by A. W. Exley
In the kitchen that prepared the meals for the owners and management (ordinary workers had to provide their own or go hungry), he asked for Miss Hamilton’s tea tray.
A girl with a shy smile placed the teapot, milk jug, delicate cup, and a plate of scones on the silver platter. As he carried the whole back through the mill and down the sloping lawn, he was glad no one in his family could see him. He should have asked for a white napkin to drape over his bent arm as he served Miss Hamilton’s refreshments.
He glanced over her shoulder as he approached. On the piece of paper, the pencil drawing took shape. Beatrice had altered the canopy of the tree to be more horizontal. The limbs spread outwards and not as upright as the oak. On a low hanging branch sat a peacock-like bird, with long tail feathers that nearly touched the ground.
Elijah placed the tray on a blanket spread over the grass and, unsure of what to do next, sat next to it. He tried not to stare at Beatrice, but it was difficult when there wasn’t much else to do to occupy his time. Sunlight lit the auburn in her hair and it flashed with fire. She had a dark smudge by her nose where she must have rubbed a pencil line and then scratched her nose. Her eyes narrowed with concentration, and the tip of her tongue appeared at one side of her mouth.
A brush tinkled against the side of the glass as she began to paint. “If you want something to do, you could read to me.”
He peered into her case. Alongside the palette of paints, brushes, and the space for the glass was a small battered book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He let the book fall open in his palm and began reading.
“‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’” he read.
Elijah thought he had stepped inside a painting as he lounged by the river reading poetry. After two pages, he paused. “I didn’t think you would have Shakespeare tucked inside your case.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “What do you think I should read? A light and fluffy romance that wouldn’t overly tax my feminine mind?”
No. Given her impassioned speech about bettering the lives of mill workers, he didn’t think she was a light romance reader. “Good grief, no. I was thinking Wuthering Heights with its terribly tragic romance.”
She washed her brush and selected a new colour from the palette. “Hardly a happy romantic ending, unless you consider that Catherine and Heathcliff were buried side by side.”
He wasn’t terribly up to date with books that women read. He cast through his memory for what Aunt Lettie had read. “Jane Eyre, then? That is terribly depressing, but it all ends well.”
Beatrice looked up, and the amber in her eyes swirled with sunlight to create honey-hued warmth. “Only after the cleansing fire,” she whispered.
Elijah cast around for a distraction from tales of doomed love and the restorative powers of fire. He picked up the teapot, which seemed tepid in his hands. “The tea has gone cold. I’m sorry.”
“Has it?” She dropped the brush into its glass and held out her hands.
Elijah placed the pot between her hands. For a moment, the only sound was the gurgle of river water and the rustle of leaves as she caressed the pot with its vibrant purple and yellow painted pansies.
“I think you are mistaken. It seems warm enough.” She winked as she handed back the pot.
A small puff of steam escaped from the spout. He grudgingly admitted that a salamander was handy when you needed food or drink heated. They were like having a portable stove wherever you went. His thoughts turned to winter and a snowbound cottage. She would stay toasty warm even without a stitch of clothing. Would her hands warm his chilled flesh as effectively as she had done to a pot of tea?
He frowned at the teapot. Where had that notion come from? Shaking his head, he poured a cup of tea. “Sugar?”
“One, please, and do eat the scones for me. The staff always give me far too much. I’m sure Archie has told them to fatten me up.” She took the cup and sipped her tea.
Elijah picked up half a buttered scone and managed to push the entire thing into his mouth. He figured with his mouth full he wouldn’t say anything stupid.
The afternoon passed in quiet companionship as Beatrice painted and he read aloud. When he got bored, Elijah walked to the edge of the river and practised skimming stones.
All too soon, the light began to fade.
“That is all I can achieve today, but it won’t take much to finish now.” Beatrice carefully pulled the cover back over her painting and packed away her brushes and paints into the case.
Elijah picked up the book of sonnets and held it out to her. Her fingertips grazed his palm as she took the volume.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
They walked back to the mill in a gentle silence that embraced them and seemed to draw them together.
Elijah’s mind spun as fast as the gears driving the looms. Part of him wanted to pursue the attraction growing between them, but another part, that bit that remained loyal to his family, reminded him that she was the enemy. No good could ever come of getting closer to her. He heaved a sigh as he stowed her things away in the office.
“I’m sorry to have bored you today,” she said, misinterpreting his sigh. “Why don’t you go home early?”
“Thank you.” He turned, his hand on the door handle. It was stupid, but he had to say something. “I wasn’t bored. Quite the opposite, actually.” Then, he slipped through the door.
10
That evening, Elijah pushed the horse over to one side as he mucked out the stall. He scooped up a pile of manure and bounced it on the tines to let the straw drop back to the floor. Then he tossed the muck onto the waiting wheelbarrow, all the while muttering to himself about damn, interfering women.
“What’s happened, lad?” Hector appeared and leaned on the stall wall.
Elijah glanced up. “Who says anything has happened?”
“You’ve got a face like incoming thunder, and you seem to think the horse poo is to blame.” Hector’s face split in a wide grin.
Elijah nearly skewered the next pile as he thrust the fork under it. “Beatrice Hamilton keeps getting in my way. Today she made me sit by the river, eat scones, and read to her while she painted a tree.”
Hector clutched at his chest. “No! What a fiendish woman to inflict such horror upon you. What will it be next? Tea and crumpets by the fire in a parlour instead of getting your hands dirty?”
Elijah frowned as he searched the straw for another pile of muck to pick up. “She’s interfering in my work here. You know what I mean.” He glanced around, expecting to find a seeker listening to their every word.
The barn cat prowled along a beam high above, its attention fixed on something not visible to those below. Hopefully the cat would deal with any eavesdroppers.
Hector reached out and patted the horse. “You could always quit and go back to the warehouse.”
Elijah snorted. If he did that, he’d probably never see her again. That made him pause and lean on the fork. Was that what he really wanted? She troubled him, got in his way, and kept touching him and making the Cor-vitis spark between them. Life would be easier if she just left him alone. The plant was either flat-out wrong or confused. Either way, nothing was ever going to happen between them, and he had a dead father to avenge.
“No. Working for her leaves me free to snoop around. But I had a neat little labelled box for her and she won’t stay put in it.” She was a Soarer and a Hamilton, a double strike against her. Why did she insist on refusing to act like either?
“Ah. Women can be troublesome critters like that. I’ve not met many that will do what a man tells them.” Hector patted the horse’s muzzle as it leaned into his shoulder. “I’m not educated like you and your uncle, but I do know one thing—judge people by how they treat others. The lass is under your skin. Marjory and I can see how it’s bothering you because of her family. What if you forgot her name? Make your decision about her character based on what she does, not on what she’s called.”
The comme
nt resonated, especially since he had spent the day reading Shakespeare. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. In his mind, he labelled her Beatrice Smith, and deep inside him, a puzzle piece fell into place. “Thank you, Hector. That does help.”
Hector grinned and patted Elijah on the shoulder. “Finish up out here and Marjory has a fine dinner ready for us.”
“Hector, how did you know Marjory was the woman for you?” Elijah was convinced the plant was wrong. There must be another way to know if Beatrice were meant for him or not. Humans didn’t have an invisible plant that appeared when they found the right person, so how did they know?
“Oh, that was easy. When I saw her kiss another lad it was like someone had kicked me in the arse. I knew there and then that I didn’t want any other woman but her and that I would spend my life making her happy.” Hector winked, and his attention drifted to the cottage with the swirl of smoke coming from its chimney.
Love was like a kick in the arse? Maybe the plant was preferable. “I shall wait and see if I experience something similar.”
He put away the fork and wheelbarrow and then fetched a fresh bucket of water for the horse. Hector was right, and he’d reminded Elijah of a simple truth: it was a person’s actions that mattered, not their name or title. No one thought the less of him for how Ava had betrayed his father and tried to destroy their family. What would happen if he stopped laying the blame for his father’s death at Beatrice’s feet and opened his mind and heart to the possibility of her being his true mate?
If he was kicked in the backside by a cosmic force, then he would know the plant was right.
The next day, Elijah was crouched by the loom as he set up the spools for the weft threads. The door burst open to reveal Beatrice Hamilton in a white cotton blouse and a pale-yellow skirt. Her auburn hair was loosely gathered at her nape and the free strands were like the silk in his hands.
“Ah, you have started threading. Excellent.” She stood next to him to peer over his shoulder.
Warmth radiated from her body and heated his side. He closed his eyes and drew a deep inhale of her cinnamon-spiced fragrance. He made sure he did it quietly, though. He didn’t want her to know that he’d sniffed her.
“You need to decide what you want for the warp threads. If we use uneven thread we can weave dupioni silk, or do you want something with a smoother finish?” He stood up and stretched his arms above his head to put a little space between them and to relieve the ache in his shoulders.
Beatrice moved to stand between the other two mechanical looms, sitting empty and waiting to be threaded. She rested a hand on the middle one. “Since this is an experiment, let’s set up the three looms in three different ways. One for smooth silk, one for dupioni, and one for taffeta. Then we can compare the quality, costs, and time involved for each.”
A sound approach. Test first and then they could concentrate on whichever type of cloth delivered the best results. “Very well. I just need your colour picks and then I can set about threading the other looms.”
“I’ll pull the bobbins to use, but would you think me terribly rude if I didn’t stay to help? I’ve made great progress on my painting and would like to finish it this afternoon.”
There she went defying his expectations again. What employer ever asked an employee’s permission to spend time outside? But a small lump sank through his middle. She was going to paint by the river without him. “I’ll manage here, if you will cope with no one to read to you.”
She smiled and his breath stalled in his throat at the sight.
“Thank you.” She opened a box of spools and began comparing colours and types of thread to make her selection. Thread was wound from spools onto the bobbins that were then placed into the shuttles that hurtled back and forth to create the fabric.
Beatrice made three piles, and a colourful heap sat next to each loom. The thread reminded Elijah of autumn leaves with its russet and orange tones.
Each day, Elijah grew a little bolder in exploring the mill. Word had circulated that Miss Hamilton had pulled him from the warehouse to help in the small weaving room. He became a common sight running back and forth, fetching bobbins or other items needed for the silk weaving experiment. He found that if he carried something in his hands and looked determined, people didn’t question him.
Late that afternoon, he set off on another exploration with a screwdriver in his pocket to wave if anyone approached him. He wanted to find another way to the supposed abandoned coal store now used as a storage basement. The hairs on the back of his neck rose when he discovered a disused-looking corridor. The light was dim, filtered through grimy windows, and it struggled to touch the dull floorboards. The vibrations seemed stronger down this corridor, and he had followed the thrum as though it were a string, pulling him along.
There was a single door at the end of the corridor. The surface had been painted black years ago, but now it was crackled and split. Even the doorknob was dented, as though people had struck it with items carried on the way through.
He grabbed the knob and turned, relieved to find the door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open to discover no room, or even a floor, beyond. A set of steep stairs started exactly at the threshold and dropped away into the dark, like basement stairs in a house that plunged straight down.
He stood on the first step and pulled the door shut behind him. He waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light. Then Elijah trod softly on the metal rungs, not wanting the sound of his boots to ring out and alert anyone below. The stairs were steep and narrow, more like something you would find descending into a ship rather than a building. Hope flared inside him that he might finally find the answers he sought.
At the bottom he paused and waited, listening for any sound that might alert him to another person. To one side, a tiny chink of light crept in under the large sliding doors. The late afternoon sun reached in as far as it could and played over the glint of metal from the tracks that crossed through the basement and stopped at another set of doors. A light breeze squeezed through the gaps and brought a fresh breath of air to caress his face.
He picked out enough detail to recognise the shape of a lantern on the ground by the last step and he picked it up. A salamander would be handy to light the wick. Then assuming someone wouldn’t leave a convenient lamp without matches, he fumbled in the dark around where the lantern had been left.
“Aha,” he muttered as his fingers found a small rectangular box.
He lit the lamp and turned down the wick. Elijah surveyed the basement. The ground was bare dirt and layers of coal dust. Beatrice had said the storage basement hadn’t been used in years, yet oddly he spotted scuffed marks in the dust beside the tracks, as though someone’s feet had dug in while they’d pushed something.
The steady thrum was louder here; the vibrations ran through his feet and up to his legs. He risked touching his element. He didn’t shift his body but his consciousness, reaching out to the earth around him. All he found were garbled mutterings, like a man raving in the grips of a fever. The earth was in pain, but also confused and unable to pinpoint the source of its torment except to say everywhere.
He tried to remember how the earth felt under the mill in Alysblud, but he couldn’t recollect such a feeling of confusion and pain. Was the difference a mill run by Soarers as opposed to Warders?
The worst of the vibrations seemed to be coming from one side. Onwards he crept, holding the lamp aloft to follow the scratches and footprints in the dirt. The trail led him to a pair of double doors on the other side of the basement.
A metallic rattle caught his attention as he neared. To one side of the doors, a shape detached from the wall and stepped forward.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the figure rasped.
“And yet I am,” Elijah said, raising the lantern in the direction of the voice.
The creature raised its arms as though it shunned the light. In response, he dropped the lantern to his side, where the lig
ht revealed a chain shackled around the man’s ankle.
Or what had once been a man. From what glimpses Elijah caught, he had stumbled upon half a man and half charred flesh. Dark hair clung to one side of his head, the other half reflected the light and was tight silver flesh.
A line divided his face in half, running down his forehead, along the middle of his nose, and across his lips and chin. One half was normal and in need of a shave. The other was laced with scar tissue and raised red lines.
“No good comes of curiosity,” the man lisped over half-burned lips.
“Were you curious about something? Is that why they burned you?” Elijah peered closer at the prisoner. Only a salamander could burn flesh with such accuracy. The line down the unfortunate’s face was so straight it looked as though a ruler had been used.
“Not curious, no. This is because I was loyal.” He huffed a laugh that sounded like puffs of smoke through a clogged chimney.
“An odd way to reward loyalty.” Elijah had no fear of the man. He was chained and he had only to hop beyond his reach if he lunged. Questions crammed into his mind. Why did Francis Hamilton have a charred man chained up in his basement?
The man kicked his leg out to swirl the chain around behind him like a woman would do with a train of fabric. “That rather depends on who that loyalty is to.”
“I’m a little pressed for time, so perhaps we could have a philosophical discussion about loyalty next time? Right now, I have to see what is beyond these doors.” Elijah pointed to the double doors and the source of the thrum.
The man reached out and gripped Elijah’s forearm. “No, you don’t. You’re going to walk away from here.”
Elijah put his hand over the man’s scarred one. “I’m not leaving and you’re chained up. What can you do?”
Half of his mouth lifted in an attempt at a smile. “I do exactly what I’m told to do.”
Elijah opened his mouth to reply, but the light dimmed and swirled around his head.