Louisa Rawlings (12 page)

He tapped at his teeth with his pencil. “I don’t see why we can’t do this in a scientific manner.”

“What do you mean ‘we’? This is my business!”

“But I’m happy to be of service. Besides, I know more about the gentlemen than you do.”

“Like what?”

“Like money, for instance. Except for Ed Collins, I don’t know the others very well. But I know how rich they are.”

“Really?” She still wasn’t sure if he was making fun of her. “I ought to start with the richest, I suppose.”

“That’d be George Heyson. He’s a banker from Philadelphia.”

She made a face. “The one who’s collecting rocks? The stuck-up one?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Ugh! I don’t like him much.”

He was grinning again. “If you’re going to marry money, you can’t be fussy.”

“Who’s the next one?”

“Mr. William Stafford. Boot manufacturer.”

“Is he as rich as Mr. Heyson?”

“Nearly.”

“Um. He’s a good prospect. And he’s interested. I can tell by the way he looks at me.”

He looked surprised. “if you’ve noticed that, maybe you’re not quite as green as I thought.”

She ignored the jibe. “Then you think I ought to try for him?”

“Just watch out,” he warned, suddenly serious. “I’m not sure about him.”

“Bosh! I can handle him!”

He smiled and stood up. “Come on. Let’s get back to camp. I want to see if Mr. William Stafford can resist those beautiful eyes.” He held out his hands and pulled her to her feet. Before she realized what was happening, he was kissing her again.

“Tarnation!” she said when she was finally able to catch her breath. “I thought you were going to help me!”

He looked innocent. “I am! That doesn’t mean I can’t kiss you once in a while, does it?” He grinned. “Consider it my fee for being a matchmaker.” She glared at him, feeling bested once again. “And stop looking so fierce,” he said. “Most men like their women soft.”

“I
will
push you overboard,” she said through clenched teeth. Stooping, she picked up her rifle and slung it over one shoulder, then stalked off toward the trail.

Behind her, he chuckled. “And try to look helpless, if you can manage to fake it.”

Willough loosened the lacings on her corset and stretched out on the wide bed, staring at the carved wooden headboard. Ornately festooned with roses and swags, it had been Daddy’s idea of the height of gentility when he’d built this house for a wife. A wife who’d found it beneath her. Now Mrs. Walker rented it from him and took in boarders.

She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. It had been a tiring afternoon, touring the furnace with Daddy and Nat Stanton. She’d found herself vacillating between dislike of the man and the need to be friendly, to prove to him that she wasn’t a snob. And all the while to be so close to his person…

But it had been fascinating to see what she had only read about. The great blast furnace—one of four that Daddy owned—like a giant chimney, really, encased in a three-storied shed. At the top was the charging room, where the charcoal and ore and limestone were carted in, weighed, then dumped into the tunnel head, a round hole in the floor that adjoined the top of the furnace. The men who worked there were protected from the heat by broad leather aprons, but Willough had noticed that several of the men had singed their eyebrows in a sudden spurt of flame as they charged the stack. A dangerous job. She hoped Daddy paid them well.

The next level down was where the blast was created to fan the furnace. A waterwheel, twenty-five feet across, filled the space and was reached by several rickety staircases and walkways. Originally its power had pumped a giant bellows; the bellows had now been replaced by a blowing engine, which consisted of two wooden tubs some six feet high and six feet in diameter. Flat disks within the tubs served as giant pistons, moving rhythmically up and down with each turn of the waterwheel, and maintaining a steady blast of cold air that was fed to the furnace near its base, just above the molten ore.

The waterwheel itself was no longer turned by water; a steam engine, its boiler heated by the gases near the top of the stack, was connected to the large waterwheel by a small flywheel and several gears. Nat had pointed out to Willough the deep pit under the slowly turning waterwheel, where a creek had once flowed. The water had been diverted, he explained, the flow closed off by a sluice gate outside the furnace house. Now, when they were “blowing in” a furnace, they waited until it was in blast, in order to create the steam which ran the wheel.

At the lowest level of the furnace was the cast house. This was where the molten ore was tapped and run off into channels dug in the sand floor. While the guttermen had smoothed the molds—dozens of small depressions on either side of the narrow channel—Nat had poked at the red-hot ore with a long rod. As founder, it was his job to assess the readiness of the ore for tapping. He had barked an order to one of the men, who had skimmed off the slag from the top of the molten iron; then Nat had probed the ore again and declared it ready to be run off. Someone had rung the cast-house bell, which hung just outside the door; it had seemed to be a signal that everyone was awaiting. Half a dozen molders and their assistants had come running. Afterward, Daddy had explained to her that the casting was usually done twice a day, once at six in the morning, and again at six at night. Willough had wondered what kind of a life it could be for a man who had to be on call like that.

Yes, it had been a fascinating day with much to see. Willough frowned and sat up. Then why did she keep remembering the sight of Nat’s knotted muscles as he hoisted the iron rod?

You’re a fool, Willough Bradford, she thought. The best thing to do was to freshen up for supper and put Nat Stanton out of her mind for as long as she could. He’d be coming to supper, of course. But Daddy and Mr. Clegg had gone down to the depot to wait for another furnace owner. There’d be three other men at supper besides Nat Stanton. She could ignore him. In the meantime, Mrs. Walker had said there was lemonade in the parlor; it suddenly sounded quite inviting. She washed up at the washstand, pouring out a bit of cool water from the pitcher, then slipped into her gown. It was simply cut, of prune-colored faille, with a prim white muslin ruff at the high neck and the smallest of bustles. She had always liked its severity, but now, remembering Daddy, she looped a gold chain and locket around her neck to dress it up a bit. Smoothing her coiled chignon, she went down to the parlor.

She had just poured herself a glass of lemonade when she heard a step behind her.

“Miss Bradford.”

She turned. Nat Stanton was standing there, dressed for supper in a neat frock coat and starched collar. With his arms and shoulders covered, he seemed less forbidding. She began to feel a little foolish for her earlier reaction. She smiled timidly. “Mr. Stanton.” What could she say now? “Would you…care for some lemonade?”

“Please.” He seemed as uneasy as she. He sipped at the drink for a moment, his amber eyes guarded and distant. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Miss Bradford,” he said at last. “I was rude this afternoon. It couldn’t have been easy for you, in unfamiliar surroundings…”

“No. No. I’m sure I must have appeared…a dreadful snob. I didn’t intend it.”

He smiled. He was almost boyish suddenly, with an unexpected dimple in his cheek. “Did you enjoy the tour of the furnace?”

“Very much. But I’m surprised we’re still using cold-blast. All my reading indicates that a hot-blast furnace makes more efficient use of fuel.”

He shrugged. “Some men—and your father is one of them—seem to think that the supply of charcoal in the Adirondacks is limitless. Less costly than putting in hot-blast machinery.”

She didn’t like his tone of voice, the implied insult to Daddy. “I trust his judgment,” she snapped. “He’s been at it longer than you have!”

His eyes glowed in sudden anger. “Some of us had to stop and fight a war,” he growled. “It tended to destroy the continuity of our lives.”

She felt a pang of remorse. Her family had been fortunate. Daddy had been too old and Drew too young to serve. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. She sipped at her lemonade. “Did you work in the iron industry before the war?”

“No. My father had settled down near Troy. I’d planned to be a teacher.” He laughed in bitterness. “The war ended that.”

“Couldn’t you go back?”

He eyed the glass of lemonade with distaste. Putting it down, he crossed to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “It suddenly seemed more rewarding to beat iron than to cane schoolboys,” he said savagely. “I worked in a forge, pounding red-hot iron all day. Very satisfying.” He lifted the glass of whiskey and tossed it down in one gulp.

Willough shivered. Even fully clothed, he had an aura of naked power that was frightening. “I’m surprised you’d be happy with the clerk’s job,” she said at last.

He poured himself another whiskey. “I didn’t really want it. It doesn’t require an intimate knowledge of the iron workings. Just a head for numbers and organizing, and an ability to learn the market. I’ve known many a son or nephew who was appointed and didn’t know a damn thing about it. But he learned quick enough how to keep the company books and handle the payroll and the credits at the company store. And buy and sell at the best prices.” He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t even know what pig iron is selling for.”

“Ninety dollars a ton this week,” she said sharply. She ignored his surprised expression and turned away, feeling the anger building in her. He didn’t even want the job! “Why did you take it, then? The clerk’s position?”

“I’ll be frank with you, Miss Bradford. I want to be manager when Clegg retires. It didn’t make sense to refuse your father’s offer. But as far as I’m concerned, he could have given the clerk job to anyone.”

She whirled to face him. “He promised it to me!”

He studied her face for a moment, then finished the last of his drink. “Perhaps he should have given it to you,” he said quietly. “If you’d like, I’ll speak to him on your behalf. I don’t see why…”

“No!” She drew herself up, fighting to regain her composure. “No, Mr. Stanton,” she continued, her voice controlled and icy, “I’ll earn it. I want no favors from you for being a woman. If you want to feel manly, find a helpless shopgirl to patronize!”

His face was as hard as steel. “You’ll get no favors from me, Miss Bradford. Now…I see your father and Clegg coming up the walk with Mr. Doyle. Perhaps we can both keep our tempers during supper.”

Supper was a disaster. Sam Doyle, like Willough’s father, had started with nothing and built an iron empire. But there had been no Isobel Carruth in his life, Willough thought. She tried not to show her displeasure as he dribbled soup on his beard, scratched his belly, belched loudly. She dabbed daintily at her lips with her napkin, managing to smile even when he spilled a glass of water across the table. Finally he put down his fork, pushed away his plate with a careless sweep of his hand, and planted his elbows firmly on the table.

“All right, Brian,” he said. “Let’s talk business.”

Brian Bradford leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach in distress. “Damn Mrs. Walker’s cooking,” he muttered. “There’s nothing to talk about, Sam. As soon as the lease comes through for the new tract, I’ll have more lumber than I know what to do with, even with the sawmill. I figure I can send a crew in this winter to clear. You need charcoal for your furnaces. All you have to decide is whether you want the raw lumber or the finished charcoal. I’m prepared to supply either. There are enough colliers around to do the job for me.”

“But your charcoal price, Brian…”

“Then buy the raw wood.”

Sam Doyle scratched his beard. “That’s a long haul from New Russia to my forge at Hague. And then I’d have to whistle up the men and the space to make my own charcoal. Easier to cart your charcoal from MacCurdyville…”

“Well, think about it, Sam. You know my prices. Let me know in a week or so.”

Mrs. Walker appeared with the coffee. Willough poured and handed around the cups, but it seemed a bit foolish to be concerned with the niceties in a place like this, and surrounded by crude men like Sam Doyle. And Nat Stanton, too, she thought, watching in distaste as he poured half the sugar bowl into his cup.

Nat stirred his coffee slowly, a frown creasing his forehead, then leaned forward to Brian. “The tract in New Russia, sir. Where is it exactly?”

“Just north of Goodman’s farm.”

The frown deepened. “But that’s not supposed to be cut. It’s state land!”

Brian smiled in satisfaction. “Not anymore.”

A taut muscle worked in Nat’s jaw. “And the men who make a living on that land? Hunting and fishing?”

“Let ’em come work for me. I’ll be hiring lumbermen all this fall. Twenty-five dollars a month and room and board.”

Sam Doyle snorted. “Ordway’s paying two, three dollars a day to lumbermen over at Eagle Lake.”

“Ordway’s a fool. He doesn’t know how to get value from a dollar.”

Doyle chuckled in delight. “I’ll say this about you, Brian. You’re a Scotsman through and through. You know how to hold on to a greenback until it squeals! Like a good woman.”

Brian roared with laughter. “Like a
bad
woman!”