by Diana Quincy
“Perhaps you will succeed. That will be up to His Grace.” Fuller started toward Shellborne. “But you will unhand her. Now.”
Cam stepped into view. “There you are, Miss Livingston. I was hoping you would favor me with a walk. With your leave, of course, Shellborne.”
The baron dropped Charlotte’s arm. “Of course, Camryn.” He pasted an expression of placid courtesy on his flushed face. “By all means, it’s a lovely day for a stroll.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cam noticed Fuller fade back into the stables. The man was like a shadow. He offered Charlotte his arm. “Shall we?”
…
As they strolled away from the stables in silence, Charlotte was acutely aware of the warm, lightly muscled arm beneath her fingers.
“I gather your brother doesn’t approve of your interest in grooms,” he said once they were well away from Shellborne.
She focused on her feet, picking her way over some uneven swells on the ground. “What Hugh thinks is of no concern.” She looked up to find that keen golden-green gaze searching her face, as if he might find answers there if he looked hard enough. Tensing, she asked, “Why are you regarding me in that manner?”
“I’m wondering what it is that motivates you.”
“That’s a large, unanswerable question, don’t you think? It is rather like asking one what the meaning of life is.”
“I was thinking of your attraction to Mr. Fuller.”
“Oh.”
“Is he what motivates your fierce passion for the lower classes?” he asked. “Willa tells me Fuller grew up alongside you and Shellborne. Your father allowed the child of a servant to be educated with his own children? It’s quite unusual.”
The thought of Cam inquiring about Nathan made her uneasy. “Yes.”
“Is your father’s generosity to the lower classes what informs your interest in helping them?”
“My father was no advocate of the operative class.” Bitterness swelled in Charlotte’s chest. “In some ways, he was every bit the pompous peer that Hugh is.”
“And yet he allowed Fuller—”
“Papa had a special affection for Nathan, so he extended him the privilege of working with our governess.” She waved a buzzing insect away. “If he’d been a real advocate of the lower orders, he would have sent Nathan away to school as he did with Hugh.”
Cam’s tawny brows drew together. “Surely, you’re not suggesting your father should have provided the same education for the child of a servant as he would for his own heir?”
“Nathan has a keen mind. If he’d attended Eton or Cambridge, he could have become a solicitor or a barrister, someone of consequence and not just a coachman.” She gestured into the unknown. “How many other Nathans do you think are out there?”
His eyes softened in a way that made her throat ache. “I am sure there are many, Charlotte.”
“Should they all be condemned to a life of poverty and stench because they weren’t born into privilege as we were?”
“So you think to save Fuller?” His eyes locked with hers. “Perhaps by wedding him?”
She looked away. Her ears started to itch. “I cannot say.”
“Has he declared himself?” His voice tightened. Halting, she gazed up to see determination glinting in his fierce eyes.
“No.” A hot wave of yearning rippled through her. “He has not. Nor do I expect it of him. Still, we have an attachment that precludes me from accepting the attentions of another gentleman.”
His large hand cupped her jaw, the pad of his thumb caressing of her cheek. “Is that so?”
She closed her eyes and inhaled the masculine scent of his hands, momentarily giving in to the sensation of his roughened skin touching hers. Before she could open her eyes again, Cam’s soft, warm lips brushed against hers.
At first, he gave her sweet, small kisses, which offered the promise of so much more. He kissed her top lip. He nipped and then sucked lightly on her plump bottom one. Moving at a languid pace, he seemed to luxuriate in the taste and feel of her. His gently insistent tongue touched the seam of her mouth.
Leg-melting pleasure washed through her. Warning bells clanged somewhere in her head, but she barely heard them amidst the sweet assault of Cam’s kisses. She opened her mouth and took him in. He tasted sublime. His tongue stroked hers, exploring with soft, flickering licks before suckling it. The part of her that knew she should stop moved her tongue away from his. He chuckled against her mouth before his tongue went after hers, wrestling playfully with it. Arousal curled hot and deep in her belly.
She surrendered, kissing Cam back with pressing need. Making an approving sound at the back of his throat, he deepened the kiss, plunging farther into her mouth, tickling and titillating the roof of her mouth.
Nerve endings she didn’t know she possessed thundered to life. Sighing into Cam’s mouth, she wanted to protest when he slowly withdrew his tongue, giving her another smattering of light, gentle kisses before pulling away. Still cupping her jaw, he looked down at her with glittering eyes, the sunlight glinting off his carved features.
“This might be an opportune time to mention,” he said hoarsely, “that I fully intend to seduce you over to my way of thinking.”
“Hmmm?” she asked, still dazed by the sensations shimmering through her. “How so?”
“I fear you are stealing my heart. Consequently, I plan to employ every weapon in my arsenal to win you.”
The ground jerked beneath her. “Stealing your heart?” She reared back. “You shouldn’t say such things.”
“Why ever not?” He touched his forehead to hers. “You value forthrightness. I am being so now.” He kissed her once again, more sweetly this time, pressing softly firm lips against hers, treating her with a tenderness which made her heart swell.
“I have an attachment elsewhere.” She forced out the words. “As you well know.”
“What I know, Miss Livingston” —he planted a small kiss at the side of her mouth that almost made her swoon— “is that you are a liar.”
“Are you wooing and insulting me at the same time?” She couldn’t resist pressing a light kiss along the strong cords of his neck.
He groaned with pleasure. “Absolutely. Only you do not possess what it takes to lie convincingly.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She nipped his neck, tasting the salty sweetness of his warm skin.
“You’re an honorable woman who wouldn’t allow me such liberties if your heart lay elsewhere.”
She pulled back, warily taking hold of her senses. “Is that so?”
“Yes, it is and that is why I have decided that you are indeed a liar.” He spoke somewhat absentmindedly, watching the movement of his thumb stroking her cheek with a feathery touch.
Unable to stop herself, Charlotte tilted her cheek more fully into the caress of his hand. Although a million responses went through her head, she gave voice to none on account of being too distracted by the way his other hand traced her hairline.
“I’m certain that whatever is between you and the coachman, it is not what you pretend.” He smiled with satisfaction. “I wonder, are you lying to me, or are you deceiving yourself as well?”
Panic bubbled up in her. How could she have let down her guard when so much was at stake, when her carelessness threatened to place someone she loved at risk? She pulled away, her pulse thumping, her ears itching. “My lord, you do not know what manner of woman I am.” She called back over her shoulder so he would not see her face. “I have allowed you favors on more than one occasion. Do you flatter yourself to think you are the only one?”
Chapter Eight
The next morning Charlotte found herself on the way to the cotton mill. Molly accompanied her in the carriage while Cam and Hartwell rode on horseback. Hugh had departed and Willa was too round with child to make the trip, but she’d strongly encouraged Charlotte to go and see the factory for herself.
She thought of the factories she’d
visited in the past. With strikes and unions forbidden by law, workers were left at the mercy of their employers, often made to work eighteen-hour days at starvation wages. She found it difficult to reconcile the two conflicting images of Cam. How could the man who ordered his servants moved to better quarters also preside over shameful factory conditions?
They made excellent time, reaching the mill by noon. Loud clattering reached Charlotte’s ears long before the factory came into view. The power looms were obviously in working order. As they drew near the building, she studied the large stone edifice with interest. It contained a number of windows that were propped open, and the extensive lawn surrounding the structure appeared neat and well maintained.
Hartwell dismounted to speak with a man who hurried from the building to greet them. Intrigued by the sounds coming from the mill, Charlotte alighted from the coach. Taking the arm Cam offered, she let him lead her inside, with Molly trailing behind.
There were two long rows of power looms at work side by side in the clean, well-lit room. Despite the heat, the air was clear and the temperature far from unbearable.
She pulled away from Cam, curiosity compelling her to step closer for a better look. She watched as a flat, narrow, sticklike tool, which was wrapped with yarn, accelerated back and forth across the frame. It shuttled between the lengthwise set of threads, weaving them into a parallel set of strands. Many more were drawn under and over the analogous set of lengthwise fibers in a continuous harmony of motion.
Cam stepped behind her as she watched, mesmerized. He pointed to the flat, sticklike tool sweeping across the length of the shed.
“That’s a shuttle. It threads those two sets of heddles together,” he said speaking loudly. He pointed to a line of cords suspended on a shaft of the loom. “Each one has an eye where the thread is pulled through.” The precise, melodic motions yielded finished cloth that corded neatly around a thick spool.
“It’s all powered by steam?” Charlotte practically had to shout to be heard over the cantankerous sounds of the noisy machines.
“Yes, the steam comes through the line shafts.” He pointed to a rod suspended above the looms. The pipe ran the full length of the forty-foot factory floor, running down between the two rows of frames. Large barrel-like pulleys ran along the line, each suspended above two of the machines.
“Those are pulleys. They distribute enough power for two machines.” Cam pointed to the overhead barrel-like contraptions. The thick leather belts rotating around them were also affixed to a spur wheel on the side of the looms each powered. “The frames are all driven by the belts from the pulleys on the overhead shafts.”
Charlotte’s breath caught. “It is so quick and precise.”
“Yes. It makes cloth from thread faster than any weaver could,” Cam said in a raised voice, trying to be heard above the clanging. The machines turned out cloth at an amazing clip. She wandered around, watching the rattling machines follow the same rhythmic patterns. Molly stayed where she was, wide-eyed.
Charlotte stopped next to the last power loom at the end of the floor. Cam followed, coming to stand beside her, his face glistening from the heat despite the open windows.
Her own face moist from the humid air, heaviness settled in Charlotte’s chest, her sense of wonderment etched with sadness. Seeming to sense her unspoken dilemma, Cam’s strong hand clasped hers and their fingers intertwined. From where they stood behind the last loom, their laced hands remained hidden from view. She exhaled, grateful for the comforting strength he offered, a lone, solid anchor in the world of change laid out before her.
Despite the warmth on the stuffy factory floor, she shivered. The glancing pain of profound awareness slashed through her. Now that she saw it for herself, it all became clear. The clamorous machines were the harbinger of a new reality. The old way of life for the villages dotting the English countryside would soon be gone forever. What would become of the people? It was clear that nothing—not the desperate weavers whose generations of skill were being rendered useless, nor their hungry children, nor the marauding Luddites—were a match for this marvelous and frightening truth.
“So, now you see. We cannot stop progress. It was never in our hands to begin with.” Cam’s mouth came close to her ear, his hand still clasping hers as they watched the machine’s parts march in rapid precise movements no human could ever hope to match. “It is nothing short of a revolution.”
A short time later, Cam reluctantly released Charlotte’s hand and went in search of Hartwell to discuss mill business. She used that time to wander around the factory floor on her own. It surprised her that many of the workers were women. And there were no children.
“Females are known to have more nimble fingers,” the floor overseer said. “They are quicker and more meticulous.”
“And the men,” she asked. “What do they do?”
“Tasks that require physical skill. They move and load the bolts of fabric. The men also fix the machinery when there is a problem.”
She moved around, engaging some of the female workers in conversation, learning they each worked two looms, which produced twenty-five meters of cloth a day. Charlotte noted many seemed to have at least a rudimentary education. Clean and neatly attired, they did not appear miserable.
She asked Cam and Hartwell about the female workers later as they finished the picnic lunch they’d brought from Fairview. Molly had set up the meal under the shade of a tree to the side of the mill.
“Many of our workers are young, unmarried girls from respectable village families,” Cam said. “We have a boarding house for them.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “That hardly seems respectable.”
Hartwell laughed. “I assure you it is, Miss Livingston.” He turned to Cam. “You should take her and show her your project.”
“His project?” Charlotte looked from Hartwell to Cam, intrigued.
Grinning, Cam rose and offered his arm. “Allow me to show you the future, Miss Livingston.”
Eager to see more, she stood and took his arm. She looked back at Molly, who appeared uncertain of whether to follow.
“No need for a chaperone,” Cam told Charlotte, gesturing toward Molly. “It’s just a walk out in the open among the people who work the mill. It’s all quite appropriate.”
As they strolled away, she noted the walkways around the factory were clean and well trimmed.
“I must confess. The grounds are much more inviting than I expected.”
“It’s all part of our plan.” His pride was evident. “I believe if you respect the workers and provide decent surroundings for them to live and work in, they will be motivated to make the mill productive and successful.” They rounded a thicket of trees, bringing a charming little village into view.
He pointed to a row of neat, sand-colored cottages. “Those are for our workers with families.” Each of the stone-and-thatched dwellings appeared to have its own garden containing flowers and vegetables. A few were obviously still in the process of being constructed.
“We use the local people to build them. They also built the mill.”
When they came to a stop in front of a well-maintained larger building, Cam guided her inside. A kindly-looking, middle-aged woman met them at the door.
“Good day, Mrs. Mallory,” he said to her. “My apologies for the intrusion. I wanted to show your finely run boarding establishment to my friend, Miss Livingston.”
Clearly happy to see him, the heavyset woman smiled broadly. “Of course, my lord. But rules are rules. Gentlemen can go no further than the parlor, even fine gentlemen such as yourself.”
He threw back his messy mane, laughter rumbling through his chest. “As you can see, Miss Livingston, the young, single ladies are well protected by this fierce matron. No randy scoundrels will get past Mrs. Mallory.”
“No, indeed,” the woman said to Charlotte. “This is a strict boarding house. No men upstairs and only the highest standard of behavior for my girls. I keep a re
spectable place here.”
Charlotte looked around, impressed by the clean, inviting atmosphere. The parlor was a large room, clearly intended for visiting. There were three separate sitting areas, each with its own sofa and several comfortable chairs. After a few more minutes of exchanging pleasantries with Mrs. Mallory, they took their leave, pausing to admire a tidy church that appeared to have been built recently.
Excitement bubbled up in Charlotte. “Oh, Cam, this is staggering. I cannot believe you have done all of this for your workers.”
“It is not for just for them. It is good business for us as well. When we first began building the mill, I kept thinking there must be a way for machines and workers to be compatible. Unlike what people like the Luddites believe, one does not have to mean the annihilation of the other.” Looking upward, he surveyed the pale honey church with obvious pride. The sun illuminated the noble lines of his face, bringing to mind a master surveying his domain. “We can help them make a good life for themselves. We need a content, motivated work force.”
They resumed walking. “You have created an entire community here for them,” she said with wonderment. “It is far beyond simply offering them work.”
“That was our intent. They now have a very real stake in the success of the mill. Their entire life is literally wrapped up in it.” He offered her his arm again. “And our productivity and profits give credence to my supposition.”
Her heart fluttered as she took in the sleek cut of his profile, a firm nose and strong chin topped by that unruly tawny hair. Warmth burgeoned in her chest, billowing downward to the bottom of her stomach. “I have done you such a disservice. Presuming the worst about you.”
Cam chuckled. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided I am not quite the ruthless industrialist you pictured?”
“You are so much more.”