by Rue Allyn
“Very, mostly because the letters are so contradictory. I have messages from industry barons, their managers, bankers, insurance agents, even the mayor protesting your appointment as manager.”
“Do they know the appointment is temporary?”
He took her hands. “Let me finish.”
“Very well.”
Pain and insult urged her to scream invectives and break heads. However, she refused to lower herself to her grandfather’s temperamental sort of tyranny. Just look what harm she’d done herself when temper overtook her after Vincent Damato proposed. She took her hands from James, stood, and walked to the window.
“I also have letters from parish priests, society leaders, medical doctors and a few dictated by mill workers who cannot write. All of them are cautiously praiseworthy of your actions as manager. Almost all of those letters are framed with warnings that despite your skill at the job, your femininity will eventually work against you and may even cause trouble. So regardless of praise, they urge me to replace you as manager with all possible speed.”
From the day she arrived at the manse, she’d been hiding from the harsh truth of how the world treated women. She’d come so far from the coward she’d been. She’d finally begun to earn her independence and right the wrongs done to the mill workers. She’d made so much progress only to be slapped down. Much as she might wish to, she couldn’t blame James. He would only remove her from the job if he believed it best for everyone. And if he did, what would she do then? Was there any recourse, any way to keep her sisters from starving, to stop the mill from closing? Yes, she could marry, but did she really have to make that sacrifice?
“What do you think of these letters?” she finally asked.
“I think, unfortunate as it may be to deny a good manager an opportunity to prove herself, the letter writers are correct. I worry for your safety.”
She had to smile. Count on James to think her safety worth more than her autonomy. Perhaps her news would change his mind or at least gain her more time as manager.
“I came today in the role of manager to inform you of the assistants I wish to hire and request you invest in more equipment for the mill.”
“Mae, we’ve had this discussion.”
“Yes, I know about the devaluation of the equipment if the estate assets are liquidated. However, I am certain you would not like the estate to be sued by injured workers. I’ll remind you that if I marry, the assets will not be sold, but workers may still sue.”
His brows met. “Why would they do that? Have you been encouraging them?”
“No, I have not, but I haven’t discouraged them, either.”
“Then how has this potential for a suit come about?”
“Now that we have the dispensary, we have a much better idea of how many workers are injured, how often and what equipment causes the injuries. Dr. Kerry’s been keeping very good records.”
“That’s thoughtful of Kerry, but what has this to do with lawsuits?”
“Cressida’s been helping Hugh, and she was appalled by the number and severity of injuries. She began to explain to some of the women that they should be compensated for working in a dangerous environment, and—”
“I have Miss Damato to blame for this?”
“No. You have bad equipment to blame.”
“Hmm. I suppose your argument is that new, safer equipment will be cheaper than a lawsuit regardless of who wins.”
She nodded. “I knew you would understand. But you won’t help.”
“I can’t help, Mae,” he stressed.
“Would my marriage make a difference?” She glanced upward. She had wished, still wished, she wouldn’t have to marry, but she couldn’t endure the suffering she’d seen in the mill. Suffering she knew her family to be responsible for.
“Perhaps. Any orders you gave would be taken as coming from your husband. Does this mean you are reconsidering my proposal?”
She leveled her gaze at James. With a small sigh, she tried to shrug off the loss of her dreams. “Evidently the only way to quiet the objections is to let my grandfather win.”
She felt his hands on her shoulders. “He wouldn’t really win, Mae.”
She turned. Tears trembled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “Yes. He will. If I marry, he will have denied my sisters their inheritance unless I find a husband generous enough to give up two thirds of a fortune to them. I will be under the thumb of some man. Marriage will trap me in servitude to my husband. While I doubt any man I willingly choose to wed will be as cruel as Grandfather, no man with any self-respect will wish to have his wife managing him or his business.”
“With most men this is true. However, with the right man, marriage can be more partnership than servitude. You can have some control over your future.”
What James was saying couldn’t be true. Women had no power, no legal authority. Her marriage would mean the destruction of every inch of progress she’d made, for herself, her sisters and the mill workers. Weary to her bones with the stress of solving the problems created by that horrid will, she leaned her head on James’s shoulder. “How?”
His arm circled her waist, drawing her close, offering comfort which she gladly accepted.
“The will dictates most of the terms of any marriage settlement. Those terms give everything to your firstborn child in trust, with the child’s father as trustee. While you can’t change your grandfather’s will, you can add your own terms to the settlement. You can, before you marry, have your future husband agree to allow you specific freedoms, to provide you with funds from the trust, to give a portion of the trust to your sisters, should you wish it.”
“You mean I could make managing the mill a condition of my marriage?” She chewed on her lower lip.
“Precisely.”
“What of the school?” She lifted her face, staring into his beautiful hazel eyes. She studied his earnest expression, the lift of his lips, the flex of his cheek. She debated whether to wait for him to finish speaking then let him kiss her, or to take passion into her own hands and kiss him now.
“Include funding and overseeing the school and any other charitable endeavors, if you like.”
“You actually think some man will agree to all that?”
“Probably. If properly worded, I would give it careful consideration. The Alden estate is excessively large. What you need for charity would not amount to a tenth of the interest on the stock investments alone.”
“Yet you refuse to use more than a pittance while executing the will?” She accused quietly.
His tone was equally soft. “As executor, my choices are more limited than a husband’s would be.”
Could she do it? Could she marry for the sake of the mill-workers? Risk her independence and any chance of love to wed for personal gain? She need not make that decision right at this moment. She could delay a few more days and perhaps steal enough passion to last through a lonely lifetime of convenient marriage. “Maintaining the income from the interest would require careful management of the trust.”
“Which means you must choose your husband wisely, if you decide to marry.”
Heat surged upward from where her body rested against him. She inhaled the heady, mellow scent of sandalwood cologne and James, letting the warmth of his arms soothe her tension, and resting her hip against his strong thigh. She sank into the moment like she had succumbed to his lovemaking not so long ago. The memory of that day in the school building, the passion they shared, shivered over her. She’d loved what he’d done, what he made her feel. So close, so needed and needy. She wanted it again and pressed closer. She knew she shouldn’t. She was taking tremendous liberties with James, with herself. But she’d taken liberties before, and the result had been glorious. If she must bind herself to some man, she would grab what solace she could while she had the chance.
“Would it be wise for me to choose you?” She leaned in closer still.
His palm cradled her cheek. Those long, slight
ly rough fingers twisted in her hair. Huskiness edged into his voice. “I don’t know about wise, but I know this is right.”
She lifted her lips to his in the sweetest kiss. Tender, adoring, it was everything she could want a kiss to be. It left her breathless. It left her wanting.
Her arms slid upward. Her hands loosened his tie and slipped beneath his collar to stroke the strong column of his throat.
He groaned and pressed her lips apart. “Open for me, Mae.”
She complied eagerly, licking at his lips, savoring his flavor as she savored the texture of his skin.
He tangled his tongue with hers, teaching her, pleasuring her, learning her.
“James,” she breathed.
“Mmmm?”
“Love me. Make love to me.”
“Mae. God, Mae I want to, so very much. Marry me?”
With James her future could have passion. Could it have love as well, or would her reasons for marrying prevent love?
“Yes, James. I’ll marry you.”
He pressed her back into the cushions, then knelt before her.
Joy rose in her body as he touched her through her clothing, opened her bodice to lick and suck her breasts, lifted her skirts to stroke beneath her petticoats.
He tortured her with sensation, with the feel, scent, taste and sound of passion. He tantalized her with feints that made her plead for firmer, harder, faster.
When he lifted her legs over his shoulders and rose above her, poised to take her, he paused at the brink. An aching madness curled in her belly and raced along her nerves until she could stand waiting no more. She gripped the edge of the cushions, digging in with her hands, then rising on her elbows, she lifted her body to impale herself on him. Only then, only when she was out of her mind with need did he begin to move, to slake her body’s thirst for him and build a deeper hunger until she cried out his name as he shouted hers. He alone held her. She alone embraced him. Nothing, not the room, the world, time or space existed.
Sometime later she became aware of his weight on her, of the pleasant soreness between her thighs, of the languorous heat that cooled as her heartbeat slowed.
“Are you all right, Mae? Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head, unable to speak, not wanting words to bring an end to this one day’s loving.
His hand touched her cheek. “Mae? Look at me.”
She turned her eyes on his dear face—concern filled his gaze. She was certain in that moment that she loved him, equally sure the choice she made would break her heart, because she’d made it for the wrong reasons. She agreed to marry him for profit and the sake of others, not for the love she wished they could have.
No man, not even James could love a woman who used him, married him for personal gain. She would trade her hand in marriage for the financial security of her family and the well being of the mill workers. But she vowed never to tell him she loved him, never to let him think she sold her love to him. In one final act of cowardice and self-protection, she would hide that love. Bury it deep in her soul, and maybe, just maybe, she could bury the sorrow deep enough that from time to time she would forget it existed.
“You look troubled, my love. Have you changed your mind?”
She smiled at him. He’d called her his love—just a name, just a phrase, but the sound played an ecstatic counterpoint to the vow she’d just made. “No, I have not changed my mind. As long as you wish it, I’ll be your wife.”
He stood, straightened his clothing, then helped her up and assisted her to restore her appearance. “I’ll send the announcement to the papers tomorrow, then arrange with Lydia to have you meet my family as my fiancée this coming Sunday.”
Securing the last hairpin in place, she turned to him. “Are you certain this is what you want, James? I will gain a great deal by this marriage.”
He leaned in, swiping his lips across her cheek. “I am certain, and biased as I am, I feel you have made a very wise decision.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Having overslept, Mae did not set out for Alden Cloth Works until well past nine the next morning. Accepting James’s proposal was agonizing. She would do everything in her power to make him happy, but would it be enough?
The subject troubled her so much, she merely nodded at Alvin’s announcement that Jenks failed to appear. She still gnawed on her decision to wed when the carriage slowed, eventually coming to a complete halt. Nor did the rising volume of noise register even then, since the street near the Charles River was normally filled with sound—machines, people, wagons and such.
“I’ll get out and see what’s causing the delay,” said Alvin. He looked out the window anxiously, then slowly opened the door. “Shame that Jenks has proven to be so unreliable.”
“I’m certain Mr. Collins will find a suitable replacement. Meanwhile, you are doing an excellent job. I am confident you will continue to keep me safe.” She bent to the papers she was reading.
“I’m only one man, miss.” Alvin swung out the door and conversed with the coachman. In moments, her guard was back in his seat with the door once again secured.
“There’s some sort of disturbance up ahead. Something blocking the road. Coachman says it looks like a barricade in front of the cloth mill.”
Mae jerked her head up. “Is he certain?” She stowed the papers in her handbag as she spoke.
“Fairly.”
“Then I’ll walk.”
“I don’t recommend that, miss. The street’s crowded with workers. Most of them look pretty angry.”
“Then someone must see to the cause. Since the Alden manufactory seems to be the center of the disturbance, I am responsible.”
“I doubt you’ll get more than two steps beyond this carriage without being accosted.”
“But I’ll have your escort.”
“As I said, I’m only one man.”
“I see your point.” Thinking hard, Mae sat back and stared out the window at the intersection. “Could you get me as far as the cross street?”
Alvin looked out the window. “Probably. But what good would that do?”
“The alley behind that building on the corner ends at the wall of the manufactory yard. If we can get down to the alley, we can walk to the wall. Once there, you can boost me up, and I can drop down on the other side.”
“But I won’t be able to follow you.”
“True. However, I think the risk is worth it.”
“Mr. Collins will fire me.”
“I shall rehire you.” She didn’t hesitate or even argue with herself as she gathered her things before exiting the coach. The risk was necessary. “We’ll send the coachman for Mr. Collins, if that will make you feel better. Once I’m inside the yard, you may make your way through the crowd to the front entrance of the mill to join me that way.”
“That’ll take time.”
“I promise to be most careful until you are once more with me.”
“I don’t like it, miss.”
“Then I’ll do it without you. I’ll find some means of getting over that wall.”
She had the door open and was descending to the street before Alvin could object further.
“I’ll not let you go alone.” He got down from the carriage, spoke briefly with the coachman, then turned to Mae. “Pull your hat down, follow me and keep close.”
People around them were streaming in the direction of the blockade and the noise increased to a dull roar.
“Riot…”
“…wage demands…”
“Won’t work for no woman…”
“Ain’t right … not to get help when we’re injured at work.”
“Take matters into our own hands…”
By the time Mae and Alvin turned into the alley, she had a fair idea that workers from other businesses along the Charles had gathered at Alden Cloth Works to protest her wage policies. They were angry that she raised the wages of women to match those of the male employees, angry that no other employer was providing
a dispensary, angry about a huge list of wrongs. How could she pacify so many demands from so many men who didn’t even work for her?
Getting over the wall was a struggle. Her black bombazine suffered dirt and some small tears, but by the time she dropped to the ground on the other side, she had a plan. Even the mill yard was crammed with people—men and women all shouting at each other. All it would take would be one fist thrown, one jostle too hard, and the riot would be full-blown. Keeping to the edge of the crowd, she wove her way to the spinning room at the front of the production building. There she found Mrs. Mackenzie and ten other women blocking the entrance. “Ye’ll not come in here and break these new machines,” Mae’s assistant shouted at a group of men armed with clubs.
“Get out o’ the way, woman. Jerry, drag that besom out o’ there.” The speaker pointed his club at a woman beside Mrs. MacKenzie.
“Drag ’er y’er own self, Tom. She’s yer wife.”
Snickers stuttered through the crowd.
“Ye’ll not touch me nor any woman here, if ye value ye’re head.” Mrs. MacKenzie raised a large stick.
“Stop!” Mae rushed between the two.
The men took a step back. She doubted they’d heard her. Most likely it was her sudden appearance that had startled them away.
“It’s the Alden woman,” shouted a vaguely familiar voice.
The women surged forward to flank her.
The men retreated another step.
“Are y’ feared o’ a bunch o’ skirts!” cried that same voice from the thick of the men. With every word, the speaker sounded more and more like Jenks. “Give ’em what they deserve.”
“Are you afraid to talk like sane human beings?” Mae stepped forward. The women stepped with her.
The man, Tom, stood his ground. “I’m not afraid ’o nothing,’ but talkin’s allus better n’ bashin’ heads.”
“Then name your representative. The rest of you clear the yard and tell those who don’t work at Alden Cloth Works to go home or to their own jobs and negotiate peaceably with their employers.”
Tom twisted toward the crowd. “Aye boys, clear away.”