A pretty speech, and heartfelt. Cristyn crept into his thoughts, for the truth of it was he wanted to be a man she could be proud of, regardless if they never saw each other again.
Now to follow up his words with actions.
Chapter 8
Cristyn had been in Earl Shilton for over three weeks. How invigorating to be at the forefront of medical care for people who truly needed it. Using an antiseptic-soaked cloth, she cleaned the wound of the patient sitting before her. “There. Now I will stitch it for you.”
“Aye, miss,” the young woman murmured.
As she continued with her nursing duties, Cristyn’s mind turned to her new circumstances. Mrs. Trubshaw was a strict landlady, but kind in her gruff way. Cristyn welcomed the early curfew, for she was exhausted by the time she returned to the rooming house for supper.
“It is not wise for young ladies to be out and about on the streets once the sun goes down; it is not proper. You could be robbed. It is best to be safely tucked away by eight o’clock,” Mrs. Trubshaw had advised.
Cristyn concurred. Most nights Paris accompanied her, and stayed for a meal. She tried to observe any romantic undercurrents between the landlady and the doctor, for they were a like age, but Cristyn couldn’t sense any. Not like the ones between her father and the housekeeper.
Or her and Aidan.
Yes, blast him! Though she’d kept occupied, Aidan still managed to drift into her thoughts when she least expected it. The open wound ached afresh in each instance. The hurt, the lingering, throbbing pain had never left her, and she silently cursed him for it.
Cristyn returned her attention to her patient, Tessie, who had a gash on the lower part of her arm. The injury was a result of her working at the cotton mill. As she set about stitching the cut, Tessie coughed and sniffled.
“I do thank you, Miss Bevan. Mam says I’m to give you a penny for your trouble.”
Paris had instructed her early on to accept all payment, no matter how small, whether it was coin or a loaf of bread. It gave the village folk a sense of accomplishment that they had paid for the treatment.
“Thank you, Tessie. How goes work at the mill?” Cristyn found that if she kept the patients talking, they wouldn’t focus on the needle and thread.
“Same as always. Though there be a new overlooker.”
Cristyn glanced up at Tessie questioningly.
“An overlooker watches over us all, to make sure we be working hard. Reports to Master McRae.”
“Ah,” Cristyn murmured. “A supervisor.”
“Aye, that be it. I heard tell he be only passing through like. Too bad, for he is an eyeful and more, he is. Young, handsome, tall. He has all the women in a flutter, even the old ones.” Tessie cackled, but it ended in a cough. “He came three days past; not sure if he’s as cruel as the master, or…I shouldn’t be talking such. Could get me in a right fix.”
“I would never repeat anything you tell me, Tessie. You have my word.”
“Aye, I heard from others you be a good ’un.”
Cristyn tied a small knot and snipped the thread with a pair of scissors. “I’ll place a dressing over the cut. You must come twice a week to get it replaced until the stitches are ready to be removed.”
Tessie frowned. “I can’t afford no more healing, Miss Bevan.”
“This is all the same treatment, Tessie, do not fret.” Cristyn placed the sticky dressing over the wound. “There now, a good thing I’m capable at embroidery; when the stitches come out, the scar will be barely noticeable.”
Tessie chuckled.
“You should rest for the remainder of the day.”
Tessie ceased laughing. “Oh, no, miss. I must go back to work, or Master will have me replaced. I promised I’d return sharpish.”
Cristyn sighed. It was the same old story. No matter how injured or ill, the workers at the mill did not dare be sick, or they would be out of a job. “As you say, but you must keep the wound clean.”
Tessie slipped the penny into Cristyn’s hand, then departed. For the first time since eight o’clock this morning, the place was empty.
Paris came out of the back room that served as his office, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Speaking of the cotton mill, I managed to get Mr. McRae to agree to a meeting this afternoon. Why not accompany me?”
“Shouldn’t I stay here in case a patient comes in?”
“No, we won’t be long. I often draw a picture of where I will be in case of an emergency, since most people cannot read.”
Cristyn smiled. “How clever.”
“You should meet this McRae, and see what I am up against. I hope to persuade him to purchase the wheel for the bad air conditions within the mill. Also, I mean to examine the orphan children in his employ. He finally agreed to allow it when I said there would be no cost to him. You can assist me.”
“He has orphans working for him?”
“Well, I am not quite sure if all of them are technically orphans, but most are no doubt pauper children dependent on poor law guardians. Mill owners often make contracts with these guardians to supply them with a cheap work force.”
“That sounds barbaric, bordering on slave labor.”
“All the more reason to look in on these unfortunate children. Are they being fed properly? Housed properly? Limited to twelve-hour workdays, as outlined by the Health and Morals of Apprentices Act? We will have to be subtle in our inquiries, or McRae will not allow us to see the children at all.” Paris tossed the cloth aside. “I’ve met the man on a couple of occasions. I do not like him. Too arrogant by half, and the cruel gleam in his eye certainly gave me pause.” Paris pointed to a cloth bag. “In there I have placed slices of apple and fresh bread. We will slip the children some food when we can.”
“Is it as dismal as all that?” Cristyn exclaimed.
“Yes. These children were no doubt malnourished when they arrived at the mill. We had best head there directly, before the man changes his mind.”
Donning their coats, they started out on the journey to the cotton mill at the edge of the village. Since it was the first week of July, they decided to walk. The sun was out, burning its way through the coal haze of the morning. The wretched poverty in this village always struck Cristyn afresh; the poor condition of the houses and roads were testament to that. The villagers’ expressions of dreary hopelessness made the situation all the more tragic.
Paris did say an inquiry had been opened by the queen, and a Mr. Muggeridge had made several trips to the village the past year to investigate the lingering poverty. However, government ground at a snail’s pace, and any improvements would be slow in coming. Those villagers who did not work at the mill often toiled in their homes morning to late night on stocking looms they had to pay rent on.
As they emerged from the pathway through a small area of woods, the L-shaped brick mill came into view. It had a water wheel, and was located next to a river.
“The mill uses water to power a steam engine, which in turn runs the spinning looms. Coal is also used. There are a little over one hundred people employed here; I am not sure if that figure includes the children,” Paris stated.
As they walked through the stone archway, Cristyn could see a man standing in front of the second story window, watching them closely. His imperious stare had her guessing he was the owner, Mr. McRae. In the courtyard, men were unloading bales of cotton from wagons pulled by large dray horses. The bales were bundled onto handcarts and dispatched to various locations of the mill.
Before they reached the front entrance, a short man with a receding hairline and a nervous gaze hurried out to greet them. “Dr. Middlemiss? I’m Mr. McRae’s personal secretary, Mr. Meeker. He bade me to escort you to the children. They are awaiting you in the storage warehouse.”
“I thought to examine them in their dormitory. There is one, I trust?”
&n
bsp; The man’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, of course, but Mr. McRae prefers you carry out the exam in here.” He pointed to a nearby door. “If you please, Doctor. And Miss…?”
“This is Miss Bevan, my nurse and assistant.”
“Follow me, please.” Mr. Meeker opened the door and sunlight flooded the darkened room. A cluster of children standing close together flinched at the bright sun, as if not used to it.
“Doctor, why don’t we examine the children here, in the out-of-doors? It is a beautiful day,” Cristyn suggested.
“What a brilliant proposal, Miss Bevan.” Paris gave her a wink.
Mr. Meeker’s cheek twitched. “I’m not sure we should.” He glanced nervously at the second story window. The owner was no longer there.
“Nonsense, Mr. Meeker. I only need a table and chair set up by the door. Assist me, will you, please?” Paris crossed the threshold. “Good afternoon, children. I am Dr. Middlemiss. Please, come and stand by Miss Bevan.”
They tentatively stepped outside, and Cristyn did a quick head count. Twenty-one children, but it was hard to ascertain their ages due to obvious malnutrition. They were pale and thin, their clothes patched and tattered. Their faces and hands were dirty. Her heart filled with sympathy.
Once the table and chair were in place, Paris turned to Mr. Meeker. “There is no need for you to stay, as this may take some time.”
“Mr. McRae specifically ordered me to witness the examination, then bring you directly to his office. Only you, not Miss Bevan. I am sorry.”
The man didn’t sound the least bit sorry. Cristyn fought to keep her distaste for this sycophant from showing on her face.
“Nevertheless, I ask you give my patients a modicum of privacy, at least the girls. Return in fifteen minutes.”
Mr. Meeker frowned, then glanced at the window once again. “I will return in ten minutes.” The man turned and hurried away.
“Quick, Cristyn. Help me move the table and chair behind this open door. It will act as a barrier from any prying eyes,” Paris whispered.
“You saw the man in the window, too?” she replied, then she helped him drag the table.
“Yes. Mr. McRae himself. Come, children, over here.”
They seemed to gravitate toward an older boy, staying close to him, as if for protection. He was a good-looking lad with brown hair and eyes, his cheeks and nose covered by an abundance of freckles. He gave them both an assessing gaze, and his eyes displayed intelligence and a deep distrust.
Paris must have also noticed that the boy was the leader, for he pointed at him. “What is your name?”
He wiped his nose with his tattered sleeve. “Carter Rokesmith, guv’.”
“A good, strong name. Will you assist me with the children? I brought slices of bread and apple; I thought they might like a bite of food before the exam.”
“Aye,” he mumbled. Carter snapped his fingers and the children immediately lined up in front of Cristyn. She handed out the sliced apple and bread, and the children greedily grabbed at the food and gobbled it up. Before she knew it, the bag was empty.
“Carter, will you answer a couple of questions?” Paris asked.
“’pends.”
“Are the children given a dormitory to live in? A place with actual beds? Proper bedding? Healthy meals and—”
Carter shook his head. “No questions. Ain’t answerin’. And neither will this lot be answerin’. Master said not to talk to ye. Got to do wot Master says.”
Paris and Cristyn exchanged looks. “The Master being Mr. McRae?” Paris murmured.
“Aye. That be ’im. Do yer examinin’. Make it quick, ’fore that weasel comes back.” Carter pushed a younger boy before Paris. “Do ’im first, ’is leg be hurtin’ bad like.”
Paris snapped into action, and the boy lined up the children in order of maladies. A small girl with curly golden hair stayed close to Carter, as if looking for protection.
They worked efficiently, cleaning and treating various wounds and cuts, examining mouths for sores and rotting teeth, which they found in abundance. “Make a note, Miss Bevan. Next visit, we will bring cheese with the fruit and bread. We will have to procure plantain for the irritation of the lungs, and vaccinations against smallpox.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And you, Carter?” Paris asked.
“I don’t need no examinin’,” he grumbled.
“Are all these children from the Union Workhouse?” Paris asked.
“The Bastille? Aye, some. Others be from an orphanage. ’Tis all I be tellin’ ye.” The little golden-haired girl slipped her hand into Carter’s and tugged on it. “’Tis all right, Lottie.” He leaned down and she whispered in his ear. “’Tis no more bread,” he told the girl sadly.
The children were still hungry—how heartbreaking. “We will bring more the next we come,” Cristyn said with a shaky smile. She felt like crying at the abject misery before her.
Carter scoffed. “If Master allows ye to come back. Aye, bring bread, apple, cheese. Anythin’. For the little ’uns.”
Mr. Meeker arrived, giving Carter a stern look. “What have you been saying, Rokesmith?”
“Nuffin’, Mr. Meeker, sir. The doctor be askin’ about me chest, ’tis all.” Carter coughed for good measure.
“Rokesmith, take the children to the spinning room. Dr. Middlemiss, if you will come with me. Mr. McRae awaits. He can spare you ten minutes.”
“Miss Bevan, please take a seat. I will not be long,” Paris said.
Cristyn sat and watched the children head toward the mill. Though the sun was out and the air was warm, she shivered. Something was not quite right about this mill, though she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. Giving another quick glance at the door the children had passed through, she impulsively jumped to her feet and hurried along in the same direction.
Opening the door, she stepped inside. There was a long hallway—which way to turn? Cotton dust floated in the air, similar to a gentle snow falling on Christmas Eve. Almost immediately she began to cough. Machinery noise was to the right of her—that was also where the greatest concentration of cotton dust was coming from. Cristyn followed the trail; the air grew thicker with the floating powder the farther she ventured into the mill. Cristyn waved it away from her face as she walked. The air was stiflingly hot, the humidity enough to seize her breath. She came upon a large sliding door. Dare she open it?
With both hands, she slid it open and was greeted by a huge room filled with equipment that hissed and clacked at a deafening rate. The dust was thicker here; she could barely see. It was mostly women working the spinning machines, methodically moving part of the mechanism to the front and back as if weaving, which, Cristyn supposed, was exactly what they were doing. A few men walked up and down the aisles, and to her horror, she caught a glimpse of some of the children they had treated scurrying along on their hands and knees under the apparatus, clearing away clusters of cotton fluff. My God, how dangerous!
She looked up, and out of the corner of her eye, a dark shadow moved through the white dust. It was a tall, dark-haired man, walking along a raised platform, wearing a black frock coat with his hands clasped behind his back. His perfect profile was a stark contrast to the depressing surroundings of the factory.
No. She must be hallucinating. It could not be him.
Cristyn backed up several steps, her heart pounding in her chest. Her insides tumbled, roiling and churning, the lunch she had consumed earlier came close to making a reappearance. This can’t be happening. But the combined dread and thrill at looking at this man was proof it was him, ready to haunt her all over again. And break her heart.
Aidan Black.
Here in Earl Shilton.
It made no sense. Why was he here, of all places? All at once a coughing fit overtook her, and she reached in her bag and drew out a cloth to hold ov
er her mouth. The air was foul, and making her physically ill.
She was about to turn and make her escape when a booming male voice called out, “Halt, you there!” She could barely hear it above the noise of the machines, but hear it she had. What choice did she have but to run?
Lifting her skirts while still holding the cloth over her mouth, Cristyn bolted through the door and down the hall.
Chapter 9
Aidan could not believe it. His mind must have gone. Cristyn Bevan? His heart banged furiously against his ribs. Every nerve ending came alive, and because of it, he had to know if it was her. “Miller!” he called to a man walking between the machines. Aidan took the steps two at a time until he stood before Miller on the factory floor. “Keep watch until I return,” he yelled in the man’s ear. Not waiting for a response, he vaulted through the door into the hallway.
He grabbed the arm of a woman passing by. “Did you see a young lady with dark hair?” he demanded.
The woman shrank at his harsh tone, but his undertaking here was not to be polite. “Aye, sir. She went through that door.”
Aidan ran outside, scanning the surrounding grounds. Found her! Her head peered around the door of the warehouse, then disappeared. He sprinted toward the stone structure. Once there, he grasped the door and slammed it. God, it was her. Cristyn had flinched at the sound, and stared up at him, her beautiful violet-blue eyes blinking rapidly. All he wanted was to gather her in his arms and kiss her. Hold her tight against him, and savor her softness and warmth.
His heart soared as he stepped closer. Blood rushed to every part of his body as he inhaled. That damned scent of violets had never left him, not in all these weeks since they had said goodbye. But to hell with showing his vulnerability. “Why are you here? Are you following me?” he demanded.
“What? Of all the arrogance!” Her eyes narrowed in anger. “I could say the same for you, for I’ve been here more than three weeks. And you arrived…when?”
“Three days past.” Damn it all, he couldn’t think straight around her, and because of it wound up blurting inane statements or denying his feelings—which at this moment burned with an intensity to rival the sun above.
Love with a Notorious Rake Page 10