Tenacious Trents 01 - A Misguided Lord

by Jane Charles

  They turned down a shady drive. A sign at the side of the road indicated they had arrived at the mill. Inwardly Eleanor braced herself for what she would find. The plight of orphans had always weighed heavy on her mind. She had been a lucky one. Her siblings could have ended up worse, had it not been for this gentleman beside her. That thought alone chilled her as a reminder of how she had come into those funds.

  The first building that come into view was a beautiful, four story home. The lawns were will manicured and small gardens graced the landscape. Had she not known better, she would have thought this was the home of a wealthy landowner.

  “Where is the mill?” She found herself asking.

  “It is in the back, along the river.” Bentley pulled up to the house.

  A young man of possibly twelve came from the stables to hold the horses.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Bentley.” The lad, dressed in an oversized coat that fell long and with sleeves that covered his hands, addressed him with a toothy grin.

  “Good afternoon, Wesley.” Bentley returned. “Please take care of the horses. I believe I will be here until the afternoon.”

  Eleanor was about to inquire if Wesley was also an orphan, and if so, why he wasn’t also in the mill. Bentley answered the before she could ask.

  “Wesley lost his hand as a child. He was used as a chimney sweep. The sleeve of his coat caught fire. I found him before he could die of his injuries but his hand had to be amputated. His employer had simply left him in the alley after the flames were extinguished, determining that the boy was of no use to him any longer.”

  How absolutely horrible. “How did you come across him?” Surely Lord Bentley didn’t often venture into places like Cheapside or worse, Seven Dials.

  “He was cleaning my chimney when it occurred,” he offered grimly. “One needs two hands for mill work and he appears to be happy with the horses.”

  Eleanor didn’t question further. Perhaps Lord Bentley wasn’t as ignorant as she had assumed. Still, he couldn’t begin to comprehend what it would feel like to wonder where your next meal would come from or to be so cold you didn’t think you would ever be warm again. Eleanor had come close, but she also knew her life was luxury compared to others.

  The front door was opened by a plump, graying lady. Cheerfully she greeted him. She would make a wonderful grandmother for someone.

  “Lord Bentley, it is a pleasure to see you again. We are so glad you have come.” She smiled and stepped back so Bentley and Eleanor could enter.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Nevil.” Bentley smiled warmly. Eleanor didn’t think it was possible, but the man seemed happy to be addressing this servant.

  “May I introduce Miss Eleanor Westin? She would like to inspect these holdings.”

  “Welcome, Miss Westin.” The woman bobbed. “Shall I serve tea in the parlor?”

  “No. I think we will go straight to the mill and join the others for the midday meal.”

  “Very good, Sir, Miss Westin.” She curtseyed again before exiting.

  Bentley led Eleanor down a long hallway. Besides the staircase, doors led to a parlor, library, office and dining room, all left open for anyone to peek in. At the end of the hallway was a set of glass doors that led to a rather large terrace with several tables and chairs. A stone path led down a slope toward a building that Eleanor assumed was the mill.

  Several windows were open at the top of the structure as well as the lower. Not only was the building receiving fresh air but an abundance of light. The windows alone had to have cost Bentley a small fortune.

  As they approached the mill Eleanor was surprised by the near silence. Weren’t several looms operating usually loud when put in an open space? Bentley paused and tilted his head, as if he too were listening. And odd look of concern came over his face. As they drew closer, the distinct sounds of a child crying and an angry voice could be heard. Bentley stiffened and stalked forward, leaving Eleanor to follow behind.

  Without pause Bentley threw the door open and marched inside. Eleanor hurried after him, only to run into his back when he stopped suddenly. Bending around his wide shoulders, she tried to see what had caused him to stiffen so. She could almost feel anger pouring off of him. Then she saw what he had and wanted to cry out, but held her tongue. But if Bentley didn’t remedy this situation correctly and quickly, she would.

  Chapter 12

  Mr. Thomason had come highly recommended but he was lucky Clay held control of his anger because his hands itched to do the man serious harm.

  “What is the meaning of this?” He kept his tone low, calm, yet threatening. If it were just Thomason, he would thrash the man within an inch of his life, but he didn’t want to exhibit the same volatile and violent actions of that man in front of the boys.

  Mr. Thomason turned. “Good afternoon, Lord Bentley. As you can see, a little discipline is being carried out.” He gestured with his left hand. His right held a willow switch. Even though it had been years since he had felt to sting of the switch, the sight made his blood run cold. Crouched before Thomason was a boy no older than seven. His back was striped and bloody. A few whimpers escaped.

  “I have been very clear that this form of disciple will not be tolerated.” Bentley reminded coldly.

  “I tend to disagree and you will too when you see the damage this young whelp has done.”

  The boy let his head drop and his shoulders shook as he began to cry anew.

  “Show me,” Clay ordered.

  The manager led him to a stack of fresh wool, ready for weaving. Blue die had been spilled, possibly ruining the entire sack.

  “Not minding what he was doing and ruined it all.”

  Clay took only a moment to inspect, to rein in his anger further. He abhorred violence but wondered if the boy shouldn’t be punished. The lot of it would need to be tossed. He turned back to the boy, Isaac, still curled up on the floor but his eyes watched him with concern. Clayton knew the pain the boy suffered and knelt down beside him. “Is this true? Did you spill the die?” He kept his tone soft and calm. The lad was already frightened half to death.

  His eyes remained large and round as she swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you playing and not minding your work?”

  “No, sir. My hand. It was hurting mighty fierce. I tried to hold on, but I lost my grip.” Tears welled up in his eyes. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean it, sir. Truly, I didn’t.”

  Clay smiled softly. “I am sure you didn’t.” He ruffled the lad’s hair. “Why was your hand hurting? Was the bucket of die too heavy for you to carry?”

  The boys’ eyes first went to Mr. Thomason who glared at him, as if he wished to beat him further. They then sought out another. Peter smiled and nodded encouragement to the boy.

  The lad produced his right hand, neatly bandaged, though fresh blood stained it at the base of his thumb. Clay removed white cloth to better inspect the wound. Miss Westin gasped at the sight. A horrible gash ran along the inside of his hand, just below where his thumb was attached. Any deeper and he would have lost his thumb.

  “How did you hurt your hand, Isaac?” Clay asked.

  “It was my fault, Lord Bentley.” A gangly boy of approximately four and ten stepped forward.

  Clayton glanced up at him. “Explain, Theo.”

  “Yesterday I was carrying a bag of wool. I put it down foolishly in the aisle to help Simon untangle some threads. When Isaac came along, he didn’t see the bundle and tripped. His hand caught on the moving yarn.”

  “That batch had to be destroyed as well.” Thompson offered, now glaring at Theo. “Too much blood. Ruined it.”

  Bentley ignored the man for fear he would kill Thomason if he didn’t focus on the boys.

  “Were you punished?” Clay asked.

  “Yes, sir.” The boy answered, standing straight, looking ahead and not at anyone in particular.

  “Take off your shirt and turn around.”

  Again Peter nodded encouragement to the young m
an.

  Theo slowly turned and raised his shirt enough for Bentley to inspect his back. It was marred with red welts and broken skin, just beginning to scab, similar to those on young Isaac.

  “Thank you.” Clayton stood. “Please take Isaac up to Mrs. Nevil and see that both of your injuries are well tended. Have her send for the doctor to look at Isaac’s hand.” He glared over at Thomason. “At least she will follow my orders.”

  The older helped the younger out and supported him as they made their way toward the house.”

  “If I may, Lord Bentley.” Peter stepped forward.

  “No you may not,” Thomason barked at the young man.

  “Yes, you may, Peter.” Clayton glared at Thomason.

  “Theo dropped the bundling because David got tangled in the thread and would have been injured had Theo not come to his aid. I know we are not to leave it in the aisles, but Theo was only trying to help.”

  Bentley nodded his head in understanding.

  “He was derelict in his duties,” Thomason argued.

  “I have had enough from you.” Clayton turned on the man. “If you are wise, you would hold your tongue.” He turned back to Peter.

  “I begged Thomason to give Isaac a day off but he refused.”

  Clayton looked around at the group of young men. They were hard workers and not one had been a troublemaker. Each had been disciplined on occasion. After all, boys would be boys, but never this harshly. A Saturday afternoon doing chores while the others played usually brought them back into line. He was sickened by what he had walked into and further sickened that Miss Westin had seen it as well. But, that was not the problem at hand. Thomason was.

  “You said David was in danger at the looms? Which David?”

  “It was I, sir.” A small voice came from behind him. It was young David, who couldn’t have been over five years old.

  “What were you doing at the looms? Aren’t you supposed to sort the wool?” This boy could barely see what he was doing, let alone do the required task. The boy pointed a finger at Thomason. “He made me.”

  “You little brat. You’re lucky you have a job. Otherwise you would be pinching purses.” Thomason started toward the boy, willow switch raised in his right hand. The lad quickly escaped to hide behind the bigger boys.

  Clayton glared at Thomason. “You shall return to your quarters. I will call you when I wish to speak with you.”

  “Allow me to explain and you will understand.”

  “You will have your chance,” Clay assured him coldly. “At this moment however, I am much too angry to stomach the sight of you.”

  “Peter, please join me in my office.” He looked at the group. “The rest of you, toss the ruined wool and then wash up for the meal. You’re finished for the day. Apparently there are matters that need to be sorted out.”

  He marched out in silence, leaving Miss Westin to trail behind. He should show her more consideration, but rage boiled in his veins. He had never been moved to violence before and it took every ounce of strength he had not to strike Thomason. Had he hit him once, Clayton was afraid he wouldn’t stop before the man was dead. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and kept his jaw locked for fear what words might fly out of his mouth. He would not curse in front of the children or Miss Westin. He was always in control, never lost his temper, other than when he argued with John. This was an entirely new experience. When they reached the house Bentley paused and waited for Miss Westin to catch up to him. “I apologize.”

  She simply nodded, her mouth set, brows furrowed with concern.

  “Would you please wait for me in the parlor?”

  “Of course.” She touched his hand for but a moment then walked past. Her delicate fingers had an odd calming effect and Bentley could finally take a breath.

  *

  Eleanor stopped in the parlor and looked around. The sound of a door shutting down the hall brought her out of the room. She would love to know what was being said but not as much as she would like to hear the audience with Thomason. If that man didn’t lose his job then she would never speak to Bentley again.

  Who was she fooling? Eleanor returned to the room and sank down onto the settee. The manager may get a dressing down but would not lose his job. It was the way of the world for orphans. She could only hope he thought twice before taking a switch to one of them again.

  The doctor arrived while she was still waiting. Though she hadn’t been invited, she followed the older man into the kitchen. Though the boy’s backs had been tended to, the hand was beyond Mrs. Nevil’s expertise.

  “It will need to be stitched.” Dr. Morway was saying after he cleaned the wound. Eleanor knew him as he also tended her family when ill and injured.

  Isaac’s eyes grew large and terrified. Eleanor couldn’t stand it and stepped forward.

  “It is not so bad, Isaac.” She sat down next to him. “It will hurt a little, I won’t lie to you, but nothing in comparison to what mean old Thomason has done.”

  “Really?” The boy searched her eyes for reassurance.

  “Truly.” Eleanor rolled up her sleeve. She then exposed her inner arm to the child. “See this? I fell off of a fence when I was about your age. Dr. Morway put in a dozen stitches.” She glanced at the older man when he chuckled. “Do you know how many that is?”

  “Twelve,” Isaac answered proudly.

  “Yes. See, I am now fine, so you will be too.”

  “Will I have a scar, like you?” He asked in admiration.

  “Probably.” Having younger brothers Eleanor was well versed in how their young minds worked. “And anyone who sees it will know how tough you are.”

  His eyes sought out Theo. “Is it true?”

  The older boy smiled indulgently. “Of course it is true. But, if it is too fierce of a scar I will have to get one myself or everyone will think you are tougher than me.”

  The boy burst into giggles as if that was the silliest thing he had ever heard before promptly producing his hand to the doctor. Eleanor took the boy’s other hand knowing that as soon as the needle pricked his skin, he wouldn’t be giggling any longer. She wished to put an arm around his small shoulders and give him comfort but was afraid she would only cause more discomfort if she touched his back.

  *

  Clayton was still livid when he left his meeting with Peter and more so after his encounter with Thomason. The man would never set a foot on his land again. He got the pay he was due up to the moment Clay stepped into the mill and not a shilling more, or a reference. An apology to Miss Westin was on his lips when he stepped into the parlor, but she was gone. Had she left? She was very strong in her beliefs of how mills should be run and children treated and witnessed almost the worst of humanity today. At my mill. She may never speak to him again.

  He stepped outside and Wesley came running. “Did you want your horse and phaeton, Lord Bentley?”

  “Not just yet.” Clay looked around. “Did Miss Westin leave?”

  “She didn’t come out of the house.”

  Relief shot through him and he returned inside. Voiced carried from the back of the house and he made his way through the dining room to see what was going on. He found her in the kitchen proudly displaying a scar on her inner arm he had never noticed before. He remained silent in the doorway as Dr. Morway stitched Isaac’s hand while Miss Westin kept the boy entertained with stories. If only she were virtuous he could consider marriage. Unfortunately, that was not possible. His countess must be beyond reproach and a bastard child was not part of the image he and his family must continue to present to society, assuming the truth never came out about Madeline. But that was different. Rose believed her husband a widower when they married. It wasn’t the same.

  *

  Clayton glanced over at Eleanor. They had left following the afternoon meal with the children. It had been pleasant given the circumstances, but he needed to speak with her about the ugliness of what they encountered at the mill. “I apologize for what you witne
ssed.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  It didn’t matter whether he knew or not. He was responsible for hiring the man. “Thomason has been fired and has already vacated.”

  “Are you going to advertise for a replacement? I am sure someone in town would be happy for the position.”

  “I don’t need to.” He grinned down at her. “I offered the job to Peter.

  *

  “Peter assured me that Thomason had only been using the whip for the past month or so. I know he hadn’t been when I was there two months back. Everything seemed to have been going well then.”

  Eleanor appreciated his honesty and wondered if he was trying to make excuses, to take the blame off of himself.

  “Why weren’t you informed by Mrs. Nevil or someone else?” She asked pointedly. Who knows what damage that man could have done had Bentley not wanted to impress her with how he ran his own mills.

  “Mrs. Nevil assured me that a letter was posted. I never received it,” Bentley explained. “Peter told me that Thomason had caught him writing a letter to me, and had it destroyed. Then he would not allow him to contact me. They had both thought Mrs. Nevil’s missive had gotten through.”

  “Could Thomason have removed it from the post?” Perhaps Bentley was without blame. If two employees thought it right to inform him and trusted in his reaction, then perhaps she was judging him harshly.

  “That is what we surmised,” Bentley answered. “Still, I hold myself to blame. The man was turned out with no references and if anyone asks about him, I will not be kind in my assessment.”

  “I am afraid that his form of punishment is preferred by many,” Eleanor stated sadly as they pulled in front of the manor.