Provocative in Pearls

by Madeline Hunter

  Once settled, they joined their hostess for light refreshment. Along with Colleen, they sat in a pleasant and feminine drawing room drinking punch and eating tiny cakes.

  “I am honored to have you as guests, Lord Hawkeswell, Lady Hawkeswell.” Mrs. Geraldson smiled indulgently at Verity. “Perhaps I can be forgiven for a lack of modesty if I claim some small part in your happiness. One never knows the power of a simple letter, and how it can initiate a serendipitous series of events.”

  “Hermione is referring to the letter of introduction that she gave the Thompsons when they came to London for their first extended visit,” Colleen explained when she saw Verity’s confusion. “Although I had known Mr. Thompson from when I visited here as a girl, her letter reintroduced us.”

  “You know my cousin?” Verity asked Mrs. Geraldson.

  “I should hope that I know any person of consequence near Birmingham.”

  She had known Verity’s father too, it turned out. She even had news about the ironworks.

  “Trouble is brewing there, it is said. Well, it is brewing everywhere these days, isn’t it? All these radicals and demonstrations. Lord Cleobury says there are secret revolutionary committees everywhere. One does not feel safe to go out in one’s carriage, for fear of assault by those who the natural order decreed should have only wagons and carts.”

  “Has there been actual violence?” Hawkeswell asked. “Have there been recent assaults such as you describe? We have heard nothing of this in London.”

  “It is only a matter of time, after what happened in Derbyshire last summer and Manchester in the spring. Mr. Albrighton is doing his best to keep an eye on things, but he is only one man.”

  “Albrighton?” Hawkeswell asked. “That would not be Jonathan Albrighton? If so, I did not realize he had property here, or that he was even back in England.”

  “That is indeed his name, Lord Hawkeswell. Do you know him? He received a legacy from a relative, and has taken residence in Losford Hall.”

  The revelation fascinated Hawkeswell. “I will go visit him tomorrow. It has been at least five years since we spoke.”

  “How has Mr. Albrighton been keeping an eye on matters?” Verity asked. “Does he warn men off? Send them out of the county?”

  “With so many counties bordering each other here, that would do little good. They could hop right back, couldn’t they? Lord Cleobury fears that the close county borders breed trouble all by themselves, and that rebellion will begin right here. He has brought cannon to his property. They are lined up on the terrace, in preparation for an attack.”

  “I doubt there will be open rebellion,” Hawkeswell said. “People are angry and restless; that is true. The end of the war has brought hardships. Most of the demonstrations express that discontent, not treasonous beliefs.”

  “I fear that you think too kindly and that Lord Cleobury is correct. They will never be satisfied until they have destroyed all that is good,” Colleen said. “A firm response is required. The army must be used, as it was with Brandreth and his rabble.”

  “If you had experienced that treason almost in your garden, Lord Hawkeswell, you would understand the concerns of decent people up here,” Mrs. Geraldson said.

  “People only want to be able to feed their families,” Verity said. “It is in everyone’s interest to help them do so.”

  Mrs. Geraldson was not accustomed to disagreement. “Your own family feels differently. Mr. Thompson has informed all his workers that if they participate in such seditious activity, they will be put out of his mill and out of their cottages. He did not hesitate to call up the yeomanry last winter when some men were talking trouble there.”

  “I cannot speak for my cousin. However, my father would have never forbidden men to speak their minds, to him or anyone else. We are a free people, are we not?”

  “Indeed we are,” Hawkeswell said. He saw a row coming. A change of subject was in order. “Tell me, Mrs. Geraldson, what news is there of my other relatives in these parts? I confess that I have never met some of my mother’s people. Are there many in the county?”

  “There are more in Derbyshire.”

  Talk moved on to a long report on cousins many times removed. While Hawkeswell distracted their hostess from talk about rebellions, he suspected that Verity worried about Mrs. Geraldson’s revelations about Bertram and the ironworks.

  The next morning, Verity dressed early in a carriage ensemble. She was breaking her fast when Hawkeswell entered the breakfast room. He eyed her garments, parasol, and reticule while he ate and chatted with Mrs. Geraldson.

  “Are you going somewhere?” he asked, when their hostess excused herself.

  She assumed a casual, airy tone and hoped that would help. “I intend to call for the carriage and visit Oldbury.”

  “Not on your own, you are not.”

  “You spoke of visiting Mr. Albrighton today, so I must go on my own. I will return by afternoon, and will take great care with my safety.”

  He got that look on his face. The one that said he was trying hard to be reasonable. Only his idea of being reasonable usually meant he expected her to agree with his reason, and relinquish her own, after he stated his opinion a few times.

  “Verity—”

  “It is why I am here. I will be unable to sit still, let alone play the part of a polite guest.” She lifted her parasol and reticule to emphasize her resolve.

  “Put those down. You are not going anywhere if I do not allow it. The coachman will never disobey me, even if you will.”

  “My home is mere miles away. Why allow me to come this far if you will deny me now?”

  “I am not denying you anything, except dangerous independence. This may not be Manchester, but you heard Mrs. Geraldson describe the mood abroad here. It is not safe.”

  She wanted to tell him that Joshua Thompson’s daughter would always be safe at the ironworks. Only she was not sure that was still true. She might not be seen as Joshua’s daughter, but as Bertram’s cousin and a peer’s wife.

  She set down her reticule. “I knew we would not suit.”

  His expression firmed and his gaze pierced her. “Do we not? No decent man would act differently. Would you prefer I proved indifferent to your safety?”

  No, she realized. She would find that disheartening. But she had lived independently for two years and did not like being forced by another to set aside her plans, either on a whim or for reasons fair. She did not like being expected to obey even if she disagreed with the command.

  “Perhaps it is not you and I that do not suit, but marriage and I,” she said. “I would be vexed by any husband’s interference.”

  “You will have to learn to live with that. Since we are married and I am your husband. Now, come here.”

  He was angry. An old, ugly fear spiraled through her, wanting to take hold. She scolded herself that to react thus was stupid. This man had never been cruel, or lost hold of his anger in her presence. Still, that visceral sensation from the past stirred, and she hesitated before she walked around the table to him.

  He pushed back his chair and patted his lap. “Sit.”

  She lowered herself until she perched on his lap.

  “Now kiss me the way you did the night I stayed with you, the way you did right after you screamed from pleasure into the night.”

  Her face burned. She glanced over her shoulder, to see if anyone might see.

  She was not even sure that she knew what he meant. She touched her lips to his, and as she did she remembered that kiss, so much the result of intense sensations crashing through her. She was not sure that she could kiss like that while sitting in a breakfast room.

  She tried, however. She met his mouth more boldly, and did what he did to her with her tongue and her teeth. Her body responded when he accepted and took and finally gave in return in a flurry of mutual, hungry kisses.

  She forced herself to stop, because the door might open at any moment. She wondered if she appeared as flushed and
aroused as she felt.

  “Now, ask me to accompany you to Oldbury today, so you will have protection and help if you find trouble.”

  She swallowed the prideful impulse to refuse. “I should very much like to go to Oldbury today. Will you take me there?”

  He bared his teeth slightly, and closed them gently on her finger. A brief, intense, feral heat entered his eyes. She could not look away. In his gaze she found the vivid memory of that night, of him moving so deeply into her body and of her going wild from the sensation of being filled so fully.

  He set her on her feet and stood. “I will call for the carriage, and see Albrighton another day if necessary.”

  “Thank you,” she said, too aroused for comfort.

  He lifted her chin and kissed her. “See? We suit very well, Verity.”

  It always surprised Hawkeswell that most industrial sites appeared very rustic. Almost agricultural. The ironworks a mile outside Oldbury, in an isolated, disconnected bit of Shropshire wholly circled by other counties, were no different.

  The buildings were made of brick and local stone. They sat on the property much as outbuildings did on farms, with trees and bushes, greenery, and even a few wildflowers scattered between them. In the distance, perhaps three hundred yards away, a stone house could be seen on a low hill, its side facing the works and its size indicating the owner or manager lived here.

  A community had grown up north of the works, with a good number of cottages. A broad stream ran along its edge, pouring toward the ironworks where a dam controlled its flow before it turned the big wheel of the tilting hammer.

  Home, Verity called this. He had not realized just what she meant. She had grown up in that house up there, with the furnace and forges all but in her garden. He pictured her running down the hill, to join the workers’ children in play.

  “Do you want to go to the house?” he asked. “The Thompsons had not yet left London when we departed, so I do not think they are here now. The housekeeper would let you in.”

  She gave the house a good look. “I do not need to go to the house. Nothing of him remains there for me. He is still here, however, in the forges and furnaces.” She pointed to the stream. “He drowned in that. It is hard to believe it became a rushing river that spring. He was helping the workers save their homes when he was swept away.”

  She strolled down the hard-packed dirt that served as the street. Every eye she passed followed her and the gentleman by her side. At the end, beyond most of the buildings, they came upon tracks set in the ground.

  “The iron is brought to the canal by special wagons that run on this track,” she explained. “It is not far. There are not many ironworks like this one. Everything is done here, from beginning to end. Raw ore comes in, and split rods and castings and wrought iron leave.”

  A more modest house, but still of good size, stood down here at the other end of the works. “That is Mr. Travis’s house. He will not be there now. He should be in the boring house.”

  He followed her while she retraced her steps to a low building with few windows. No one entered or left as they approached, and no smoke came from its chimney.

  Six men worked lathes inside, fitting thick iron rods on clamps and feeding them to the tool that ate their interiors. Work stopped when Verity entered. Suspicion and silence slowly gave way to shocked stares.

  “Mr. Travis,” an old man called. “The master’s daughter is here. She should be a ghost, but I don’t think she is.”

  A door opened, revealing yet another chamber, this one full of smaller lathes and a long table covered with bits of iron and steel. Mr. Travis peered through spectacles, then removed them and peered some more.

  He was a big man, with sandy hair going white, and a ruddy face as hard as the iron he worked. The smile that broke did much to soften it, however, and for a moment Hawkeswell thought the man would weep.

  “That can’t be Miss Thompson, Isaiah. That there is a lady born if ever I saw one. A fine lady who has lost her way, I think.”

  “It is truly I, Mr. Travis,” Verity said, playing along.

  Travis advanced on them, peering hard and frowning like a comic actor. He came very close and crouched down so he could look up under the rim of her hat. “I’ll be damned. So it is. The years have made the girl a woman, and the woman a lady at that.”

  Verity embraced him, then introduced Hawkeswell. “I would like to visit with you for a short while, if it will not interfere too much, Mr. Travis.”

  “No one here to say you can’t, so I take that to mean you can,” he said. “Best if you visit as long as you want and need, because when your cousin returns, he’ll not take kindly to another visit.”

  He led them to that other room and closed the door. Hawkeswell examined the bits and pieces of metal on the worktable, and the tools and lathes. This must be where the secret lived. Those other lathes used bits formed here by Mr. Travis, and the nature of the bit itself was probably the secret.

  “I wrote to you, Mr. Travis, to tell you that I was alive and well,” Verity said. “Did you not receive my letter?”

  “It came, and it gave me such joy and relief. It is an odd thing to grieve for someone, and later learn she is still alive. A most peculiar experience.”

  “So peculiar that you could not write back?”

  “Your cousin also learned that you still lived. He came down here, to forbid me to write back. Said he would let me go if I did, and the mill be damned. Said I would be responsible for all these people having no work. He will not be happy to learn we talked today.” He lifted two chairs off pegs high on the wall and set them down.

  Verity sat. Hawkeswell declined.

  “We have much to discuss while we have the opportunity, Mr. Travis. Before we talk of the business, I need to ask you where Katy is. I wrote to her as well, as soon as—” She glanced to Hawkeswell. “As soon as I felt able, but sent it through the vicar, who I now learn has left.”

  “Left he did. Lost the situation. The man with the living put a relative of Mrs. Thompson in his place. Mr. Thompson believed the last vicar had used the pulpit to foment discord. That means he often spoke of your father with more praise than he used in speaking of the current occupant of the big house.”

  “And Katy?”

  “She is nearby, just not right here. She lives on the parish’s charity now, in a cottage not far from the canal.”

  They moved on to talk of the mill itself. Hawkeswell listened, but he also studied all those bits of iron and machines that Travis used in here.

  Travis described the trouble last winter, which he thought Bertram handled in the worst way, and the general discontent of the workers on account of a decrease in wages now that the war was over and cannon and muskets were not needed.

  Verity took her leave of Mr. Travis with promises to return very soon. Once outside she expressed her concern. “I always suspected that Bertram had not filled my father’s place well. He forbade me to come down here once he became my guardian, and it has been years since I spoke to Mr. Travis alone. He has much more to tell me, I am sure.”

  “You mean, tell you when I am not with you.”

  “It is no insult to you. He does not know you, or where your mind is on all of this.”

  “He is not sure that I am not in collusion with Bertram, is what you mean.” He could hardly blame Mr. Travis, when Verity also was not convinced of that.

  “You are an earl. He will not speak freely in front of you, whatever he thinks of your involvement with Bertram. The House of Lords has hardly been sympathetic to such as these people.” She strode down the lane with purpose. “Now, I must find Katy.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The cottage near the canal lock proved to be a hovel of stone and old thatch. A kitchen garden grew in the rocky soil surrounding it, and only shutters would hold out the elements or cold.

  Verity’s heart broke when she saw it. She wanted desperately to see Katy again, but she almost hoped they had been directed
to the wrong place.

  Hawkeswell stepped out of the carriage. She handed him the basket of food that she had bought in Oldbury.

  He handed her down in turn. “I will wait here,” he said.

  She had been debating how to ask that of him. It touched her that he understood how she would want time alone with Katy. Not only were there things to discuss that she did not want Hawkeswell to hear, but there were emotions that required privacy too.

  “It may be some time. Do you want to take the carriage and come back?”

  “I will walk down to the lock and watch the show for a while. If I decide to take the carriage, I will let you know.”

  She carried the basket to the door of the cottage. Her knock caused movements within; then footsteps approached on a wooden floor. The door opened to reveal Katy, thinner now, and her hair whiter than it had been, but still sturdy and unbowed.

  She frowned at the fine bonnet and dress in front of her, and angled her head to see the carriage beyond her little garden.

  “It is I, Katy. It is Verity.”

  Katy gripped the threshold, stepped outside, and peered hard at Verity’s face. Recognition entered her eyes, along with tears. She pulled Verity into an embrace so encompassing, so warm, so familiar, that Verity wept too.

  “My child,” Katy cried softly. “My dear child.”

  Was that your husband out there?” Katy asked. She had insisted Verity take the one chair and she sat on a stool not far away. “He is a handsome man.”

  “He is at that.” Too handsome, perhaps. It had been her undoing, and continued to be. Combined with his station it made him very sure of himself, which made her a little less sure of herself in turn. “He can be very kind,” she added, because she did not want Katy worrying about her. He could be very kind. “He brought me here so I could find you and let you know that I was alive and well.”