by Alix James
“I am afraid not,” Mr. Darcy answered. “I will return to my own lodgings and meet you again later this afternoon. Good day, Mr. Gardiner.” He bowed formally to Jane, but when he came to me, he simply drew a stifled breath, dipped his head and walked away.
“Oh! Do not mind Darcy,” Mr. Bingley laughed. “Always a hundred affairs on his mind. I have no doubt we shall see him again in a few hours, and probably in a better mood after he has sent off a dozen letters of business he must have been fretting over. Jane, my dear, if it does not trouble you greatly, I thought I would remain here and see what can be done.”
We each took one of my uncle’s arms as he escorted us to the carriage—Jane gazing longingly over her shoulder at Mr. Bingley, and myself looking straight ahead at the retreating back of the man marching briskly up the street.
4
I crossed my arms. “No, not at all. Not in the slightest bit.”
Jane stared at me. “You cannot be serious. You must have liked Mr. Darcy at least a little. Why, Mr. Bingley speaks so highly of him! He is reported to be most generous and kind. And he is handsome, which you always said a young man ought to be if he can help it.”
“And wealthy, which I understand he is, but I do not suppose that is his fault. What I object to is his demeanor. From the moment he set eyes on me, he was staring down his nose at me. You must have seen that!”
Jane tilted her head. “He was staring at you, to be sure, but I did not think he did so in displeasure. Are you certain he disliked you?”
“Absolutely. It was as plain as that chimney on Mr. Bingley’s factory. By the by, what did you think of it?”
“The factory? Oh, Lizzy, you know I never had a head for any of that. I think it fine and even admirable that Charles takes care to be a fair master and tries to hire honest men. Do you know that he supplies his workers with the best mid-day meal of any master in Birmingham? I was pleased to hear that. I suppose that is my only interest in his factory, that it is his and he takes pride in his family’s work. But what did you think?”
I shifted on the bed and cast my eyes up in thought. “The operation appeared efficient enough, although I think if he rearranged a few of the machines, he could still position his belts for proper drive and take better advantage of his floor space. All the equipment appears well-maintained, save for the fact that his boiler is old, but I suppose you saw that. There seemed to be a deal too much steam being put out in proportion to coal smoke—I mean, in comparison to other factories in town. And I do not quite understand why the room was not lighter. More windows would be in order.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “I asked for your feelings, not a technical analysis of the factory.”
I frowned. “I do not understand. I told you my feelings.”
“You did not. You are being blunt again, Lizzy, and Mama would scold you if she heard you speaking so. Were you impressed? Surprised? Disappointed in anything?”
“The only thing I am disappointed in is that Mr. Darcy came to collect Uncle Gardiner for the afternoon before we could discuss anything. I certainly cannot speak openly with our uncle in his hearing, so I shall have to wait until tonight.”
“Tomorrow, rather. Mr. Bingley has agreed to keep the steam engine running after his workers go home today. That way, Uncle can investigate each of the machines without disrupting the work.”
“Convenient,” I mumbled distractedly. “And so are the particular garments I packed for just such an occasion.”
I did not tell my uncle my plan, which was well, for he would have stopped me. Jane protested, as she usually did whenever I took an idea into my head, but I promised her I would be discreet. She eventually gave up, but only because she knew it was no use arguing.
It was not difficult to dress myself in the boyish clothing I had brought. The main trouble was escaping the watchful eye of Mildred, the maid who had accompanied us, and sneaking out the door without being spoken to. Once in the darkened streets, I looked identical to a hundred other lads in similar attire.
I slipped into the rear gate at Mr. Bingley’s factory. There was a yard behind the building where carts and barrels and crates were lined up neatly for the next day’s work. A mountain of new shells stood at one end and bits that could not be used were piled at the opposite corner, ready to be carted away. I pushed at the back door, and fortunately, it was not locked.
Mr. Bingley’s foreman was not twenty paces away, just closing the iron door on the furnace. A few workers would have remained behind to keep the engine running, and I had hoped to disappear among them, but I could not do so if he saw me first. I flattened myself against the back wall, my heart racing until the man hung his shovel and left.
It was easy to determine where my uncle and Mr. Bingley were, for only the machines they examined at any particular moment would be running. Everything else stood cold and silent, waiting for its belt drive to be engaged. Just then, I could hear that they were in the main room, so I went the other way—dipping my fingers in a well of grease as I passed by to smear it on my cheek, in case anyone saw me.
It was a puzzle. Why would all the machines my uncle’s business had sold to Mr. Bingley be malfunctioning? They appeared sound at first glance. One would think if the problem were so glaring, the experienced foreman would have understood the issue at once. But no—not even Uncle Gardiner, who had sold and repaired hundreds of similar machines, could see the problem yet.
I needed to touch one, to spin the shaft by hand and watch the gears slowly nesting together, to feel the rotation and balance with my own fingers. Perhaps they had all got too cold in shipping and the metal warped ever so slightly. Perhaps Mr. Bingley’s men were incompetent.
I reached the lathe and smoothed my hand over the main wheel. This was the one Phipps had said was the worst. Scarcely had the shaft moved when a voice barked behind me.
“Who goes there?”
I cringed, shrinking down inside the ill-fitting boy’s jacket. Dear heavens, it was Mr. Darcy’s voice. What in criminy was he doing here? He should have been in the next room, hovering over Mr. Bingley!
“Is this your workstation? What can you tell me of this machine?”
I hunched my shoulders up to my ears and jerked my cap down over my eyes. Thank goodness the room was poorly lit. “Dunno,” I grunted in my best Northern brogue.
“What is your usual station? Turn round, boy,” he commanded.
I wanted to bolt, but with those long legs of his, he would only catch me. Staring at my feet, I slowly inched each flat-soled shoe about until I was facing him, but I kept my cap low over my eyes.
“You have no cause for fear. Look at me, lad, for I wish to speak with you.”
No cause for fear. If only he knew! But he could not—could never know, and nor could anyone else. I continued staring at my feet, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Come, now,” he sighed in exasperation. “Did I not say you have no cause for silence?” He came closer, each step causing my heart to jump.
I tried squeezing my eyes closed and even started to back away, but I only pressed into the lathe.
“You are not causing mischief, are you?” Mr. Darcy’s steps came nearer. “Not one of those machine breakers? Come here—”
He caught my wrist and forced my hand back until I had to turn my body to keep him from hurting my elbow. Still, I lowered my face away and refused to speak, knowing that my true voice would ruin me.
“What is your business here? An honest lad would have spoken by now! I shall have you up before Mr. Bingley.”
He gave my arm a twist—not hard enough to cause much pain, but certainly enough to control my actions, for I could not break away. I gasped in panic as I felt him starting to walk with me… and then he froze.
He spun me around and I looked directly into his eyes for half a heartbeat. His brows lowered, he leaned down…
And then I coughed.
He released me entirely then, and I continued my coughing fit with my face bu
ried into my forearm. I bent over, watching for the moment when he would step just to the left—and when I saw my opening, I ran.
5
“What I do not understand is why we did not have this problem a month ago,” Mr. Bingley huffed in frustration. “Phipps tells me it came on all at once.”
“Had you brought on a new engineer?” Uncle Gardiner wondered. “Are you using a different grease? New belt, perhaps?”
“I asked those questions, but no.” Mr. Bingley drew another sip of his tea, his brow furrowed in thought. “What do you think, Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy had been silent throughout the morning meal. I thought it odd, and dreadfully unnerving, when he announced for no reason that he was changing his lodgings to the same inn where we stayed. It was now our third morning in Birmingham, and so far, I had almost entirely managed to avoid speaking directly to the man.
He had not confronted me about that night at the factory, and I had begun to breathe more easily. He had not recognized me. Truly, I did not know how he could have, for the light had been weak at the end of the day, and even Jane had said how very like a boy I looked. And what lady would smudge her cheek with grease? No, I was safe.
Mr. Darcy set aside his fork. “I have one or two suppositions I should like to test, but to do so, I must have access to your equipment after hours again.”
“Of course, of course.” Mr. Bingley nodded with enthusiasm. “Just so. I knew you would bring that sketch book of yours.”
“It is not a sketch book,” Mr. Darcy patiently explained. “They are mathematical formulae. I must know the horsepower, the belt velocity, and the coefficient of friction.”
Mr. Bingley cocked a good-natured grin at Uncle Gardiner. “Did you understand what he said?”
Uncle Gardiner laughed. “Not a word. I am afraid I do my mathematics on my toes and fingers.”
“I have only twenty of those,” Mr. Darcy answered dryly. “However did you design your machinery without using even basic algebraic formulae?”
“I, like others in my family, am a repairist at heart, not a designer. I hired smarter men than myself. What of you, sir? You strike me as just such a fellow. Have you stacks of schematics and calculations in your home study? As a leisure pursuit, of course.”
Mr. Darcy toyed with his cup and, for some reason, cast a curious glance at me before he spoke. “I have not the leisure you must think. My duties are many; to my estate and to my family. I am happy to help Bingley if I can, but I am no expert; only an enthusiastic amateur.”
“We are all on equal footing in that regard. I am afraid, Mr. Bingley, that if we cannot discover the solution between ourselves, I shall have to send some of my men to you. I had hoped this might be a simpler problem.”
“So had I,” Mr. Bingley sighed. “But, my dear Miss Bennet—” he reached across the table to take Jane’s hand. “I am so delighted that you did have the chance to see the factory this once. I fear this tour shall be a disappointment in all respects but that one. Shall you wish to return home soon?”
Jane made the most noncommittal answer I could imagine—declaring her pleasure at being wherever he was, or some nonsense of the sort. I scarcely paid her any mind, because Mr. Darcy’s finger caught my attention. He was tracing out some imaginary shape on the table, his brow clouded with thought. I could not follow just what he seemed to be drawing, but his index finger described a repeating arc, forward and back in an elliptical motion, and then embellishing some invisible detail.
A fine line appeared between his eyes—brown eyes; the deepest, most liquid brown I had ever known. But naturally, I was not noticing his eyes. Hardly ever. Especially not when they flashed up to me and fixed there, the way they were doing just now. We both blinked and looked away.
“What was that, Bingley?” Mr. Darcy asked abruptly.
“I was saying that if we cannot determine the cause today, or perhaps tomorrow, we ought to go back to London. I would not waste any more of Mr. Gardiner’s time, and the ladies are surely eager to return to their shopping.”
Mr. Darcy glanced at me again. “That is sound reasoning, but my calculations may take more than just this evening. Perhaps we might all apply our heads to the enterprise and see what comes of it.”
“I am willing,” my uncle declared. “Very well, then, the three of us shall spend the whole of the evening—”
“I would not wish to leave the ladies to themselves yet again,” Mr. Bingley protested. “Are you certain I can be of use, Darcy?”
“All who are willing,” Mr. Darcy insisted. Then he looked pointedly at me and held my gaze long enough for my cheeks to heat and my stomach to perform a somersault. “Miss Bennet—” he turned sharply to Jane—“would you object to passing an hour or two in such a way? I am certain Mr. Bingley would see to your comforts.”
The couple flushed, and the way they looked at each other made me wonder precisely how many dark corners they might find in his factory. Both agreed breathlessly, and my uncle submitted with only mild reservation writ over his face.
Mr. Darcy returned his gaze to me. “Excellent. I trust you will manage tolerably well, Miss Elizabeth. I hope you do not mind a bit of grease.”
I swallowed the knot that had formed in my throat and jerked up my chin. “No more than you do, I am sure.”
His lips tugged sideways, revealing a rather fetching dimple. “We shall see, Miss Elizabeth.”
6
“Why on earth would Mr. Darcy wish for us to come to the factory with the gentlemen later this evening?” Jane drew her cape up a little higher upon her cheeks as we set out on the street, with Mildred following close behind. We were bound for a local milliner of whom our uncle had heard high praise, and Jane was determined to complete her trousseau, whether in Birmingham or London.
“It sounded as if he only wished to please Mr. Bingley,” I lied, not looking at my sister as we walked.
“But that makes no sense. Why not permit Mr. Bingley to remain at the inn with us and have Mr. Phipps at hand this evening to help determine the problem? We would remain in the public rooms, and Mildred would provide ample chaperonage.”
“You are asking me to interpret the words and motives of a man I understand no better than you. How should I know? Perhaps he is a peculiarly modern-thinking fellow and believes we might contribute something helpful—which I find difficult to believe. Perhaps it is the opposite, and he simply desires that we be closely attended by our uncle. Or, perhaps…”
“Perhaps what?”
I did not like the sudden turn of my thoughts, but the last notion made more sense than the others. Why would Mr. Darcy nearly insist upon our company in such an environ? If word reached Meryton—or worse, Mr. Bingley’s fashionable friends in London—that Jane had not merely taken a properly chaperoned tour of her betrothed’s factory but had dawdled there, after hours with men at work… why, her credibility and reputation would be in tatters! Mr. Bingley would not turn from her, I did not think, and she would be safely wed to him at the end of the month, but those in his sphere would scorn her.
Would Mr. Bingley’s friend truly place a lady in such a position, willfully damaging her future? Miss Bingley seemed to think the gentleman would not be in favor of the marriage, and he would not be the first to retaliate in spite for his disappointed plans. It was not impossible…
“Lizzy, whatever are you thinking? You have that fearful look on your face again—the one you get whenever you have an idea. Good heavens, you give me gooseflesh every time you look that way.”
“Why would that be so terrifying?”
“Because something dreadful always follows. Do you remember the time you put that steam valve you got from Uncle on Mrs. Hill’s poor little tea kettle? You burst it, and shattered the nearest window, too, when the top popped off. It was a good thing Mrs. Hill had just stepped away from the stove to sweep up, or she would have been terribly burned.”
“I was twelve,” I protested. “Do you not think I am more judicious
at twenty?”
Jane thinned her lips and gave me her beast deadpan expression. “Lizzy, what are you thinking? Tell me now before someone is hurt.”
“Nothing! But Jane—” I stopped her with my hand on her sleeve, waiting until the passers-by had ebbed and Mildred turned away. “Will you promise me not to do anything… impulsive?”
“Me!” Jane sputtered in laughter. “Promise you that I will do nothing impulsive? Hah, that is like Mama promising Papa that she will not buy too many books. Was I not just warning you to exercise caution, and now you ask it of me?”
“I am not the one happily betrothed to a wealthy man of status, and about to enter a factory building with him after dark. I would not see you… compromise your future. There, that is the best I can say it.”
Jane smiled patronizingly and petted my hand, as if I were a small child. “Lizzy, rather than worrying about me, you ought to be concerning yourself with Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Darcy?” A passing voice echoed. “Did you say Fitzwilliam Darcy?”
We turned and discovered a tall, terribly dashing-looking militia officer coming back to speak to us. “We did,” I answered, “but do not suppose the gentleman is anything to us.”
“Forgive me for eavesdropping.” He swept his hat off and offered us a perfect bow. “Lieutenant George Wickham, at your service.”
“Elizabeth Bennet,” I answered with a curtsy. “And this is my elder sister Jane Bennet.”
He bowed again and replaced his hat. “Delighted to meet you both. May I infer from your manner and speech that you do not hail from these parts?”
“We are from Longbourn, in Hertfordshire,” Jane replied. “We are in the company of my uncle, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Bingley, my betrothed, as the gentlemen investigate machinery problems with his button factory.”