by Robyn DeHart
“Good day, Mr. Munden,” she replied. She tried to keep her voice civil, yet laced with an air of authority. She’d rather not involve him in the situation any further.
He nodded and eyed Ellen, who stood beside her. He almost allowed them to pass, but spoke up before Meg took a step. “Might I ask why you’re here, Miss Piddington?”
“My father has asked me to look in on things while he’s at home healing.”
Munden’s gaze narrowed in either annoyance or offense. “You think we’re not running things without him?”
“Oh no.” She did her best to placate him, though it grated her nerves to do so. She wasn’t quite ready to take her work at the factory so far as to goad a foreman into quitting. “Indeed, I’m certain you and the other foremen are doing a fine job managing the factory, Mr. Munden, but my father is eager for me to begin learning the business.”
That wasn’t precisely the way the conversation with her father had gone. Before he could question her further, she began moving toward the office. “I shall be here on a regular basis.” She pointed upstairs. “In my father’s office, should anyone need me.” And with that she stepped away from him and started up the stairs.
She nearly giggled as she closed the door behind her, but minding the windows lining the office wall that overlooked the factory floor, she restrained herself.
“He is the vilest of men, Ellen,” she said.
“He seemed as much,” her maid agreed.
It felt good though to take control of matters. If she were any sort of daughter at all, she would have done this years ago and learned this business at her father’s side.
Although it was quite likely that her father would have had none of that. He loved her dearly, but like all fathers, he wanted her to make a good match, marry, and produce children. But she couldn’t afford to do that. Marriage was not for her. Not that she didn’t want it. She wasn’t foolish enough to pretend she did not desire a husband and children.
Loving involved too much of a risk. A risk of heartache, a risk of loss, and she simply wasn’t strong enough. That had become all too clear to her when her mother had died. The pain had been so great, it had nearly consumed her. She’d learned quickly to swallow her pain and put on a smile for those around her. Especially for her papa.
So she squelched those desires, and on most days she managed just fine. On occasion, though, they’d creep out and threaten to choke her with their intensity. Today, however, was a good day, and the needs she couldn’t permanently forget were nicely hidden away.
Meg unpinned her hat and hung it on the coat tree by the office door, then took a seat behind her father’s large mahogany desk. It would be an hour or so before Gareth completed his shift. In the meantime, she would tidy her father’s desk and read a few things to better acquaint herself with any new business. As she took in her surroundings, an overwhelming sense of pride welled in her chest. Her father had come from modest beginnings and had built this factory to what it was today, the third largest confectionery in England. She would never be so accomplished or so determined, but she would strive to carry on his legacy.
Gareth had watched Meg walk into the factory and straight up to her father’s office. Again in one of those dresses that fit her body divinely. The cut of the jacket flaunted her tiny waist, and the bustle accentuated her rounded bottom. The fact that he actually knew her waist was tiny and her bottom rounded did not flee from his mind. Although he had only touched her a brief moment, while he hoisted her up to that window, neither his hands nor mind had forgotten.
It was enough to drive a man to Bedlam.
In a short time, he’d be alone with her. Caught in a situation he was still unsure how he’d wound up in. Rotten luck. Or maybe it was a family curse. His father had certainly had a lifetime of bad luck. Perhaps it made more sense to question how Gareth had managed to survive in London this long, even if he was slightly outside the bustling city, without encountering an even larger disaster.
So the fact that out of all the men working in this factory, he’d be the one accused shouldn’t have surprised him in the least.
He was tired of it. He’d be a bloody liar to say he wasn’t. People would believe what they wanted about a person regardless of the truth; he’d learned that long ago. Better to simply live life as quietly as possible in hopes of not being noticed at all.
Sometimes that plan even succeeded. Yet other times, as was the case with Mr. Munden, the plan failed miserably. It failed with Meg too. She had certainly noticed him, no thanks to his reckless behavior that initiated kisses.
He had not yet decided if it was a blessing or a curse to be caught in Meg’s attentions. A man would be a fool not to want attention from such a woman. Fool or not, he couldn’t afford the risk.
Meg’s attentions could lead to only one result. Marriage.
He’d long ago given up the accoutrements of a gentleman, but he still had a gentleman’s honor. Being a selfish bastard might come as first nature with him, but he need not given in. Surely he could be stronger—stronger than his damn father had been. He would not toy with her affections or her reputation, any more than he already had.
He would end that tonight. There would be no more kisses, or thoughts of kisses. Meg was an innocent, and if he wasn’t careful, he could hurt her in ways he didn’t know where to begin to salvage. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. She was helping him and he appreciated it. It was a gesture made from kindness, though, and he ought to remember that.
Gareth watched the men around him closing down for the day. They were working longer hours these last few weeks, trying to keep up with all the orders. The store in London was selling the goods as quickly as they opened their doors. It was good for all of them. There had even been whispers about a raise in the wage. But Gareth wouldn’t hold his breath on that one. He’d worked long enough to know that the Piddington employees had it good. Damn good. And they’d do well to keep their mouths shut and be thankful for their current pay and all the other benefits of their positions.
“You working late again tonight?” Jamie asked.
“I have to replace those stolen boxes.”
Jamie made a face. “Do you want me to stay and help you? I don’t know how, mind you, but I can learn anything.”
Gareth smiled at his unlikely friend. “No. You go home to your family.” Jamie smiled, and Gareth was struck by the youthfulness in his face. He was a good ten years Gareth’s senior, but he was the most contented, happy man that Gareth had ever seen. “Mary will have your hide if you’re late for supper.”
Jamie narrowed his eyes jokingly. “Are you certain you’ve never met my Mary?”
Gareth laughed. “No, I’ve never met her.”
“Is the lass helping you tonight? I saw her come in earlier.”
“Yes.”
“It will make the time move by quicker to have someone to chat with. If you get bored, you need only look up and see her smile.”
If only his friend knew that Meg’s smile could be his undoing. “You’re the worst sort of romantic, Jamie. Go home.”
Jamie pounded Gareth on the back. “See you tomorrow then.” He gave him a wink, then turned to go.
Gareth leaned against the far wall, partially hidden behind the shadow of a door. There was no reason for him to advertise the fact that he was staying behind. Especially since everyone else had seen Meg enter the factory. Surely everyone knew she had not yet left. It took only a few minutes longer for the rest of the men to file out of the factory, leaving Gareth alone.
With newfound determination to keep as much distance between himself and the beauty as he could, he made his way to the makeshift packaging room to begin work on the boxes. He saw no reason to go and retrieve her.
The room they were working in was going to be the office of the incoming staff. Men in cravats who wouldn’t have to get their hands and clothes dirty. Gareth wanted one of those positions, but so far he’d done a rotten job showing that.
If his father hadn’t wasted all their money, Gareth wouldn’t need a job. He’d be wealthy and living comfortably in the country or in a luxurious town home in the best part of London. But life hadn’t worked out for him that way, so he had to work, which was why he couldn’t let anyone know the truth about him.
The long, narrow room had only one table to fill the space. He made his way to it and sat. Atop the wooden table sat the seventeen boxes, all different sizes and styles, and the rest of the materials they would need to complete their task. Plush velvet material, small cut mirrors, prints of kittens and maidens and floral landscapes, and glue all laid out for their use.
He grabbed one of the smaller boxes, figuring it was better to start with a minimal amount of work and build up to the larger, more elaborate boxes. He’d never even held one of the finished boxes before, but he had seen them. He hoped his memory would serve him well tonight.
It only took ten minutes for her to appear in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“What do I appear to be doing?” he asked. Then he added, “Working on the boxes.”
“But you don’t know how yet,” she said. “I went and spoke to the women in the packaging room and they gave me instructions on how to proceed.”
He caught her frown before he looked down at his current project. “I’ve seen them before. I decided that was enough information to get started.”
“I am supposed to help you with these,” she said firmly.
“Be my guest.” He motioned to the chair on the opposite side of the table.
“I’ll have you know that my maid is right outside the door. That should give me sufficient protection,” she said.
He had half a mind to tell her she didn’t need protection from him, but it would have been a lie. He was glad she’d brought her maid, glad to have a buffer between them so he might control himself and not give in to the temptation of her lips.
She sat across from him. “It appears that all of the supplies are here.”
He knew she was not satisfied. That he had irritated her, and if he were half a gentleman, he would apologize for his rudeness. Instead he found great pleasure in her irritability. Not because he was cruel, but rather because she was so easy to rile. It didn’t hurt that she looked so damn sensual when she got mad. She had this habit of chewing her lip, and it nearly drove him insane.
She leaned forward to eye his progress. “You’re doing a nice job.”
How he wanted to say something sardonic, but there was no reason to make her completely dislike him. Quite soon she sat working quickly, no longer pursing her lips, but rather grinning. And humming. It was as if he had invited little Snow White to work beside him. He nearly expected to see woodland animals gather at her feet.
She looked up and caught him staring. A wide smile spread across her face.
He scowled and looked back down to his box.
She laughed heartily, and the sound of it warmed his insides.
“You like me,” she said.
That caught him off guard, and he found himself struggling to suppress a smile. “Do I?”
“Oh yes.” She met his glance. “You don’t want to admit it. But you simply can’t help yourself. Rest assured, though, that it is a normal reaction.”
That earned her a hearty laugh of his own. “Is that so?”
“Indeed. Everyone likes me.” She nodded, and her red curls bobbed. “I’m a likable sort.”
He found himself caught in a quandary. He wanted neither to confirm her audacious remark, nor to deny it. So he ignored her and returned to his work.
“It is all right though. You can pretend to dislike me and scowl. In our previous encounters it has made me scowl as well, but no more. I am a cheerful person, and I decided not to allow you to annoy me. It shall not hurt my feelings for you to pretend to find me annoying because I know that you do, in fact, find me utterly charming.”
He could listen to her spout her attributes no longer. “I hate to be the one to tell you, but I find you utterly bothersome. You talk too much; you’re entirely too cheerful.” He ticked each comment off on his fingers. “And you really ought not wear such dresses around working men. Makes them think of things that would turn your face as red as your hair.”
Her mouth opened wide. From shock or irritation, Gareth could not ascertain.
And then she frowned. Tiny creases indented her forehead, and her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. He did find her charming, but he was too stubborn to admit it. He knew that about himself, it was an error of his character, not hers. But apologizing was out of the question. It was probably for the best if she found him beastly.
“Precisely what is wrong with my dress?” she suddenly asked. “It is rather fashionable, I assure you. I only recently purchased a closet full of new clothes. Or rather my father did.”
“Why did you need a closet full of new dresses? Didn’t you already have some?”
“Yes, but I did not have any suitable for working,” she said quietly.
“Working?”
“Yes, working. While my father heals, I told him I would assist at the factory.”
“Your mother has no issues with her daughter working at a factory?”
She didn’t look up from her work; instead she seemed to be more involved with it, holding the box closer to her face. “My mother died when I was a child. So I’m not quite certain how she would react to my working here. I suspect had she lived, they would have had more children, perhaps a boy, and I would have married years ago and would be living in the country with a house full of children while my brothers would work here. But I have no brothers,” she added with a tight laugh.
He’d hit a tender area. She was trying to pretend he hadn’t, but it was there, under the surface. Pain. It was palpable, and he knew that if he reached out he would be able to touch it briefly before she was able to tuck it away. “I didn’t realize about your mother,” he said.
“How could you?” She waved a hand in front of her. “I remember plenty of things about her. She had red hair like I do.” Her voice took on a remote quality. “And she was short, but she was very mild-mannered. Although my father has told me on many occasions that I get my spirit from her.” She smoothed a piece of blue velvet on the inside of a drawer. “What of your family?”
“What of them?” He didn’t want to give her too much information. She was clever, and it wouldn’t take her too long to figure out he had a secret. She’d already detected the difference in his speech.
“Tell me about them. It will give us some conversation and that will make the work move by swiftly.” She smiled at him. “It’s a simple question, Gareth.”
“Without a simple answer,” he said.
She frowned. “Do you have parents?”
“Of course. Everyone has parents. People don’t simply appear.”
“I meant, are they still living?”
“My mother is.”
“Where is she?”
“Ireland.”
“What about brothers and sisters?
He shrugged. “A handful.” She had such patience, and showed no sign of irritation at his terse replies. So he would answer her questions, but he would not offer her more than that.
“A handful? Is that large?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I suppose. There are five of us.”
“I always wanted a sister or brother. But it was not to be.”
“And your father never remarried?” he found himself asking. He probably shouldn’t, but he wanted to distract her from inquiring more about his family.
“Oh no, never even considered it. He loved my mother far too much. Losing her nearly killed him. They had a great love,” she said.
A great love. He had once believed that his parents had such a love. It hadn’t taken him long to learn the truth, though. It was a shallow love built on conditions and it hadn’t survived. He didn’t think his father had ever been unfaithful, at least not with a
nother woman, but his vices had nonetheless taken him away from his family. His mother’s love hadn’t endured, and she’d left his father when he’d needed her most.
“Do you miss Ireland?” she asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Are your siblings still there as well, or only your mother?”
“They’re all still there. Fiona and Maggie are both married with children of their own. But the two youngest still live with my mother. Aileen is sixteen and Liam is thirteen.”
“Why, then, did you come all the way to London?”
He hesitated for a moment over his response. The answer to that question was something he’d been unable to make even his own family understand. This young woman, with her tailored dresses and her fiery hair and her sweet nature, how could she possibly understand how he’d been driven to prove himself? To prove to everyone that he could live in this city. That he could live here and not succumb to the very things that destroyed his father. Or perhaps he needed only to prove those things to himself.
“To see if it was all I remembered it to be,” he said.
“You have been here before?” she asked, clearly surprised.
“I was born here,” he answered. He knew he was giving her more clues, but he felt compelled to answer her questions. Chances of her recognizing the Mandeville name were slim; she would have been a small child by the time his father died. By then his parents’ activity in Society had diminished a great deal, his mother had been desperate to remove herself from the rumor mill. “I lived here until I was twelve. Enough about my family. They are not interesting.” He’d already said far more than he ever intended.
She wanted to ask more; he could feel her questions in the air. But she asked none of them. Silently she went back to work.
Born in London? Meg was still reeling from that admission and she wanted to press him more, but she knew he’d given her more than he was accustomed to. She eyed him cautiously. He was busy pressing a print of three kittens sitting in a basket to the lid of the box he was working on.
He’d been rather reluctant to share with her, but he’d given her more than she had expected. Perhaps if she changed the subject he’d forget he’d been so open with her.