“For a tumultuous bout of lovemaking, you don’t appear too disheveled, save for a few bits of bark and leaves. God’s truth, Amelia. I can’t keep my hands off you,” he said.
“Then I fear I’ll never finish the paintings.”
His smile tugged at her heart. “I’ve always had faith in you.”
She licked her swollen lips, tasting Brandon’s lingering kiss. “We must return.”
He offered his arm, and they left the woods and started back through the crowd. She spotted Minerva in the distance. Amelia couldn’t believe that the women hadn’t moved from where they’d left them, and they were still haggling with the peddler over his goods.
Amelia’s step halted, and she looked up at Brandon. “Will you take me to the textile mill?”
He tilted his head to the side. “I’d thought you’d forgotten about it.”
“Not a chance.”
One dark eyebrow shot up. “You’re persistent, aren’t you?”
She lifted her chin. “I can be quite tenacious. I was serious when I’d said I want to see it.”
A corner of his lips curled in a grin. “Tenacious indeed. The morning after tomorrow then?”
“I’ll be ready.”
“What will you tell your sisters?”
She gave him a mischievous smile. “Leave them to me.”
…
“I’d like a word with you.”
Brandon knew that tone better than anyone. He looked up from the billiard table to see his grandmother standing in the doorway. Her five-foot frame had the distinct posture of a military sergeant.
He set down his cue stick and motioned for her to enter. “How can I be of assistance?”
Her brows drew together and she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. “Don’t you take that tone with me. You know precisely what this is about.”
“No. I don’t.”
“The village fair.”
For a moment, he wondered if she had spotted him feeding Amelia a piece of pineapple. He realized that was highly unlikely with all the hustle and bustle at the fair. She was most likely upset about what had transpired in the carriage ride. Although she wasn’t in their carriage, gossip traveled quickly.
He leaned against the billiard table and folded his arms across his chest. “What about the fair?”
“The duchess came to me and voiced her concerns about the middle Somerton girl.”
Amelia. “What on earth could she be concerned about?”
The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “I may be old, but I’m not a fool. Is there something going on between the two of you?”
Brandon kept his expression bland. The past year of keeping the estate’s financial troubles from his family had served him well. He’d become practiced at showing no emotion. His grandmother was remarkably astute and the smallest flinch or the slightest flicker of his brow could raise her suspicions.
“I assure you there is nothing going on between Amelia and myself,” he insisted.
“The duchess sensed something.”
Brandon rolled his eyes. “Amelia is an attractive young lady. You can’t expect me not to notice.”
Her rigid shoulders eased a degree. “Well, I’d rather you notice Lady Minerva.”
“I understand what you want.” His tone was more caustic than he intended, his grandmother’s repeated mention of Minerva was beginning to grate on him.
“Do you? I know there are financial strains on the estate. I’m also aware you do not feel the need to share the extent of the strains with me. While I appreciate your concern for my sensibilities, I want to see the estate looked after before I leave this earth.”
He eyed her and wondered how much to tell her. “I’m not ready to marry.”
“You need an heir and money. The duke’s daughter is the answer to your prayers.”
“I’m not attracted to her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a wave of her hand as if attraction were the last item on a long list of traits to seek in a future wife.
He unfolded his arms and faced the billiard table. His gaze focused on the green baize and his hands clutched the table’s side rail. His thoughts churned to discover some solution to his financial dilemma he had not already considered a hundred times. “There’s a good chance I can dig myself out of this debt. The textile mill is showing potential for—”
The dowager leaned forward and glared at him. “You still need an heir.”
“She’s not the only available heiress,” he argued. “You must have noticed her lack of intelligence?”
“Intelligence isn’t a critical factor. She would make a good hostess. You can easily hire a good housekeeper to make up for any mental shortcomings.”
Mental shortcomings? He’d never have put it so mildly. She was dimwitted, blindly followed whatever advice her mother gave her, and he found her exceedingly boring. “Am I to have no choice?”
“Your father would have blessed the arrangement. Your mother, too, if she were alive.”
If his parents were alive, they wouldn’t be in a position to give marital advice. They’d hated each other for as long as Brandon could remember. A cold marriage along with a frigid marital bed. A lifetime of misery.
Jesus. Just the thought was enough to make him ill.
“Where else will you find a duke’s daughter?” she asked.
The problem was he didn’t want a duke’s daughter.
He wanted a forger’s daughter.
Amelia’s image rose in his mind. Deep blue eyes with an oval, exotic slant. Creamy skin. Vivid auburn hair that he longed to loosen from her pins. He’d taken her virginity, but he had yet to possess her in a bed. The thought led to others, and he fantasized about other erotic positions that he’d wanted to explore with her. What would it feel like to have that silken hair trail down his chest? To have those magnificent breasts bounce above him as she rode him? Of all the women, why was she the one he couldn’t forget? The one he had to possess? The one he wanted to break all the rules for?
Their arrangement had started out as beneficial to both of them. He’d get to watch her as she painted his portrait and a copy of the Dutch landscape so he could sell the original for profit. She’d receive art lessons from a master painter at the Royal Academy. It was perfect.
Except he couldn’t keep his hands from her.
He’d done more than make love to her. He’d shared his troubles with her, and it had felt good, had felt right. He could talk to her and share a piece of his burdens. She didn’t judge him. She was highly intelligent and she listened. She didn’t come from nobility. She’d worked for a living and she understood business. Most remarkable, she wanted to visit the textile mill.
If only he’d been satisfied with simply kissing her.
But she was like a drug he couldn’t control, intoxicating and alluring, impossible to resist.
He was aware of his grandmother watching him, waiting for his answer. At his continued silence, her brow smoothed and she stepped close to touch his hand. “I know you work hard every night to solve the problems your father left us. I’m proud of you. I only ask that you pay more attention to Lady Minerva. And for heaven’s sake, don’t ogle Amelia Somerton or any other female while you are in the presence of the duchess. She’s not only shrewdly observant, but quite aggressive.”
“I will be polite, but nothing more,” he said firmly. “Do not expect me to propose to Lady Minerva.”
Chapter Seventeen
Escaping the watchful eyes of other house party guests took planned maneuvering. But a few of the women, along with Weston and Emmett, had asked for art lessons, which provided Amelia with an excuse. In order to properly provide instruction, she would need additional art supplies and had to travel to the village to purchase these.
Eliza—long accustomed to Amelia needing to shop for brushes, cakes of watercolor, or charcoal to work—never raised an eyebrow at the request. And since the maids were all busy caring for the femal
e guests at the house party, Amelia took as her required chaperone a middle-aged kitchen maid and widow named Lily and set off for the village.
The village was not her intended destination. As soon as her carriage had traveled past the winding gravel drive and onto the rural country road, she spotted Brandon leaning against a tall oak. He raised a hand and halted the carriage.
He opened the carriage door and climbed inside. His presence filled every inch of the carriage, and tension crackled in the air between them.
“Are you certain about this?” he asked.
“Yes. I want to see the mill.”
He leaned out the window to speak with the driver, then settled onto the padded bench across from her. The carriage lurched forward and set off at a brisk pace. He turned to the woman sitting in the corner. “Lily, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Amelia was surprised he knew the girl’s name. Lily was a kitchen helper, not a servant in the rooms occupied by family, not someone he would see every day. Then she recalled that he’d known all of the tenant’s names, and admiration blossomed in her chest. He wasn’t the usual sort of earl; he took interest in the estate and the people who lived and worked there.
“We are going to take a little trip that will require your silence when we return. There’ll be something extra in your month’s wages for you. Understand?” It was a command more than a request, but gently given.
Lily’s head bobbed up and down. “As far as I know, my lord, ye weren’t with us and the miss and I went to the village and back.”
“Precisely.”
A half hour later, they halted before a large building. Black soot curled from a chimney, marring the beautiful blue sky.
Amelia turned to the maid. “Stay inside the carriage. We won’t be long.”
Lily’s eyes were wide as she stared at the brick factory. “Yes, miss.” It was clear she had no desire to enter the building.
Brandon hopped out of the carriage, then turned to help Amelia alight. “I must warn you that it’s stifling hot inside.”
“I’m not completely ignorant of factory life. There was a large paper mill nearby where we lived. The family next door worked there.”
The parents and all eight of their children. Amelia and her sisters had occupied the tiny one-bedroom apartment beside them. Amelia had counted her blessings that they’d never had to work in the factories. Chloe had often been ill with a lingering cough, and Amelia knew her sister wouldn’t have survived the harsh conditions of factory life.
Brandon opened the massive front doors, and Amelia stepped inside. She was immediately engulfed by a wall of heat and a cacophony of noise. Rows of machinery operated at an incredibly fast pace. Belts whirred. Bobbins spun. Four huge men turned a large wheel at one machine. The odor of oil used to lubricate the machines and the sweat of the workers permeated the air. Her senses were overwhelmed with sights, sounds, smells, and heat.
“Come.” Brandon took her hand as he led her into the factory.
She was grateful she had worn her light summer muslin dress. She still had on her gloves and her palms were sweating inside the kidskin. She scanned the massive factory floor. Female workers scurried about checking the spinning bobbins and hurried up and down the rows to ensure the equipment was working properly.
No one paid them any attention, but Amelia watched them in wide-eyed wonder. How on earth did they not faint from the heat? She studied the scene and attempted to memorize details that she would incorporate into her sketches later that evening.
She didn’t see any children. She recalled that Brandon had eliminated child labor at his mill. It was a noble effort on his part and revealed more about his character. She understood he’d have to hire adults to fill the positions and it would cost him more in pay.
Her attention was drawn to a machine with a long row of bobbins. She tried unsuccessfully to count the number of whirling bobbins. There were at least a hundred. As she watched, fascinated, each one was being threaded at breathtaking speed.
Brandon noted her interest. “Those are the spinning jennies. The machine was invented by James Hargreaves a little over fifty years ago. His invention allows one worker to spin many separate yarns at the same time. It revolutionized the textile industry.”
“It’s amazing how quickly they spin,” she said.
“Once the bobbins are full they are taken upstairs to the looms where the cloth is woven.”
Her thoughts were cut short by the approach of a middle-aged man with a battlefield of wrinkles, straw-colored hair, and thick shoulders.
Brandon stepped forward and shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Begley. May I introduce Miss Somerton. Mr. Begley is my factory manager.”
Mr. Begley nodded in greeting. If he thought it odd Brandon had brought along a woman, he showed no sign.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Brandon said.
They walked farther into the massive room. Brandon tucked Amelia’s arm into his, keeping her by his side.
“It’s good you’re here, my lord. Some things have improved. Others have not,” Mr. Begley said.
“The labor?”
“I ceased the child labor just as you instructed, but many of the workers are disgruntled.”
Brandon’s brow furrowed. “Disgruntled? Haven’t you hired women and men to replace them?”
“I have. But the families of the children have lost a source of income. They need every shilling just to survive.”
Amelia immediately understood. Her former neighbors had relied on the income each of their eight children produced from the factory. The entire family rose at five in the morning, ate a piece of bread, and returned past seven in the evening. Amelia had learned the children had only three short breaks when they were fed oatmeal. Other children vied for positions, but work wasn’t always available. The mother had often said it kept her children out of the gutter and occupied them. Idle hands were Satan’s hands, she’d said. Amelia didn’t agree with that reasoning, but she sympathized. A hungry belly was a desperate one. She began thinking of a solution to the labor problem at Brandon’s mill. There had to be a way to compromise, to keep the families’ income steady and care for the children at the same time.
“I don’t want to hire the children back,” Brandon said.
“The families may leave for other factories who will hire their children,” Begley said.
“What of the orphans? They don’t have families to protest.”
“The orphanage will undoubtedly take in fewer children, and those it does house will be sent out to work in other mills.”
A muscle ticked at Brandon’s jaw. “Damn. I wanted to help them, not make their lives worse.”
Amelia listened with rising dismay when a sudden solution sprang to mind. “There’s another way,” she said.
Both men turned to her.
“Go on,” Brandon said.
“The children can still work, but you can improve their conditions. Strictly limit their hours, give them frequent breaks, and restrict their duties to only those you approve,” she said.
“That sounds like a reasonable approach,” Begley said.
She glanced at Begley, surprised at the support from the factory manager.
Brandon’s green gaze studied her as if he could reach into her soul and read all her secrets. He seemed not to be mocking her, but rather considering her suggestion.
“If that will help the families without hurting the children, then I agree. But I don’t want the children working in dangerous positions. Make it so,” Brandon instructed Begley.
“Yes, my lord,” Begley said.
“Now let’s go to the looms,” Brandon said.
Amelia recalled Brandon’s account of the difficulties he’d been having with the power looms. Had the problems been resolved? She hoped so. She realized how much he cared about the textile mill. He wasn’t only interested in the profit that would increase the earldom’s coffers, but for the people who worked here. They wer
e no different from the tenants who farmed his land. He may be nobility, but he cared.
They left the first floor and climbed a wooden staircase to the second where a dozen looms were situated. The machines were much larger than what she’d imagined. It was immediately obvious which looms were power looms and which were hand operated. At the hand operated looms workers manually moved the shuttle to weave the thread. The process was painstakingly slow. Only three of the looms were hand operated. The rest were enormous pieces of equipment driven by thick belts that ran near the factory ceiling.
Thread was automatically fed cross-wise between alternating upper and lower threads. Then a harness raised those that had been lower and at the same time dropped those that had been above before a shuttle came back, pushing the threads firmly together. She watched as inches and soon several feet of brand-new cloth emerged. The process was earsplitting, and she wondered how the workers hadn’t lost their hearing.
“How are they powered?” She shouted to be heard above the machines.
“Steam is produced by a coal-burning furnace in the bowels of the factory,” Brandon said.
“It’s amazing how quickly they can weave. I’ve never given cloth much thought other than the bolts I see at the modiste shop,” she said.
He grinned. “It does add a bit of perspective doesn’t it?”
Begley motioned them over to a power loom that sat idle. “This one broke down today.”
Brandon stiffened and a muscle ticked by his eye. “I don’t believe it. I thought all the looms were operational.”
“They have been. This one gave us trouble this morning,” Begley said.
Brandon wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I’ve been over all the maintenance reports. You’ve hired different workers to make the repairs, correct?”
“I have. The repairs are done correctly, but days later the shuttles break. Only the steam powered looms are affected,” Begley said.
“It makes no sense. They shouldn’t break down so frequently. We need the mill to increase its production. The power looms are capable of producing cloth a hundred times faster than the handlooms. Every loom must produce at full capacity or the factory will never be fully profitable,” Brandon said.
Real Earls Break the Rules (Infamous Somertons) Page 14