Madness.
The consequences to both of them would have been devastating. He’d best not forget it.
Chapter Eight
After a quick breakfast, Brandon left Rosehill. The textile mill was located in the heart of Hampshire, and the factory was an enormous building three stories high. As soon as Brandon entered the building, he was met with a wall of heat twenty degrees hotter than the already warm afternoon. Large machinery loomed in the factory and workers rushed about in a blur of activity.
A robust man with a balding pate that glistened with sweat came hurrying up to Brandon. “The factory is not open to the public. May I help you, sir?” he asked, a note of impatience in his voice.
“Since I’m not the public, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m Lord Vale, the new owner of this mill.”
A flash of panic crossed the man’s face before he bowed. “Pardon, my lord. I’m Mr. Higgins, the factory supervisor. If your lordship had sent a note in advance informing me of your visit, as was the custom of your father, I would have been sure to welcome you most properly.”
Brandon’s lips thinned in irritation. “I’m not my father, Mr. Higgins. A pleasant factory tour is not the point of my visit.”
“You wish to inspect the place, my lord?”
“I do.”
“The shifts are changing. Perhaps another time would be more productive.” Higgins shifted from foot to foot.
The man was clearly uneasy at his surprise visit. Did Higgins think he was a complete idiot? Of course he does, Brandon thought. He’s dealt with my father in the past.
“Now is fine,” Brandon retorted.
Higgins swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down above his cravat. “As you wish, my lord.”
Brandon stepped into the factory. The gargantuan space was filled with rows and rows of operating machinery, and the thunderous noise was deafening. The smell of oil that lubricated the machines, the sweat of the workers, and the tiny bits of fiber that hung in the air were overpowering and suffocating.
He spotted spinning machines, combing equipment, and power looms in the distance.
He cupped his hand over his mouth and spoke loudly to be heard above the din. “There have been problems with the power looms breaking down, correct?”
Mr. Higgins motioned with his hand toward one of the machines. “Nothing that we cannot handle. As you see, the mill is running smoothly today.”
“Show me the looms that are not working,” Brandon said.
Brandon followed Higgins farther into the bowels of the factory. Rows and rows of spinning jennies operated at impressive speed and allowed a single worker to spin many separate yarns simultaneously. Each spinning jenny contained at least fifty whirling bobbins.
The heat level rose the farther they ventured. Brandon loosened his cravat. Along with the heat, the noise level in the factory was ear splitting. Several male workers shouted at each other to be heard. Others gestured wildly in order to communicate.
Large windows illuminated the factory, but each casement was sealed closed. The hot, steamy air was filled with dust and lint that soon covered Brandon’s Hessians and clothing and made it difficult to breathe. “The air is stifling. Why aren’t the windows open?”
“The heat and moisture keep the cotton threads from breaking. You grow accustomed to it, my lord.”
Brandon doubted that. Sweat rolled off his brow as he followed the factory supervisor up a wooden staircase to the second floor of the factory.
“Here we are,” Higgins said. “This is one of the power looms that’s giving us difficulty.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“The shuttle gets stuck and stops working.”
“Can’t it be fixed?”
“We’ve tried. Each time the repairs are made, another part malfunctions,” Higgins said. “Others have had similar problems, but thankfully only one at a time.”
Brandon frowned. It didn’t make sense to him. Why would parts keep breaking randomly? He already knew the numbers from studying the reports. Even with only one power loom inoperable, productivity suffered.
“I want a report on all the broken-down equipment and the names of the workers completing the repairs,” Brandon said.
“There have been many repair efforts—”
“I want it by the end of the week.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Brandon turned away and studied the factory floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a child working—a young, barefoot boy climbing high upon a spinning machine to replace bobbins. He looked about more closely, not at the machines this time, but at the workers.
His workers now.
He spotted girls walking up and down long aisles, brushing lint from the machines. Others watched the whirling spools for breaks in cotton threads. One girl, who looked to be close to ten summers, mended a break in the thread by quickly tying the ends together as the machine kept spinning dangerously close to her fingers. All the tasks were hazardous, and he imagined it required the children to be on their feet for hours at a time.
Brandon’s brows drew together. He knew child labor was a frequent practice in English factories, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with it in his own mill.
He walked the rows, aware of Higgins trailing behind. More workers rushed around busily seeing to other equipment and tasks—men, women, and more children. Some looked as young as seven years old; others appeared in their early teens. All had one physical trait in common—gray complexions from working long hours in the mill without ever seeing the sun.
“You use child labor?” Brandon asked.
The supervisor’s chest puffed with self-importance. “The families are happy for the extra income. Our productivity speaks for itself.”
Clearly Higgins believed Brandon was pleased.
“Why so many children?”
“We’re teaching them a trade. They’re happy to be here.”
From the looks on their faces, they appeared far from happy.
“Most are from the local orphanage and are apprenticed for seven years.”
Brandon spun to face the man. “Apprenticed? You mean we don’t pay them?”
“Pay?” Higgins brows drew downward in confusion. “They’re learning a trade for free.”
Brandon’s eyes narrowed. The work was dirty and dangerous. If he had a child, he’d cut off a limb before allowing him or her to work in such a place.
But that was the difference, wasn’t it?
No matter how much money he needed, his life was luxurious next to these people. “I want a second report on the number of children that are employed in the mill.”
“Children of the families or from the orphanages?”
“Both,” Brandon snapped.
A young boy darted past him and scrambled under a power loom. Brandon jumped forward. “What’s he doing? He’s going to get crushed.”
Higgins placed a hand on Brandon’s arm. “It’s fine, my lord. We need the children to crawl under the machines to clear up the fallen cotton thread. She does this all the time.”
“She?” The dirty scrap of humanity was a girl. Brandon’s heart squeezed uncomfortably until he spotted her begin to crawl back out from beneath the thunderous machine. Each of her tiny fists clenched piles of thread.
“If the bits of discarded thread aren’t removed, the loom gets clogged and ceases working,” Higgins explained.
“I’ve seen enough, Mr. Higgins,” Brandon said tersely.
Just then one of the gears snagged the child’s shirt, and she jerked backward. A glazed look of panic lit her blue eyes as they met Brandon’s. A split-second later, her scream pierced the air.
Brandon sprang into action. Several factory workers rushed forward, but Brandon was there first. Dropping to his knees, he reached as far as he could beneath the steel machine, aware of the menacing swiftly moving steel inches away from his face and head. The heat of the machine rushed across his cheek. He spotted the
child crouched low, wide panicked blue eyes in a dirty face. In the distance, he heard shouting and Higgins’s voice. Brandon ignored them all and stretched farther.
“Grab my hand, child.”
She stretched but her shirt was caught in the machine.
“Come on. Reach!”
She reached and her fingers brushed his. The machine was a blur above him. He stretched an inch farther until he grasped her hand and pulled. He prayed his grasp was strong enough and she remained low. He felt resistance, and he knew her shirt held her imprisoned. He pulled with all his might. His shoulders screamed with strain. Sweat beaded off his brow and ran into his eyes.
Suddenly she jerked forward, and he dragged her from beneath the machine to safety. Her shirt had ripped—only a scrap of one sleeve and part of a shirtfront remained. Had the fabric not been so threadbare, Brandon realized, it wouldn’t have torn and she would have suffered a torturous death from the relentless, unforgiving steel.
He stood and cradled the child in his arms. She clung to him, and a solitary tear ran down her dirt-streaked face.
“Thank ye,” her voice was barely audible, but the words sounded as loud as a trumpet blast to Brandon.
An older woman wearing a kerchief came forward and took the girl from his arms. Brandon’s hands trembled as he wiped the sweat from his brow.
Good God. A child almost died right before his eyes.
He turned to find Higgins staring at him, his eyes wide in his fleshy face. “Mr. Higgins,” Brandon said tersely.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You’re fired.”
Chapter Nine
“They’re here!”
Amelia looked up from her seat on the terrace overlooking the front gardens where the ladies had been enjoying afternoon tea.
Lady Helen pushed back her chair and strained to see in the distance. An expression of pure joy lit her face. “It’s Lord Newchester’s coach! And is that the Duke of Townsend’s crested carriage close behind?”
Amelia spotted two coaches traveling the winding gravel drive toward Rosehill. Each was driven by a team of four well-matched bays.
The dowager rose and clapped her hands at the two footmen standing nearby. “Ready the staff and notify Lord Vale that the rest of our guests have arrived.”
The coaches rolled to a stop in front of the house, and the horses’ coats glistened in the bright afternoon sunlight. A footman stepped down to open the door of the first coach. A handsome dark-haired man stepped down, followed by two similarly looking well-dressed gentlemen.
“Lord Newchester.” Helen smiled brilliantly as she stepped forward and bobbed a curtsy to greet her betrothed.
Newchester grinned and bowed, his gaze traveling over Helen’s features. “You are a sight for sore eyes, my lady.”
Brandon emerged from the doorway. “Newchester. Good to see you.”
The marquess motioned to the two men behind him. “You’re acquainted with my brothers, Lord Weston and Lord Emmett.”
“Welcome,” Brandon said.
One by one the ladies were introduced. Amelia was last to greet Newchester and his brothers. She thought Newchester looked friendly with kind blue eyes. He was clearly enamored of Helen by the way he smiled whenever he looked at her—like a man who’d been separated from his heart’s desire for too long a time.
The marquess’s brothers, however, gave her different impressions. Both were of medium height and build in their late twenties with thick heads of dark hair, but something about the way they carried themselves led her to believe that their personalities were as different as their physical appearances were similar. The younger brother, Lord Emmett, raked Amelia’s form with an appraising gaze then grinned and kissed the back of her hand. The middle brother, Lord Weston, stared at her behind gold-rimmed spectacles for several moments as if she were an interesting artifact in a curiosity cabinet before offering a tentative smile.
Both were handsome men, but she couldn’t help but compare them to Brandon and find them both lacking.
She inwardly admonished herself. Why on earth was she comparing every bachelor at the house party to Vale?
A rustle of skirts by her side drew her attention. Chloe stood staring at the two brothers with a distinctive glint of eagerness in her eyes.
Oh no. Amelia would have to keep vigil over her sister. Chloe was more interested in men than any young lady should be.
The second carriage pulled forward and the Duke of Townsend and his family stepped out. Amelia had learned that the duke was a close family friend to the dowager and had known the dowager’s husband.
The duke was short and stocky, but what he lacked in height he made up for in power and aristocratic confidence. Amelia had dealt with a few nobles during their ownership of the print shop, although none as high in rank as a duke. Her instinct, combined with the duke’s bearing and the gleam of intelligence in his eyes, told her one thing: he was not a man to be trifled with.
His wife, the duchess, was the duke’s third wife and half his age. Diamonds glittered on her fingers, neck, and earbobs. Their union had resulted in one daughter. The duke had never had a son and heir.
The daughter, Lady Minerva, had blond curls and brown eyes. She didn’t wear jewels like her mother, but the cut of her dress, with its low embroidered neckline and high-waisted sash, emphasized her large breasts. Her face had too many sharp angles to be considered beautiful, but her voluptuous figure would draw many men’s eyes.
The duchess smiled up at Brandon. “You remember my daughter, Lady Minerva, don’t you?”
“Of course. Welcome to Rosehill, my lady,” Brandon said politely.
Minerva turned a shade pink as she looked up at him. “I last saw you at the Drury Lane theatre’s production of Hamlet months ago. You waved from your box in the balcony.”
A tiny crease formed between Brandon’s eyebrows. “I recall the play, but I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing you there.”
“Oh, but I was and you saw me. I’m quite sure of it,” Minerva insisted.
He arched an eyebrow, looking at her uncertainly. “I apologize. Did you enjoy the performance?” he asked.
Her hands fluttered before her. “I find all the Shakespearean plays dreadfully boring.”
Boring? Amelia had read many of Shakespeare’s works and would love the opportunity to see a play of Hamlet.
The duchess cleared her throat. “Our family has been looking forward to the house party, my lord. I know Minerva has been especially excited to see an estate as lovely as Rosehill.”
Amelia glanced at Brandon but saw no sign that he was eager to have Minerva and the duchess as guests. He merely smiled politely.
Caroline stepped forward to touch Minerva’s arm. “You must be parched from the journey. Would you like to come inside and join several of us for tea? The duchess and the others can join my grandmother.”
Minerva looked to her mother for approval, then nodded. “Tea sounds wonderful.” She followed Caroline into the house. Amelia and Chloe trailed behind.
The young ladies arranged themselves on sofas in the sitting room and a maid delivered tea and pastries.
“How is London?” Caroline asked.
Minerva sighed. “The same. I’ve been to half a dozen appointments with the modiste in preparation of upcoming soirees, balls, and garden parties of the Season. It’s been tedious.”
Amelia stared. Not long ago, all three Somerton sisters had worn used serviceable dresses without a scrap of lace or ribbon and had taken nothing for granted. In contrast, Minerva seemed spoiled and ungrateful.
“I’ve been anticipating my visit to the country and look forward to a pleasant change of scenery,” Minerva said.
Caroline sat forward in her seat and perched her teacup on her saucer. “Now that everyone has arrived, we have many fun activities planned. Archery. A fox hunt. Bird watching. A picnic. Even a village fair that comes once a year.”
Minerva’s brow furrowed. “A village fa
ir?”
“It’s the one day a year everyone at Rosehill can enjoy. It’s a tradition for as long as I can remember. The entertainments are wonderful, too. Wheelbarrow races, bobbing for apples, and foot races. Even traveling merchants arrive to sell their wares,” Caroline said.
Minerva lowered her teacup. “Mother says we shouldn’t mingle with the servants.”
There was a brief silence as all heads turned to Caroline. “Perhaps you can make an exception.”
“Will your brother, Lord Vale, attend?” Minerva asked.
“He goes every year,” Caroline said. “We all do.”
“Will he participate in all the other planned activities you’ve mentioned as well?” Minerva asked.
Caroline shrugged. “I suppose so. Although he finds bird watching tedious.”
For a moment, Minerva looked off into the distance, and Amelia wondered if she was cataloging which activities to attend at the house party based on Lord Vale’s preferences.
“What do you think of Lord Weston and Lord Emmett?” Chloe blurted out.
Amelia shot her sister a disapproving glare. The men had only been in the house for ten minutes. Did Chloe have to be so obvious?
Minerva sipped her tea. “One brother is a rapscallion and the other quite serious. I haven’t given them much thought. Now Lord Vale—”
“Which one?” Chloe interrupted.
Minerva blinked. “Pardon?”
“Which one is the rapscallion?”
“The youngest one, Lord Emmett,” Caroline answered. “Helen says he likes the gaming tables, even more than the ladies.”
“I’m not surprised,” Minerva said, setting down her teacup with a chink. “Mama says ladies should avoid men of such caliber.”
Amelia wondered if Lady Minerva repeated all of her mother’s lectures. Did she have any of her own thoughts?
Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons) Page 7