,” she murmured, slipping her hand from his comforting grasp.
As they left the room, he asked, “Are you ready to see my office?”
“Please.” Faintness pressed in on her. The unwavering sounds of machinery beat against her skull. She could not allow this weakness to best her though, or Miles might think her too incompetent to marry. All she wanted was the quiet of her home. A good book. A spot of tea.
By the time Miles took her to his office, located on the first floor at the rear of the building, she was more than ready to leave. She was tempted to sink into the chair he offered her, laying her head on his desk and closing her eyes.
She didn't, though. Nay, the wife of a mill owner must possess more stamina. Battling the exhaustion, she meandered through the small and sparse office. There were no personal effects to be seen.
“Is this where you work?” She traced the edges of the sturdy desk.
“No, Mr. Shapely and Grealey handle the operations of the mill from here. This is essentially their office, but I thought you'd like to look at the ledgers and get an idea of how we make our money. The costs involved. I know you handle your grandmother's affairs and thought you might be interested in seeing the numbers.” There was a slight burnish to his cheekbones, as though the profession of his knowledge of her habits embarrassed him.
The quietness of the room steadied Elizabeth. She finally felt that she could draw air without breathing in millions of cotton fibers. Unaccountably, she relaxed.
Miles moved to a cabinet on the far wall and pulled out a huge tome. An accounting book.
A wriggle of excitement threaded through her. She did enjoy numbers. They were steady and unchanging. After the exciting challenge of figuring sums, there would be a precise and unalterable answer. Completely objective.
“This is very thoughtful of you.” She sat in the chair at the desk, fingers itching to flip through the pages. He plopped the ledger in front of her and when she glanced up at him, she caught the tail end of a satisfied sparkle in his eyes.
Perhaps the old Miles did reside in this strange man before her. As she ran her fingers along the ledgers, asking questions, checking sums, another part of her was very aware that Miles smelled of sandalwood and clean soap. The heat from where his arm rested near hers was quite distracting.
“There are a few discrepancies here.” She peered closer at the paper, relieved to have something to occupy her mind other than this man beside her. “Do you have a pen?”
He opened a drawer, removing quill, ink and paper. As she jotted figures, Mr. Grealey poked his head into the office. “Sir, the new machine you ordered has arrived.”
“I am fine here,” Elizabeth assured him, seeing the concern in his expression. “Do you order machinery often?”
“It is the newest version of a loom. I'm eager to implement it.”
She heard the excitement in his voice and almost smiled, but caught herself. Could she so easily forget the people he employed? That he'd chosen to keep children on staff? Narrowing her eyes, she shot him a hard look and returned to the books.
He left without saying another word.
* * *
Miles stomped back to the office. The new loom worked perfectly, and he'd received a discount because he'd been one of the first twenty-five buyers. He should be happy. Giddy.
Instead he dreaded facing Bitt and her accusatory frowns. What did she know of owning mills? Of being responsible for the livelihoods of hundreds? Nothing, that's what.
He pushed open the office door. Bitt was deep in concentration, the lights casting shadows over her pretty hair as she scratched out numbers with the quill. “It's getting late,” he said.
His curt tone startled her. She glanced up, lids flickering. “Very well. I am just about finished here.”
“So soon?”
“I'm quite good with numbers.” The tiniest hint of a smile played about her mouth until she firmed her lips. Always the duchess's granddaughter, he thought unkindly.
“Indeed. So is my steward. Let us go now, before dark descends. It is at least an hour's ride to your grandmother's estate.”
“I didn't realize she lived so near.” She placed the quill and ink back into the drawer, closed the ledger and, standing, held it out to him.
He was forced to come deeper into the room to take it from her. After putting it away, they left the office. Bitt was withdrawn and, despite his usual instinct, he felt no compulsion to tease her out of her pique.
He'd hoped this trip would not only prove that she'd make an able wife, but also that she could offer more ideas for improvements. Instead all the journey showed was that Bitt was incapable of accepting who he was and his place in the world. Bringing her here had been a colossal mistake, one he was sure to pay for with the waspish end of her tongue.
He clomped upstairs, Bitt behind him, annoyance making his footsteps heavy on the stairs. When they came into the hall, near the break room, the sound of a man's voice reached them.
From the sounds of his tone, he appeared to be chiding a child. They were almost past the room when Miles realized Bitt had not followed him. She stood near the break room door, face arrested.
“I cannot allow this,” she said. Giving him one of those looks he recognized from childhood, the one that never failed to send his pulse rocketing, she pivoted and went into the room.
He hurried after her.
In the break room, Grealey loomed over a small girl. Miles could hardly see her for the way the man overpowered her. He entered just in time to watch Bitt as she reached over to poke Grealey on the shoulder.
The man twirled around, his face red. When he saw who'd poked him, he bowed. “My lady, how may I help you?”
“For one, you will stop yelling at that child. Your voice carries into the hallway.”
Miles had never heard Elizabeth sound so cold.
Grealey didn't like what she said. His face hardened. “The child was playing when she should have been working. That is dangerous for everyone.” He looked past her to Miles. “Sir, I am only doing my job. There is no excuse for this youngster to have put others in harm's way.”
“A simple warning will do in the future.”
“Yes, sir.” Grealey glared at the little girl, who Miles could now see was a very grubby Becky, a child he'd met before. Her deep brown eyes gazed woefully up at him. The painful-looking scar from what looked like the incomplete repair of a cleft lip twisted her lips into a quivering frown.
As she scurried away, Grealey grunted. “She doesn't talk so good because of that ugly face but her ears work just fine. I should have fired her on the spot. Homely critter.”
A small sound issued from Elizabeth. A flush deepened her color, and Miles noticed that her tiny hands were fisted at her sides. Reacting quickly, he took her by the arm and moved her toward the door. “Refrain from personal remarks, Grealey, and focus on safety and production. I will return tomorrow morning to go over a list of repairs that are still needed.”
He ushered Elizabeth away, out of the building and into the cool, moist air of an English afternoon. Gray wisps of clouds drifted across the hilly horizon. Tension radiated through his betrothed's body. He felt her arm quivering beneath his fingertips.