“Bella?” His voice, smooth as a summer afternoon, unearths memories I thought I’d buried deep. Evidently not deep enough. Time rolls back to moonlit trysts in the garden, dinners and dances and carriage rides in Hyde Park. Countless shared heartbeats and secrets.
“Edmund.” Though I’d vowed never to repeat it, his name rolls off my tongue, the traitorous organ. I clear my throat then amend the blunder. “Mr. Archer.”
He advances, his hands clenched at his side, a strange mix of familiar and foreign that in one swift swipe cuts me with loss and heals with wonder. His boyish good looks have matured beyond my wildest imaginations. He is devastatingly handsome in his prime, taller than I remember, broader of shoulder, all muscle and steel.
What little breath that remains in me whooshes from my lungs.
His brows pull into a line as he studies me, questions swimming in those blue depths like an overburdened pond of pickerel. “What are you doing here?”
Exactly. The question rattles around in my head, shaking my resolve. Of all my late husband’s holdings, I chose this one to keep?
But it’s done now. The rest are sold off. This is my last—my only—chance to be my own woman. Inch by inch, I straighten my spine. Holding hands with adversity is nothing new, so whatever may come of this venture, it will not be anything I can’t survive. Independence never comes without a cost.
I meet his gaze. “I had an appointment with you at half past four.”
“I am aware of no such commitment. And why would you wish to see me?”
“Mr. Archer?” Footsteps pound up the stairs. A man wearing a greasy apron and a frown stops on the top step and hitches his thumb over his shoulder. “Beg your pardon, sir, but there’s a knotted-up swing arm on the floor, halting production on machine number seven.”
Edmund turns. “Have Garrety manage it.”
“Can’t, sir. Garrety’s seein’ to the broken shaft in the winding room.”
With a sigh, Edmund rakes his hand through his hair, pausing to press in his fingers at the back of his neck. The trademark gesture squeezes my chest. It is a reminder, a remainder, a string that yet connects us when I thought I’d severed all ties.
“Fine, I will be there shortly.” He offers the man his back and, in two long strides, opens the door to his office and holds it wide. “My apologies, but I am afraid I can spare you only a few minutes, nothing more. Please, have a seat.”
I sweep past him, and my step falters on the way to the chair in front of his big desk. The small room reflects Edmund in so many ways. His sense of order shows in the stacked documents on the desktop and the straight line of book spines on the small shelf in the corner. His meticulous awareness of details shines in the spotless window overlooking the production floor. Most of all, his scent permeates the small room, a blend of cedar and freshly picked oakmoss.
He doesn’t sit but merely leans against his desk, clearly conflicted between hearing me out or tending to the swing arm, whatever that is. Something flickers in his eyes. Something warm and almost sacred. “The years have been kind to you. You are as lovely as ever.”
The words wrap around me in an embrace I haven’t felt in years, and for one dizzying moment, Edmund Archer’s blue-eyed spell captures me again.
God, help me.
I lift my chin. “Thank you, but I did not come here seeking compliments. I had an appointment with you to discuss—”
“Which reminds me, one moment, please.” He reaches back and retrieves a small black leather book. Papers flip then he stops, running his finger halfway down a page. His face lifts to mine, a small frown marring his forehead. “As I suspected, I have no appointments until tomorrow at half past four, with the majority owner of the factory—”
His eyes widen, and he sets the diary back atop the other ledgers. “Ahh, so that is why you are here. Though I must confess I anticipated your late husband’s solicitor would manage the paperwork, not you.”
I shake my head, trying to order my thoughts as neatly as the contents on Edmund’s desk. “There must be some mistake. I was told you expected me the ninth of September, which is today, not the tenth, though it is a rather moot point now, I suppose. Nevertheless, I apologize for the confusion.”
“No need.” He shrugs. “You are likely not at fault. Communication is not the law profession’s strong point.”
A sharp rap on the door turns both of our heads.
“Pardon, Mr. Archer.” A muffled voice leaches through the frosted glass and grows louder as a stubble-haired man, work cap askew, pokes his head through the opening. “My apologies, sir, but ye did ask me to remind you, come Armageddon or not, about the shipment for Brussels. It’s needin’ yer sign-off down at the dock a’fore it can leave the gates—and it’s been waitin’ for ye nigh on an hour now.”
Edmund nods. “Hold off just a few minutes more. I shall be there shortly.”
“Aye, sir.”
The door barely closes before Edmund steps away from his desk and skirts around it to the back side. He pulls out a drawer and lifts a single sheet of parchment then pushes it across the tabletop toward me. “Forgive my haste, but duty calls. Your signature, if you please, then you and I may both be on our way.”
More paperwork? Is the entire business world nothing but pen and ink? I collect the document, and as I read the first few lines, my lips purse, unladylike yet altogether unstoppable. It is the same paper Mr. Barlow wanted me to sign—the one relinquishing my majority in this factory.
I snap my gaze to Edmund. “It appears you could not have spoken a truer word, for there has indeed been an enormous lack of communication. I am not here to sign away my husband’s portion of the business, but to manage it.”
A small smile ghosts his lips, as if I am the one playing a ludicrous prank instead of fate. “You cannot be serious. Simply write your name on that line and—”
“Pardon me, but this is no jest.” I stiffen my shoulders, emphasizing my point with stalwart posture. “Like it or not, I intend to act as the majority owner of Nottingham Lace and Hose.”
“You? A woman? Don’t be ridiculous.” A chuckle rumbles in his throat, and the longer I stare at him unmoved, the more his mirth fades, until eventually he plants his hands on his desk and dips his head. “Look, if this is about what happened between us all those years ago, believe me when I say I did what was best for you. Leave the past in the past. Sign the paper.”
Best for me? Leaving me brokenhearted and married to a man thrice my age who abused me in every possible manner? My throat closes with the unfairness of it all.
I rise, employing years of hard-learned grace and elegance from attending Miss Eleanor Brighton’s School for Young Ladies. Pinching the top of the paper with both forefingers and thumbs, I rip the document down the center then spear him with an arched brow. “Go tend to your business, and I shall be back in the morning to tend to mine. Good day, Mr. Archer.”
I drop the torn pieces on his desk and cross to the door.
“Bella, wait!”
Wait? For what? More conversation in which he tries to persuade me to give up my only chance at being a businesswoman?
I shoot him an evil eye over my shoulder. “You will not address me so informally, sir. I am Mrs. White. Your new partner.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Edmund
The door of my office slams, and I am alone with chaos and the fading sweetness of Bella’s honeysuckle scent. Both annoy me. I hate the idea of partnering with anyone, let alone a woman who has no idea of how to run a lacemaking factory.
“Bah!” I snatch up the ripped halves of the document that was to be my freedom, my future. My hope. The paper crumples in my hand, and I squeeze until my fist shakes. I will not go down without a fight. But by all that is holy, did it have to be Bella I must stand against?
Oh, Bella.
Unbidden memories—long ago buried—resurrect and pelt me like a burst of grapeshot. How small her hand had seemed the first time I entwined my fin
gers with hers. How sweet her laughter rang, clear and bubbly as a spring stream, when I swept her around the dance floor. How perfectly our bodies fitted together the night I’d kissed her lips.
I throw the wadded document hard against the wall and watch it drop to the floor; then I stalk out of my office, leaving it behind. Leaving it all behind. For now.
Like a member of the fire brigade, I sort through which blaze to put out first as I descend the steps. Should I help Garrety with the broken shaft in the winding room? Speed over to the dock and send that shipment on its way? Or deal with the knotted-up swing arm? Ignoring any of them will cut into earnings—and Nottingham Lace and Hose desperately needs to make a profit by Christmas, or the only gift I may give the workers is a termination notice.
Deciding on the swing arm, I shove open the door to the lacemaking floor. As I near machine number seven, its operator, a man in a lint-covered brown coat, steps out and blocks my way. A scar puckers the right side of his mouth, but that never stops Gramble from complaining. If anything, it empowers his right to rally against the unfairness of the world. God only knows what crime against justice he’s perceived in my management now.
“Mr. Archer, I—”
“Not now, Gramble.” I shove past him. “See me later in my office.”
Thankfully, the clack and clatter of the machines drown out any further protest from the man. At the back of seven, Franklin, the best foreman I’ve ever had, scowls at the busted swing arm.
“Your verdict?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s broken.”
“I can see that.” I pull off my coat and hand it to him then push up my sleeves. Swing arms are notorious for ripping or gouging. If I show up at home one more time with a ruined suit coat, Mrs. Harnuckle will have my head on a platter, and a freshly shined one, at that.
Stooping, I run my fingers along the thick piece of metal. Nothing snags. The knob of the bolt rises in just the right place. All appears to be—hold on. I stretch as far as possible and … there. Something is wedged near the gear shaft, knocking off the threads with each run. It is jagged on one end. The rest is hard, smooth, and the length of my thumb. An easy-enough fix, but dangerous.
Withdrawing, I face Franklin. “There is a foreign object off-ticking the thread. I’ll have to remove it. Toss my coat down, and on my mark, run the loom. Oh, and make sure you start the loom, not Gramble.”
Questions crease his brow. “But you would be risking your arm, sir.”
“Better my arm than hazarding an ill-met order.”
Franklin shakes his head and drops my coat. The fluff on the floor clings to it, and I imagine Mrs. Harnuckle’s bulldog glower as if she stands here witnessing the act.
Once Franklin positions himself near the lever that starts the machine, I jockey for a better position at the side closest to the offense. Timing is everything. Sweat moistens my palms, and I swipe them against my trousers. The single beat of a heart stands between freeing the machine’s arm or amputating mine. And this is what Bella wishes to take part in? Her delicate frame is not suited for such manual labour.
I shove in my arm, shoulder deep, and nod at Franklin. The beast groans. So do I. One flywheel hums into motion. Another does not. My fingers wrap around the lump, and I pull. The swing arm falls. I yank so hard that I stumble backward. The hem of my sleeve snags and tears, but not my flesh.
Thank You, God.
Franklin jams the lever into neutral and claps me on the back. “That were close, Mr. Archer. What is it?”
I open my hand, fingers shaking. The broken stem of a bone pipe rests on my palm. Rage lights a fire in my belly, and my gaze strays to a brown-coated malcontent leaning against the side of the machine. Stupid Gramble. There’s no way I can prove this is his pipe, but all the same, I know it is. If he’s been smoking inside the factory walls, one stray spark in this tinder house could kill us all. I ought to grab the slackard by the collar and drive home the fear of God and man.
But instead I wheel about and head for the door. I’ll accuse Gramble of reckless endangerment in private, when he seeks me out later. No doubt the snake will just lie—he always does. Were it not for his wife and nine children, most of whom work the floor along with him, I would kick his sorry backside to the gutter. The fine line between compassion and justice blurs. Am I doing anyone a favor by allowing him to remain employed when his careless antics might threaten the viability of the company?
Bella has no idea of the weight her slim shoulders will soon carry if she continues to go through with her mad scheme of comanagement.
I step out into sunshine and fresh September air. Across the yard, four harnessed Belgians stamp and snort, as anxious as the two men pacing the dock. Grinding my heels into the gravel, I make all haste, when a boy darts in front of me, stopping me short.
“Mr. Archer, sir?” He holds out a slip of paper. “For you.”
Fishing around in my pocket, I snag a coin and offer it in exchange. “Thank you.”
The boy speeds off as fast as he came, and I unfold a note with my name scrawled across the front. Inside, the familiar penmanship of my colleague and friendly competitor, Jack Humphrey, forms six devastating words.
Adams. Birkin. Old Dog and Partridge.
My shoulders sag. For the second time this day, I ball up paper and fling it to the ground. First Bella. Then Gramble and his pipe. Now this. On their own, my nemeses Thomas Adams and Richard Birkin are forces with which to be reckoned.
But if those two are devising grand schemes over at the Old Dog and Partridge, they could put me out of business.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bella
It is magical how a hot cup of tea on a brisk morning can calm the most savage of moods … and after a long night of railing against my bedsheets and yesterday’s scorn in Edmund’s voice, I am sorely in need of such tranquility. Not even my silly little game of planning for Christmas had lulled me to sleep.
Yet today is a new day. A fresh beginning. And as I tie on my bonnet and snatch up my reticule, the jingle of the second-chance coin smacking against the others is a reminder to provide Edmund another opportunity to accept me as his business associate. God’s mercies are new every morning. Perhaps Edmund’s attitude will be new as well now that he’s had a chance to befriend the idea.
“What time shall I expect you back, mum?” Betty stands near the front door, holding out a pair of gloves.
I shake my head at the offering. Is it not presumptuous to flaunt a competitor’s wares on my hands now that I own a lace company? “More than likely I will not return until well into the evening. The first of many late nights, I suspect. We shall both be heartily occupied over the next several weeks. You with redecorating”—I sweep my hand toward the drab walls of the vestibule—“and me with learning all there is to know of lacemaking. We will reconvene tonight and decide on curtains and wallpaper, hmm?”
“Yes, mum.” She reaches out a tentative hand toward my sleeve then pulls back before contact and ducks her chin. “God bless ye, Mrs. White, on yer first day at the factory.”
“Thank you, Betty.” A smile curves my lips. “I shall take all the blessings God has to give.”
Outside, the streets feel surprisingly like London. Loud. Crowded. Smelling of smoke and horse droppings. Though the sun has hardly rolled out of bed, hawkers already bark from behind their carts, selling everything from sausages to apples to tonics guaranteed to cure gout and lung vapors. I ignore them all and turn onto Bridge Street, then flatten against a stone wall as a troupe of blue-suited young boys march past, two by two, silent and grim faced and following a headmaster in a flowing black robe. Why are they not in school?
Ahh, perhaps a library is nearby. I should like that. Very much! The temptation to fall in behind the last boys and trail them entices for a moment, but I turn away, the brunt of business before pleasure lagging my steps.
As I near Nottingham Lace and Hose, my steps falter altogether. Since I took a carriage yesterday, I did
not notice the old building leaning against the factory. It is a carbuncle that ought to be removed before it topples and falls upon an unsuspecting pedestrian. The pile of blackened bricks has boards in place of windows, and above the door, an old shingle hangs by rusty chains. Mould collects in the corners and spreads over the sign like a cancer, nearly blotting out the remnants of lettering that reads OLDE LACE SHOP.
Yet none of that lifts gooseflesh quite as much as the living foundation shoring up the building. Women, five of them, sit with their backs to the crumbling walls, each dressed in varying degrees of rags, from threadbare wraps to naught but strings for shawls. None sport any colour. They are one with the dirt. The refuse. Tread upon by nature and man alike.
And every last one of them stare blankly into space, hands outstretched.
The milk I’d taken with my tea rises sour in my throat, compassion choking me. Why was I so blessed when these women clearly were not?
I yank open my reticule and, bending, give each woman a coin and an encouraging word. The last woman reaches out and grabs my sleeve.
“God bless ye, miss. Will ye stop by tomorrow?”
The hope trembling her words hits me square in the chest. Did no one else ever come this way? Ever open their purse or their heart to such desperation? I pat her hand. “Yes, I shall.”
She pulls back, and I stumble away, my own problems having been rightly whittled down to size. Even if Edmund doesn’t change his mind, managing a business with a belligerent co-owner is a trifling matter compared to the blind women shrouded in rags and despair.
This time when I enter the factory’s wrought-iron gates, I know where to go. And again, this time, I find Edmund’s office empty. Fumbling with my watch brooch, I frown at the glass face. Half past eight. He should be here. Then again, perhaps he is elsewhere on the grounds. How much time does he really spend in an office anyway?
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