Industry was so interesting. The way machinery had taken over the role of man and could create such vast quantities of items amazed her. Towns like Caldton were dominated by industry. Every man, woman and child depended on it. It might not be beautiful like Paris or breath-taking like Egypt, but there was something elemental about such a place—a place built on hard work and ambition. It fairly buzzed through the air.
As did it through her. She felt as if she were tingling all over from having her arm looped through Lucian’s. When they passed by a rough bunch of fellows, he drew her closer and if she had been inclined to do so, she might have swooned.
Eleanor stole a glance at him. He had placed her by the side of his face that had been untouched by the fire. Why had mama not told her he had been hurt in the factory fire? Had he been hurt anywhere else? It annoyed her, but she couldn’t help feel pity for him. It must have been excruciating. Lord Rushbourne hardly deserved her pity or even her generous temperament today, but excitement had made her forget the anger she had nurtured over the years and she was loath to aggravate him, not when she hoped to persuade him to listen to her ideas.
He led her across the cobbled road, pointing out a pile of horse excrement for her to step around. She noted the glances he garnered. With his tall stature in elegant clothing, it did not surprise her. His wide shoulders filled his dark frock coat to perfection and the blue and gold embroidered waistcoat did not hide how physically fit he was. Lucian had always been blessed with a fine physique and the years hadn’t changed that.
When they entered a gloomy street, Lucian drew her close again and Eleanor forced herself to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. At the best of times her feet hated to cooperate, let alone when the infamous Lord Rushbourne had her pressed against him.
The grimy buildings loomed over them and when she looked up, she was surprised to see sky as it felt like the buildings must almost touch, such was the amount of light seeping through. She swallowed when she spotted several men standing about the doorways, women with children at their feet. Several palms opened slowly, as if they had no real hope of her being of a charitable sort. Lucian ignored them pointedly, his gaze fixed ahead, forcing Eleanor to tug him to a standstill so she could fish in her purse.
“Ellie...” he warned, but she unlatched her arm from his and ignored him.
One by one, she pressed coins into their hands. A few mumbled their thanks but most seemed too eaten up with hunger or exhaustion to muster much of a response. Each grimy face spoke of years of work and starvation. She had met poor people on her journeys but none looked quite so hopeless.
When she offered out coin in India, the children had nearly tumbled her over in their eagerness and all had come away with smiles and giggles. Times in England were hard indeed for the poor. She only hoped she could do something—even if small—to help these people.
Lucian drew her back into his protective hold and didn’t slow until they were out of the street and into a wider one, where they were greeted by carriages and signs of trade once more.
“You should not have done that,” he told her.
“Why ever not?” Was he so black-hearted he begrudged them charity?
“Most will likely spend it on ale.”
“Even the children?”
“For many men, the only way to survive their existence is to drink. If they are not working, they will be drinking, and if they have to beat a child to get a coin, they will. Did you not see the bruises on their arms?”
“I—”
“When a man is not useful in some way, he loses all hope. You must have seen it in their expressions. Your coin will do them no good. You would be better donating it to the Children’s Society. They will see your money properly distributed.”
Warmth surged up her neck and face, and she had no doubt her cheeks were crimson. How like Lucian to make her feel thoroughly foolish. He eyed her and a flicker of uncertainty crossed his expression.
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be so frank. It’s just things are very different here to the countryside or any other exotic places you have visited.”
“I am not wholly ignorant, but I shall bow to your superior knowledge, my lord.”
A crease appeared between Lucian’s brows and he jolted slightly as if she had staggered him with her words. He nodded curtly. “Good.”
As he led her along the street, touching the brim of his hat to a passer-by, Eleanor clamped her lips shut to hide a smile. It seemed being agreeable disconcerted him more than being argumentative. She would have to remember that. Perhaps it was not charitable to toy with the man, but when had he ever been charitable towards her?
Certainly not on the evening he kissed her.
Her tightly compressed lips began to tingle and she was powerless to stop her pulse from picking up speed. She had forced the memories of that night far away but they still sprung on her occasionally and caught her unawares. The embarrassment, the shame. It all rushed through her, heating her skin and then...then she would recall the feeling of his lips upon hers and become breathless.
“The mill is around this corner.” He motioned ahead. “You can see the smoke stacks.”
Eleanor acknowledged his words gratefully by eyeing the building that could not be hidden by the houses lining the streets. It towered over them like a watchful master, its large square windows like disapproving eyes. Once they rounded the corner she had a full view of it and its magnificence was not lost on her.
Even from their position outside the iron gates, the noise of the machines smothered the street sounds. On the forecourt were stacks of brown sacks piled to one side, and though there were several dozen people outside, none were still or milling around. They all moved with purpose. An excited thrum started in her stomach. She was to be a part of this—the revolution of industry. These were exciting times indeed.
Lucian pushed open the gate and escorted her in. He led her into a door at the side of the building, and she took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dull glow of the lamps. Several desks sat in rows and the heads of the men sat behind them lifted to acknowledge Lucian.
A young man, likely no older than her stood and hastened over. “Mr Fuller would like a word with you when you have time, my lord.”
Lucian nodded and waved the man back to his desk before indicating to a door at the end of the desks. “Shall we?”
Eleanor nodded, aware of being watched as she walked past to the room. Were they wondering what she was doing with Lucian? Who she was? Or did they know and were surprised by how uncomely the Countess of Hawthorne was?
The room turned out to be Lucian’s office. Or at least she assumed it was. A generous carved mahogany desk with a green leather top dominated it and the sounds of the mill filtered in through the window which faced the forecourt. She imagined him sitting behind it, lauding over his domain. Stacks of letters were piled on one side of the desk and a bookcase to the right was filled with leather bound books. The room smelled of that leather and a little of smoke.
“So,” he said, closing the doors, “here you are. This is the mill you own part of. Whatever shall you do with it?”
Eleanor ignored his mocking smile and folded arms, and eyed the spines of the books. They were as she thought—records of the mill dating back to its start by the looks of it.
“I would like to look through the records.”
“Here? Now?”
“As I said, my lord, I have a fine head for numbers.”
He snorted. Even she heard it. It echoed between them. Years ago, when she thought he could do no wrong, she’d have melted into a puddle of embarrassment but no longer. She would not be victim of Lucian’s cruelty ever again. She knew how she had appeared. A silly little girl with dreamy ideas and no way of achieving them. No white knight would sweep the ugly Ellie Browning off her feet.
“I should like to look through them,” she repeated.
“Very well. We have, oh, twenty years’ worth of records
here. Where would you like to start? I hope you weren’t intending to return home for several months.”
She narrowed her gaze and tried to stop it from dropping to those lips, still turned up in a sardonic smile. “I have little intention of pouring over all of the records. Just the past two years perhaps. I was hoping you might send them to me at Broadstone Hall.”
“Impossible.”
“Why should you need last year’s records?”
Lucian’s jaw worked as he stepped closer. “If you wished for me to send you the records then why the blazes demand a trip here and steal away much of my valuable time?”
“I suppose my time is not valuable.” Trying to quell the flutter in her stomach, she lifted her chin. “Once upon a time Lord Rushbourne would think nothing of spending weeks travelling and amusing himself.”
“What makes you think I find any of this amusing?”
He had her there. Of course her company wasn’t amusing. She was an irritation. A pest to be squashed or shooed away as soon as possible. But he would not rid himself of her that easily.
Eleanor drew in a breath and perfected her most countess-like voice. “Lucian, I understand you’re a busy man and I appreciate the time you have taken to guide me around. If you have matters to see to, by all means do. I can at least start looking through this month’s records and then you will not need to send me the ones you need or suffer my presence here again.”
Her smile slipped when she said his name. It had come out soft rather than regal and now it rang in her ears. But the moment didn’t last.
A derisive smirk lingered around his top lip and he unfolded his arms.“Look all you want, Ellie. I doubt you’ll find much you can do. I have some of the finest bookkeepers in Lancashire. I am sure once you are done, you will have no reason to return and even less interest in doing so. Cotton is boring to those whose living does not depend upon it.”
She didn’t protest. He might think of her as fluffy headed as the cotton his machines wove but she knew otherwise. Of course, she still had her moments when she forgot who she was and how hard she had strived to be seen as sensible and refined, but regardless her mind was quick. She might not have great looks, but she would not let anyone take that attribute away from her.
“You have two hours.” He said, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “I shall come back for you then and we can have lunch before catching the three o’clock train.”
“I should like to tour the mill before we leave,” she said as he put his hand to the door to leave.
“It’s dangerous and dusty. No place for a lady.”
“A little dust has never stopped me, my lord, and I have survived many dangers.”
As he put on his hat, touched the brim and left, Eleanor considered that the most dangerous event of her life had been the night Lord Rushbourne has kissed her. She might have survived but, unfortunately, she was not sure she survived unscathed.
Chapter Six
A Head for Numbers
Two hours later, Lucian returned to fetch Eleanor. He was surprised she had not tired of pouring over the tiresome records and come in search of him. Mr Fuller had spent the better half of the first hour complaining about the workers arriving late and the next hour and a half had been taken up with trying to establish why one of the machines was not running as quickly as it should have been.
He pushed open his office door to find her absorbed in the books. She had removed her bonnet and cast it aside, giving him a view of bountiful blonde curls. They were not as dark as they had once been and gave off a golden sheen. They were still everywhere. He wondered how she walked around with so much hair on her head, but they were somewhat appealing. If he thrust his hands into her hair and pulled out the pins, would the tresses spill all about her, surrounding her like a golden halo? A very sudden, unwanted image hit him. One of naked shoulders and blonde curls.
Coughing, he waited for her to lift her head, but apparently she was absorbed. Some writing paper sat to one side, covered in ink blotches and scrawled writing. Her fingertips were slightly black with ink too.
“Ellie,” he tried again.
She lifted her head and for the briefest moment he thought she saw him as someone other than a scarred ex-rake who once kissed her out of spite. Her smile was brilliant. Blinding even. A flash of perfect teeth amongst berry red lips. His heart did something strange and he greatly feared he was having a heart attack. But it didn’t last. The smile dropped, as did his heart, and she regarded him coolly.
“Are we to tour the mill now?”
“Yes, if you’re ready.”
“I am though I feel I should have looked through this week’s records. I haven’t reached them yet.”
“I doubt one week will make any difference to your...” He waved a hand, searching for a word. “To your work.”
She rose, slid her bonnet on and tied the silk ribbon. The strangest desire to reach over and perfect the bow struck, and he curled his hand at his side.
“Be careful. These machines are extremely fast and dangerous. Do not touch them,” he warned her, “and keep your skirts away from them.”
She nodded and remained blessedly quiet as he led her out of the offices, across the forecourt and into the main building. He had almost expected some bold declaration of how she was not frightened or perhaps even something as foolish as, ‘I have been to the far reaches of the world, my lord, what could a mere machine do to me?’
Bloody hell, if he heard about her travels and how experienced she was and how her husband took her everywhere and spoiled her rotten one more time, he’d throw his hat into the mud and trample on it in a rage.
The noise from the machines still shocked him, even now. It was a grating, rattling, crashing sound that, though rhythmic, was not a noise one could ever get used to. It was the sound of hard graft and of men and women striving for survival in a harsh world. It was the sound of his father’s legacy.
Cotton swirled in the air like light snowfall, thick and clumpy. If one watched it too long, it could become mesmerising. Children scuttled between the machines, picking up errant bits of fluff, and the rows of the looms all moved in time with each other. He peered back at Ellie to see her wide-eyed expression. In spite of the thick atmosphere and the odour of hard work, oil and smoke, she seemed almost—how could he put it?—rapt?
Underfoot the wooden floor was slippery from the oil that had dripped on it over the years. Lucian cursed himself for not warning her of it and prayed she did not fall and do herself some damage. That would not look good—killing off his main shareholder. Not to mention he needed her money and she had no heirs at present. If he was rich enough, he would buy her out, but that didn’t look likely to happen with the price of cotton still dropping. If things continued the way they were, the buyers would be expecting him to give it away for free.
He strode on several more steps, only to find himself aware she was no longer behind him. She had stopped to talk to one of the workers, though what sort of conversation they could have in this environment he didn’t know. The woman glanced at him, saw him watching and hastily turned back to the loom. Ellie glared at him. He longed to raise his hands and protest his innocence. He hadn’t said anything.
Lucian stiffened as a strange sound broke the steady noise of the looms. He opened his mouth to call Ellie’s name as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but it was too late. The source of the noise became clear far too rapidly for him to react. A snap. A crack like the sound of a whip. Something flicked into the air and headed towards Ellie. The belt from the machine, he realised. He leaped forward but it struck her with a sickening slap, leaving him to catch her as she fell.
“Turn that bloody machine off!” he yelled and scooped her in his arms. She was boneless and easy to handle, unlike the last time he’d carted her around. It made bile rise in his throat.
The loose belt continued to flap harmlessly while workers scurried around to stop the machine. He did not even look back to
see if they’d succeeded when he carried her out of the mill and straight up the steps back into the offices. He didn’t stop until he had her sitting in his office chair, limp and lifeless.
Lucian twisted the chair to face him and knelt in front of her. He grasped her hand and gave it a squeeze. A trickle of blood trailed down her neck.
“Bloody hell.” He released her hand long enough to storm to the open door and yell out, “Someone fetch a bloody doctor!” before returning to her.
He gingerly pulled off her bonnet and lifted the curls away from her neck to find the source of the blood. Yanking a handkerchief out of his coat jacket, he dabbed away the red from her pale neck and began sifting through that endless hair. Damn, what had God been thinking when he had cursed her with so much hair?
She mumbled and leaned away from his touch which allowed his heart to lower out of his throat. But he did not allow himself to believe she was out of danger yet. He should never have let her into the mill. Of course little Ellie Browning would get herself in trouble. When did she not?
Lucian began picking out the pins and flinging them carelessly onto his desk. More and more hair fell about her shoulders. He hoped she paid her maid generously for the time it must take to pin the blasted stuff up.
When he had room for a little movement, he began sifting through the locks again and spotted the source of the blood—a thin red cut. It was not large, but bleeding heavily and he’d wager a pretty sum that it had hit her hard enough to bruise and likely leave a bump. If it had knocked her senseless, it must have hit with some force.
Rogues and Ripped Bodices Page 15