“Aye, sir.” Tessie composed herself, then flung open the door and gave a performance that would have been applauded enthusiastically if she were acting on stage. Aidan closed the door, then pulled out his watch. Close to three o’clock, and time for the next phase of his dramatic routine.
Later tonight, when he finished his report, he would write to ask his father and grandfather if there was enough to bring McRae to justice, and if not, what else would be required, for as he surmised earlier, he hadn’t the stomach to keep up this charade any longer than necessary.
A nagging thought would not leave him: What would become of these poor and desperate people if there was no mill to employ them? They would have no choice but to take employment from those cruel men who had firm control of the stocking trade. He would have to spell out his concerns for his family. Make them understand. What was the point of shuttering the mill, even temporarily, if it left these villagers in worse condition than when he’d arrived?
Projecting a self-satisfied air, he opened the door, then adjusted his trousers. His gaze slid across the mill floor, and many of the workers looked away with revulsion. In the dark corner Meeker stood, his rat eyes glowing, his face twisted with what appeared to be lascivious satisfaction. With the nub of his pencil, he wrote in his notebook as he turned and disappeared into the shadows. Miserable bastard. Aidan made a note to ask Tessie about McRae’s secretary.
Rokesmith must already be out in the courtyard. Once he found Miller, the machine supervisor, he motioned for him to keep an eye on the spinning room. The man gave him a curt nod.
Stepping outside, the acrid odor of coal smoke and horseshit slammed his nostrils. Aidan nonchalantly scanned the courtyard, taking note of McRae standing in the window, acting as if he did not see him. Rokesmith was transporting two large buckets of water across the courtyard, spilling more than he carried.
“Rokesmith, you clumsy idiot!” Aidan yelled as he ran toward him. The men unloading the cotton wagons looked up at the disturbance.
Rokesmith cringed, looking appropriately frightened. Aidan grabbed the scruff of his neck and shook him hard, causing more water to splash over the sides.
“Push me to the ground,” Rokesmith whispered.
Aidan did, and the lad sprawled across the cobblestones, dropping the buckets, the contents spilling across the ground. “You brainless dolt. Look what you’ve done. Stand up.”
Rokesmith covered his head. “Please, don’t hit me, sir!” he cried loudly.
Aidan grabbed him by the collar and brought him to his feet. He made a show of pulling back his hand, as if he were about to strike. “You sniveling little bastard! I should hit you—”
“Oh, my God!”
The familiar feminine voice halted him. He turned. There stood Cristyn with Middlemiss. The shocked and hurt expression on her face tore him in two. Damn it! When they had not arrived during the luncheon break, their usual time, he assumed they were not coming. There was no choice; he had to play out this farce. Aidan strode toward the mill, dragging Rokesmith behind him.
Any goodwill or warm feelings Cristyn may have held for him had just been destroyed. The expression on her face was unmistakable: shock, anger, and abhorrence. He felt sick to his core. The thought of losing her before they even had a chance to begin hurt far worse than he had expected. How could he make her understand? He couldn’t—not without telling the truth.
Chapter 14
Cristyn stood absolutely still, watching the shocking scene with disbelief until Aidan and Carter Rokesmith disappeared into the mill. Then the overwhelming need to cry overtook her, but she blinked away the tears. Everything became surreal, for she could not process the cruelty on display. Not from Aidan. Not from the man she had held in her arms while he cried and trembled. Not the man who, through sheer courage and determination, pulled himself out of the mire of opium addiction. Not the man she had fallen…in love with. How could she have misjudged him? Because she had been blinded by love. And desire.
But Aidan Black was everything Paris had said he was.
Cold. Dark. Soulless.
And it broke her heart.
Yet a stubborn part of her rejected what she had witnessed. It made no sense whatsoever. Aidan would not act this way. But he had.
Paris laid his hand on her arm, but she shook it off. She did not require comfort. “I’m fine. See McRae about the vaccines. I’ll wait here.” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
“I am sorry Mr. Black is not what you had hoped.” Paris sounded sorry, but she didn’t want his pity.
Cristyn paced the courtyard, tempted to follow Aidan into the mill and confront him, but it would serve no purpose—and it would jeopardize their treating the children.
Paris returned within minutes. “He said no special appointments. But we can give the inoculations during our regular visit next Monday, as long as we do not go over the allotted time.” Paris scoffed. “Can you imagine the gall of the man? He invited me to his dinner party Friday night.”
“Did you refuse?”
“No. I wish to see this animal in his natural habitat. And I wouldn’t mind a formal dinner. He said I could bring a guest. I suppose I could ask Mrs. Trubshaw….” Paris rubbed his chin, as if mulling it over.
“I will go with you.”
“You think it wise under the circumstances? Mr. Black is sure to be in attendance.”
She cocked an eyebrow at Paris in reply.
“And you wish me to mind my own business,” he said.
“I do. Allow me to handle the situation with Aidan.”
“I will contrive to keep my nose out in the future. But do know I am here if you wish to converse about any of it.”
As they made their way back to the office, Cristyn decided she could not let this pass. She must hear from Aidan. Allow him to explain his abhorrent behavior toward the child. Crying and sulking alone in her room was not an option. Most shifts at the mill ended at different times throughout the week. Tonight’s was six o’clock. As soon as she was finished at the clinic, she would head immediately to the Dog and Gun Inn. Blast proprieties. Time to demand answers.
It was close to thirty minutes past six when she headed to the inn. Still plenty of daylight. To ward off thieves, she did not carry a reticule, but made sure a hat pin held her straw hat in place—she could readily use it as a weapon.
Following the same path she’d used before, Cristyn stealthily made her way through the rear yard. She slipped through the inn’s back entrance and started when she discovered Tessie from the mill standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Tessie, you startled me.” Cristyn stared at the dirty bandage on the young woman’s arm. “You never came to have the dressing changed.”
“I got no money, Miss Bevan.”
“It was included in the original payment.” Cristyn gently peeled aside part of the tattered binding. “These stitches should be removed.”
“I’ll come tomorrow.” Tessie pulled her arm away. “I’ll have money then. I’m here to earn coin.”
How exasperating. Why couldn’t she understand that Cristyn would treat her for free? But then, regardless of their poverty, many of these people had their pride. She couldn’t fault Tessie for that. “I’m not sure I follow. Earn coin?”
“I do what I have to do to feed me family.”
Oh. Oh.
“I only tell you so you know I’m earning the coin, not stealing it like others,” Tessie continued in a low voice. “I know what happened to you. That were wrong. You’re doing good here. But when one is desperate…when all is hopeless…” She shifted from one foot to the other, plainly uncomfortable.
“When you come to the doctor’s office tomorrow, we can talk more. There are rinses I can give you. It will help avoid pregnancies, and disease. Promise me you will come tomorrow.” Cristyn clasped Tessie’s oil-stained hand.
“I worry about you.”
The young woman’s look softened. “I’ve never had anyone worry about me, outside of me mother and brother. I’ll come tomorrow, I promise. Now, I’ve business upstairs.” Tessie patted her hand, then released it.
No. Not Aidan. Surely not. Her stomach plummeted with the thought.
Tessie ascended the stairs, and after a moment Cristyn followed, far enough that she could see where Tessie was heading. She stopped in front of Aidan’s room and knocked. Cristyn’s heart seized, then it started to ache. Not only bullying his workers, but now buying sexual favors from a vulnerable young woman. The door opened and Tessie was pulled across the threshold. Cristyn ducked out of sight, but not before catching a glimpse of a familiar perfect profile.
Aidan.
Grabbing the banister, she descended, her legs trembling, bile clawing its way up her throat. She covered her mouth with her hand and swallowed hard. How could she have been so wrong about him? She wasn’t one to shrink away; she should march up the stairs, bang on his door, and demand an explanation. But not with Tessie there. She couldn’t make a scene, as much as she was tempted to do exactly that. If she were a young lady of society, she would probably run to her room and sob her heart out. Take to her bed and nurse her broken heart for days.
But Cristyn was made of sterner stuff. When the opportunity presented itself, she would demand answers from Aidan Black. Then she would tell him exactly what she thought of his shameful behavior. But her heart ached regardless. The disappointment was acute.
Once she stepped into the yard, she lifted her skirts and broke into a run.
* * * *
Aidan laid three shillings on the table. “This is yours if you tell me what goes on at the mill.”
Tessie eyed the coin greedily, then met Aidan’s gaze. “Like what?”
“The dark secrets.”
“You want tattle? Gossip?”
Aidan crossed his arms. “It’s a good place to start. Are any of the children caught up in this? Are they preyed upon for sexual purposes?”
Tessie gave him a shocked look. “I’ve heard nothing like that. The masters like young women, but not children. Lord, I hope not.”
There’s a mercy. “How young?”
“Seventeen, eighteen. Not children; I’m pretty sure of it.”
“Take a seat, Tessie.”
She glanced at the finely upholstered chair and shook her head. “Me clothes are dirty, and me hands, from the machine—”
“Please, sit.”
She did, though she looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Aidan pulled up a chair next to her. “How often does this happen? Being taken into the storeroom? Or called to McRae’s office? What about Meeker; is he involved?”
Tessie exhaled shakily. “I can’t speak for others, but when I was sent for I were told it be for discipline, for not working fast enough. Meeker brings the women to Master. He knows what goes on. Master, well he…said I deserved to be punished. He asked if I would accept his punishment. I had to say yes. Said he don’t like what Hanson likes, the sucking and such. Then he…bent me over his desk.”
Jesus. “How often?”
“Once a month. Sometimes twice. I’ve seen others taken upstairs. Young, like me. Some were crying when they come back to the spinning. One called Peg disappeared real sudden three months back. I heard she be pregnant, and Master shipped her away.”
Miserable bastard. But from what his father and grandfather had stated, there were many like McRae and Hanson, taking advantage of their positions of power.
“Others…have gone missing,” she murmured.
“Who?”
“Children. Some get sick. Then they’re gone. New ones come in. He buys them, like they be goods. I heard he only let the doctor look at the children because it was becoming too costly to keep replacing them. I hear he starves them. Keeps them in the cellar like rats. No one dares to say anything.”
Tessie was becoming braver, more talkative. Aidan remained silent and allowed her to continue.
“The machines ain’t maintained proper. They’re dangerous. They break down too much. Mr. Miller, he tries to do what he can.”
Aidan had noticed.
“We aren’t paid enough. Not given the proper amount of breaks. They work those children too hard. Someday there is going to be an accident….” Tessie bit her lower lip. “I’ve said too much. And not only to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Miss Bevan came in the back way and I…” Tessie gave him a sheepish look.
Aidan vaulted to his feet. “She was here? When?” he demanded.
“Before I came upstairs—”
Aidan ran to the door, flung it open, and dashed into the hall. Damn it all! She’d come here, probably to talk to him. Or tell him off. Or both. His blood ran cold as he rushed outside. Cristyn was long gone. Had she seen Tessie come to his door? Fuck. Banging his fist against the wall, he returned to his room. Tessie was still sitting in the chair—surprising, as she could have taken the money and disappeared. He slammed the door in frustration and slumped into his chair. “You spoke to her?” he asked wearily. He knew the answer.
“Aye, I did.”
“And she is under the impression you came here to service me as a prossie would service her customer,” he murmured, his tone flat.
“Well, aye. I wanted her to know I would be able to pay for my tending. And I couldn’t tell I be giving you information. You said tell no one.” She held up her filthy, bandaged arm. “See? She’s a good ’un, treated me and my arm proper. Miss Bevan won’t say ’aught anyway.”
Aidan reached in his pocket and tossed three more shillings on the table. “Take your money and go. Make it last. If you have information, I’ll pay. How old is your brother?”
“He be twelve.”
“I’ll see if I can get him on at the mill, as a piecer. That should be enough money for you to cease prostituting. As for anyone taken to McRae’s office, you tell me immediately. But all this goes away if anyone finds out. That includes your family. They cannot know any of this. Understand?”
Tessie stood and quickly scooped the coins into her pocket. “Aye, Mr. Black, sir. I understand. Thank you, sir.” She bowed and bobbed as she scurried toward the door. Without looking back, she quickly slipped out into the hall.
Aidan banged his fist on the table in frustration. He was tempted to head to the boarding house and have it out with Cristyn. Tell her everything. But he couldn’t—not yet. He was close to discovering the deeper, darker secrets of this miserable mill. Once he sat at the small writing desk in the corner, he pulled pieces of paper from the drawer. Dipping the pen in the ink, he began to write:
Dear Riordan,
I have been here barely three weeks and already I have discovered I am in over my head. Perhaps I’m not up to the task after all. Beyond what lies in my report to our father and grandfather, fate, the exact apparition you have spoken of, has made an appearance in this dismal village. Cristyn Bevan is here. Of all women! I could hardly believe my eyes. She has been here for more than a month, working as nurse to the village doctor, a friend of her father. Dr. Middlemiss is a supercilious man of middle age with poor eyesight and equally poor manners. God above, I am jealous of all the time he spends with her.
Needless to say, seeing Cristyn has torn me from my moorings and cast me adrift. We have met, in private, and more than once. It seems we cannot stay away from each other. Each meeting jeopardizes my covert mission (as it were), for she has seen me at my worst in my role as the cruel overseer.
I cannot bear that she is out there thinking the worst of me. It is slicing at my guts and my hollowed heart. Might as well throw my blackened soul into the bitter sauce. You were correct, as you often are: I am falling for her.
By God, what a rush these feelings are. All at once exhilarating and deva
stating. All I want to do is protect her. From the harshness of life. The cruelty of the world. From…me.
She is strong, Riordan. I admire her steel and adore her compassionate nature. Her willingness to help others. Her selflessness, intelligence, and honesty. If it sounds as if I am placing her on a pedestal, perhaps I am, but I’m aware she is a woman, not a statue. So real. So…soft.
I sound mad. Drunk with desire.
Here is my dilemma: Father and Grandfather said I am to tell no one. That won’t work. Not in this situation. Not with Cristyn, who demands with every steady gaze of her beautiful violet-blue eyes that I be better than I am.
I need your advice, my brother. I need your calm and steady wisdom, along with your innate ability to always do the right thing. You, who know me better than anyone, what do I do?
Should I confess all to her, including my feelings?
Help me, Brother.
Love,
Aidan
Lord Nothing
Aidan laid his pen aside. Releasing the stopper on his hidden emotions was not something he did often, but since his recovery, everything had changed. No wonder he felt strange in his own skin. He was a different man. In the dark days, he would call for a bottle of scotch or gin and drink away his troubles. If that didn’t work, his demons would urge him to delve deeper. Women. Opium. Oblivion.
With a shaky exhale, Aidan stood and slipped on his coat. He would head downstairs to the tavern room. Order a meat pie. No alcohol. Tomorrow he would find an excuse to check on Nebula, then have Rokesmith deliver his letter and the report to Samuel, who would then ride with all haste to Wollstonecraft Hall. A reply would take at least three days.
While he waited, he would question Rokesmith about these missing children, for Aidan had the distinct feeling not much got past the lad.
As for Cristyn? He wouldn’t see her until he decided if he would tell her the truth—all of the truth, no matter how wretched. His past, his downfall, his real name, and why he was here. But most of all, he would humble himself before her. Ask her forgiveness for not being truthful.
Love with a Notorious Rake Page 16