A Hasty Betrothal

by Jessica Nelson

  Elizabeth had attended another ball last night, and it had been a tricky business. She’d tried her best to smile, to engage, but she had not danced a single dance and she’d felt the speculative gazes of matrons and debutantes alike. No one had cut her though, and for that she was thankful.

  Miles had not attended the event, for he’d been busy working.

  “There you are.” Father emerged from his study, followed by her betrothed. “Your mother has left to pay calls and find out where we stand with your...situation.” He cleared his throat, his immaculate visage contorting with the supposed pain of having to think of his daughter’s less than stellar choices.

  “Are you ready?” Miles walked toward her, his expression inscrutable.

  Wordlessly, she nodded. His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than she thought necessary. She wrinkled her face at him. His lips twitched. He turned to her father and held out his hand.

  “I trust I’ve answered your questions thoroughly, and that we may proceed with our contract?”

  “My man of business will be in touch.”

  The two men nodded in a masculine code that, frankly, Elizabeth had no desire to understand. It did not escape her that Miles probably had a man of business, too. He probably spent hours each day immersed in contracts, which she’d never really considered before.

  What a lot of boring reading.

  Give her a good piece of fiction or an informative article on the newest technological advances...but contracts? She repressed a shudder.

  Her father returned to his study, hardly glancing at her. It was time to leave. She felt quite sick, and moistness slicked her palms. Surreptitiously she swiped them against her dress. Miles took her arm gently. Warmth radiated from him. His cologne surrounded her. And it seemed as he looked down at her that his eyes held unexpected compassion. Their gray calm reminded her of a quiet sky, overcast with no wind and plenty of shadow.

  Did he guess how difficult this journey was for her? How inept and terrified she felt? She swallowed and forced herself to stand straighter, to look brave when she felt perilously close to bursting into childish tears. The last thing her family needed was for Miles to withdraw his offer because he thought Elizabeth incapable of being the kind of wife he wanted.

  Soon they were situated in the carriage. Elizabeth clutched her novel, hardly speaking as the rig rolled down the road, heading out of London and toward Cheshire. Bright skies promised safe travel and little to fear on the journey.

  They had mapped out which inns to stay at, should the journey require more than one night of rest.

  Elizabeth swallowed, very aware of Miles’s proximity and the lengthy travel ahead. His satchel bulged with papers. Her book felt light in comparison.

  Who was this man she’d pledged her life to? Busy searching his satchel, Miles did not appear to notice her perusal, for which she was thankful. He was not in a brooding mood. Of that she was sure. But not once had he cracked a smile or teased her. His solemnity concerned her and added to the coiled rigidity of her emotions.

  He set a pair of spectacles on his fine nose and drew a thick stack of papers from the satchel. He looked up, catching her open gaze.

  “I see you brought a book.” There was not the slightest hint that he’d noticed her gawking at him, nor that he even cared if he had. “If it is all the same to you, I’ll be reading through these papers for the bulk of our travel. I trust you can entertain yourself?”

  So formal. So distant. Elizabeth nodded slowly, at a loss. Who was this man in front of her? Certainly not the carefree gentleman who had always chided Elizabeth’s bibliophilia. Nor was he the mischievous boy who’d yanked her pigtails and dared her to climb Grandmother’s tallest oak.

  No, this man across from her, with his long legs encased in breeches and shiny Hessians and his serious brow fastened to the work before him, was not the Miles she had always known.

  A chill started at the base of her toes and rippled upward. Trembling, she pressed her lips together and stared out the carriage’s window, scarcely seeing the change of countryside as they traveled north.

  For suddenly the prospect of meeting new people appeared far less dangerous than a future spent with a man who had become a complete and utter stranger.

  * * *

  Miles exhaled with relief when the carriage pulled up to his newly acquired factory. The journey had been smooth but long. He was a little ahead of schedule, arriving before his man of business expected him. He’d decided not to send a post, the better to keep Mr. Shapely on his toes. Though such underhanded tactics were not a common method for him, his father had taught him that it sometimes paid to be unpredictable. It kept employees accountable.

  Not that Shapely had given him any cause for worry. His longtime man of business sent detailed reports and kept meticulous records. Miles had no reason to doubt his abilities.

  When he’d first toured the factory months ago, he’d decided to buy it. He’d known he’d need to make changes, because the sight that assailed him had been heart wrenching. Vacant-eyed mothers and emaciated children worked the bulk of the machinery.

  Not only were the employees ill-treated, but the factory was dirty and mismanaged. After the contracts had been settled, he had given the factory manager a month to improve conditions. That time was almost up. He’d planned to return to oversee the changes, and in the meantime, he’d left Mr. Shapely to facilitate the process.

  Inheriting the family business was a responsibility Miles didn’t assume lightly. His father taught him and his brother to treat their employees with respect and fairness. Unfortunately, not all factory owners valued their workers. Then again, not all owners had risen from the depths of poverty to become wealthy men as had his father. He had left his children not only with a financial inheritance, but with a reputation of being worthy of the title gentleman. It was a responsibility Miles did not assume lightly.

  He put aside the studies he’d been perusing and watched Bitt. Head bent, she read with a quiet ferocity that befuddled him. Her hair was twisted in a neat auburn chignon that allowed two pretty curls to drape over her petite shoulders. She had not noticed that their carriage had stopped.

  The footman opened their door. Sunlight drenched the innards of the rig. Bitt looked up, blinking like an owl caught unawares. A strange and unwieldy emotion knotted in Miles’s chest. There was something so intensely feminine and gentle about Elizabeth.

  After their visit to Gunter’s, he wasn’t sure he’d done the right thing in agreeing to this betrothal. She was a rare flower, a fragile bloom of womanhood in need of protection. He may not be able to give her his heart nor his time, but could he provide a safe haven for her soul?

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Miles held out his satchel to the footman, who took it before stepping to the side while Miles exited the carriage. The sound of the mill greeted him. Water charging over the mill wheel created a constant rushing noise.

  Once on the ground, he beckoned Bitt to step out of the rig.

  Clutching her book, she held out a hand.

  “Leave the novel,” he said.

  “Must I?” The timidity he’d so often seen on her in the past had returned. Her obvious fear clawed at his resolve to remain distant when every instinct propelled him to comfort her.

  Feeling grim and tamping his emotions down to a more manageable place, he took her hand. “The book may be ruined or destroyed if you bring it in. A cotton mill is no place for dreams.”

  Her chin quivered for the briefest moment before notching up as though she’d found some starch in her spine. She set the book on the seat and then allowed him to help her out.

  He caught a whiff of her perfume, wildflowers and honey. He set her quickly on the ground, releasing her, forcing himself to forget how soft her skin had felt against his, how tiny her waist beneath his palm.


  “This belongs to you?” She offered him a tremulous smile as she pointed toward the factory before them. An imposing brick building, it offered little in the way of gentility. The first time Anastasia had seen his other factory, she’d had a fit of the vapors.

  Bitt was made of sterner stuff, he guessed, for her color remained healthy and her eyes direct.

  “Yes,” he answered. “I’ve some changes to make. It was in disrepair and not producing a profit.” He shifted on his feet, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Perhaps he should have waited to bring her here. Waited until flowers and shrubs had been planted in the barren landscape. Anything to escape the illusion that they were about to enter a prison. An illusion he hoped to change very soon.

  “Owning a factory seems as though it requires a great deal of time.”

  He grimaced, fighting the urge to look down at her lest she see his discomfiture. One of Anastasia’s greatest complaints had been his lack of time spent with her. “Most of my reading involves articles regarding profit and loss, how to run a mill in the most efficient ways. Sometimes I enjoy a good, scientific discourse on new inventions.”

  She shot him a look of surprise, which he couldn’t decipher. A part of his preoccupation during their travel was because he had wanted to avoid conversation that might turn toward uncomfortable topics. It was bad enough that her perfume had filled the interior of his carriage, making focusing impossible because all he could think of was the woman sitting across from him.

  “This is it.” He held open the factory door, his breath captive while he waited for her denouncement. This was his reason for bringing her, wasn’t it? To prove that while she wished to avoid ruin, marriage to him could be a far more riskier matter. “What a man of business does while the beau monde sleeps.”

  Bitt tossed him a frosty look, no doubt catching the gist of his words and taking offense. Let her. He didn’t have the time nor the inclination to tiptoe around titled snobbery. Unlike some people, he worked for his money.

  Thus armed with that bit of logic and bitterness, he surveyed his acquisition, trying to see it through her eyes. Or rather, smell it.

  As they entered the breaking room, noxious heat slammed into Miles. He was ready for the change, used to the odor of machinery, human sweat and dirty cotton, but Elizabeth was not prepared for such a blast. She halted immediately. The sounds of the machinery were muted in the front entrance, but as soon as they entered the spinning room, the clamor would be ceaseless.

  She fumbled in her skirts, pulling out a lacy handkerchief and pressing it to her nose. Her eyes were saucers. “How can anyone work here? Surely this is unhealthy.”

  Lips pressed together, Miles surveyed the breaking room. It was wide and open. On one side, hundreds of bales of cotton were stacked up against the wall, waiting to be broken open in the blowing room and carded. The door on the other wall swung open.

  “Mr. Hawthorne, good to see you.” His manager, John Grealey, hurried over. His slight frame and pallid skin testified to his history working in the mills. The man’s knowledge was a boon, which was why Miles kept him on when he bought the factory. Unfortunately, Grealey was used to horrid working conditions, and since he’d been a child laborer himself, he displayed neither sympathy nor compassion toward his workers. He had become hardened toward humanity.

  An attitude Miles sought to remedy.

  “Good day, Grealey. This is my betrothed, Lady Elizabeth Wayland.”

  His manager’s smile froze when his gaze alighted on Bitt’s face. He stared too long, attention fastened to the birthmark on her cheek. Anger surged through Miles in hot, undulating waves. The man’s nose twitched and he quickly bowed, perhaps to hide the play of emotions on his face.

  “My lady,” he said.

  “Mr. Grealey.” Elizabeth’s eyes flickered. Miles noted the flash of hurt, followed by resolve. She nodded to Grealey, the tilt of her head regal and cold.

  “I wish to look in on things,” Miles said as his manager straightened, eyes averted from Bitt. “We will be touring every room. I trust my changes were implemented speedily?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I’ve been working on it, sir.” Grealey swept his palm through the air. “We installed windows and thoroughly washed the walls. That did cut into processing time, though. We are behind and hired out extra positions to fill the gap. Mr. Shapely was by just yesterday to approve the changes.”

  Miles nodded. He’d check the books himself. Mere maintenance should not be such a detriment to production. He touched Bitt’s elbow and, nodding a goodbye to Grealey, they left the room. They turned into a hallway. The sounds of the machines grew louder. Before taking her into the gut of the factory, he stopped at a small square of a room on his left where his employees ate during breaks.

  Four women sat at the table. Their tired gazes met his. One woman raised her hand in greeting. Beside him, Bitt was silent. The swish of her dress was a faint sound. She looked like a bright flower, clean and fragrant, in this dank room.

  There were only four windows and the grime kept out the sun. They had obviously not been cleaned in years, despite Grealey’s assurances.

  Something akin to regret filled Miles. He gestured to his employees. “Good morning, ladies. I am Mr. Hawthorne. This is my betrothed, Lady Elizabeth Wayland.”

  Several my ladys were uttered, but he did not miss the suspicious eyes nor the resentful gazes of the women, whom looked to be Bitt’s age, though one could not tell it for the lank hair and gray skin.

  There were several more changes to be made here, he determined. The people in his father’s mills had been happy and healthy. Indeed, his other factory was productive despite the humane changes he’d implemented, changes which other mill owners had warned him against.

  Elizabeth performed a curtsy, expression shuttered. They left and traversed the long hall to the door at the end, which would lead downstairs to the main part of the mill. To fill the silence which Bitt so readily allowed to bloom, Miles talked of mechanics. How the bales of cotton arrived and must be sifted through in the blowing room. The way the children pulled twigs from it to make it ready for carding and spinning.

  “Children?” Her head snapped up.

  “Well, yes, most families work all day here.”

  “But children? Miles...” The disapproval in her voice set his teeth on edge. He guided her to the door, pausing before opening it. He did not need his employees to hear her remarks and start a riot like the ones happening in other parts of the country. One of the reasons he wanted her here was to gain a feminine perspective, but he had not expected accusation.

  The air here was no better than in previous rooms. He struggled to take a deeper breath, knowing part of the problem was his irritation at Elizabeth’s criticism.

  “I told you there are changes to be made. Laws are being created to help the underprivileged and protect them from being taken advantage of, but in the meantime, it’s my duty to provide these people with a wage so that they can eat. Do you understand? I purchased this factory knowing I had much to change in it.”

  “Thou doth protest too much, sir.” Bitt’s eyes flashed at him in the dim hallway.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “I did not bring you here to criticize my work. This is how I make money, Elizabeth. I’m not some titled earl who lives off his wife’s dowry. Nor am I a wastrel making my fortunes at the gaming table.”

  “And how did you come to be in possession of your factories? Did not your father start this family business? In essence, you are living off his hard work.”

  Miles felt not the slightest hint of amusement at her jab. “It is my own work ethic that has continued the prosperity of my mills. And what do you know of our business?”

  “I know many things.” Her chin lifted. “I know you’ve a brother who also owns factories, and that you have a reputation for
being a gentleman who treats all who meet you with fairness and courtesy. I know your father died while you were at university.” Her voice faltered and despite the glare still residing in the icy depths of her eyes, the cut of her lips softened. “I was sorry to hear of your loss.”

  “You came to the funeral.” He remembered her hair, still the bright red of youth, and the sorrowful look she’d shared with him at the grave site. As though she understood his pain. Though they had not spoken, it had been an odd moment of comfort he’d never forgotten.

  “Yes.” She looked down. The concrete floor was dirty and littered with all the dregs of a cotton mill.

  What was she thinking? Did she hate this place? Even he disliked this aspect of business, but he saw too many possibilities for betterment to let the factory go. “These people deserve a better life, Bitt,” he said quietly. “With God’s help, I can give them that.”

  “By hiring children? By exposing them to noxious fumes and long hours of labor?” She glanced behind him, to where they’d left the exhausted women. “Their youth is gone. What joy can they find in life? How do they even have time to read?”

  “Read? My dear Bitt, the majority of these employees are illiterate.”

  Her lips flattened into a frown. “I don’t understand why you insisted I visit this place.”

  “I want you cognizant of what my life is. What my daily duties consist of. I hoped for a feminine viewpoint, not a lecture on impractical ideals. Marriage will make turning a blind eye to my business impossible.”

  “I turn a blind eye to nothing,” she said crossly.

  “You are irritated.”

  Mouth set, she looked away but high color tinted her cheeks. “Show me the rest of your factory, then.”

  “Bitt...” He hesitated. Despite his earlier thoughts of protecting her, perhaps it was better if she did not marry him. A place like this lent no protection for an innocent heart. He had entertained the small hope that she would add womanly softness to the factory. Perhaps a kinder ambience. “If you want to reconsider our betrothal—”