3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 33

  I descend the steps, but just before I explore down a corridor, I pause and study the layout. I have no idea what is behind the wall nearest the stair, but were it knocked out, the space might serve as a private waiting area for customers or merchants. A far better prospect than standing in a stuffy passageway without so much as a chair. And if the space proves large enough, with a new wall or two built, I might even have an office of my own. I shall inquire about the possibility today.

  That bit of business decided, I stride down the passageway with a bounce to my step. It feels good, this decision-making. Choosing what to do and how to do it. I will find Edmund and share my plans then begin my education in the structure and functions of a lacemaking factory.

  I push open a heavy wooden door and enter a Christmas wonderland. Thread dust hovers in the air like so many snowflakes—in all the air, even that which I breathe. It goes down tickly and rises up in a cough. But the affront to my ears is worse. Clicking. Clacking. Bang-bang-banging. I lift my hands to cover my ears, so deafening is the noise. The great machines filling the room rumble like monsters, their giant arms reaching and grabbing. Their big black bodies hunch row upon row. Large leather belts and pulleys run nearly floor to ceiling, whirring from wheel to wheel.

  In the middle of this chaos, people scurry, tending the beasts. White dust settles on their shoulders and heads. Scarves cover the bottom halves of their faces. I blink. Even were I to find Edmund here, we’d never be able to talk above the din.

  Skirting the machines and dodging the slant-eyed looks of workers, I wend my way across the long room and push through another door into blessed silence, comparatively speaking. The area is ill lit and cramped. Three of the walls contain a door. The fourth, a staircase. I lift my hem and ascend.

  At the top of the stairs there is only one option: a scarred wooden door. The handle gives easily enough, and the door groans open into a large, narrow room. A row of women in white smocks sit on chairs, back to back, lace pooling on their laps, facing the row of windows high up on either wall. Their heads turn in unison, and they stare at me.

  The scrutiny of at least twenty women prickles over my skin as if the needles they hold jab me instead of their lace pieces. Some pause halfway through a stitch. Others lower their hands. None look any too pleased that a strange woman has burst in upon their industry.

  The woman nearest me angles her head, her eyes a translucent grey in the shaft of light streaming through the glass. “May I help you, miss?”

  Her elbows and shoulders poke knobs in her smock, such a thin waif is she, yet there is something familiar about her frame. Something almost recognizable in the sloop of her shoulders and the fine spray of freckles dotting her face.

  Ahh. The woman who’d bumped into me yesterday.

  “Perhaps you may.” I curve my lips into a pleasant smile. Who knew when the woman had last been treated with such a small kindness? Surely grins were not shared frequently in this group of needles and bones. “Could you tell me where to find Mr. Archer?”

  “Oh, he rarely comes up here, miss. No machinery need be tended in the finishing room.”

  “I see. I am sorry to have disrupted your work, Miss …?”

  “No miss about me. I’m Mary. Just Mary.”

  “Well, Mary.” I flash another smile. “I am pleased to meet you and thank you for your assistance.”

  Mary turns her face back to the light pouring in and once again lifts her needle. The other women, apparently satisfied the show is over, turn as well.

  Backtracking, I descend the stairs, all the while incubating a newborn idea. Clearly those women are malnourished. Would it not be to their benefit—and that of the company’s—if they and all the other workers were treated to a cup of tea and milk partway through the day? Such a small treat would not only boost production but morale as well. Maybe I could even invite the blind ladies at the Old Lace Shop. I pen a mental note to ask Edmund about it.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I turn right and choose another door, which opens into the yard, once again a’bustle with activity, especially near the dock. Perhaps Edmund is overseeing a shipment.

  I set off across the gravel, but three steps later, a young boy carrying a package scurries across my path and trips on an overturned cobble. I grab him by the back of his coat before his face smashes into the ground and heave him upward. He can weigh no more than a basket of puppies and is every bit as wiggly.

  Cap askew, he peeks up at me from beneath the brim, white fluff clinging to his coat. “Beg yer pardon, miss. Got to run!”

  He snatches up the fallen parcel and darts off, kicking up gravel from his flying feet. At that rate, he’ll scrape his knees and his chin before the day is done. Quite the contrast from the austere schoolboys I passed on the way here, and with that thought, my chest squeezes. That boy should be in school as well, not running errands in a noisy, crowded lacemaking factory. When would he have an opportunity to learn the basics of an education?

  Nibbling my lower lip, I proceed toward the dock. Maybe besides installing a waiting room and an office, there might be enough space to include a small tearoom for the malnourished women finishing off lace and a schoolroom for the errand boys.

  Gruff laughter pulls me from my plans. I climb three rough stairs and close in on a duo of men with their backs to me. Small puffs of smoke rise above their heads, the scent of green-leaf tobacco wafting out from them.

  I stop just behind the fellow in a brown coat. “Excuse me, I am looking for Mr. Archer.”

  The man stiffens and whirls, tucking one hand behind him. Is he hiding a pipe? But as his gaze meets mine, the question flees from my mind, and I suck in a breath. A scar slices across one side of his mouth, right through the lips, like an earthworm taking a wrong turn on his face.

  “Well, well. Are ye now?” He laughs, the sort of ribald chuckle that could heat the cheeks of a harlot. “That’s a fine jest, this time o’ day.”

  I retreat a step, though instantly I am aware that is a mistake. One should never back away from a monster lest he think it a game and give chase. How well I know this.

  As suspected, the man advances, a keen flash of interest in his gaze. His breath stinks of fish and smoke.

  I plant my feet, refusing to cower—a trait that marks me with my own scars. “I assure you, sir, I am in earnest. Do you know where I may find Mr. Archer?”

  “His grand house, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Turning aside, he litters the ground with a wad of spit then swipes his free hand across his lips. “Master don’t never come this early, and why should he when he expects us here at the crack o’ dawn, running the business for him.”

  Disgust thickens his voice. I do not lay blame. Edmund should be here.

  I tip my head. “Thank you, Mister …?”

  “Gramble, miss.” He nods. “The name’s Gramble.”

  Clutching my skirt, I tread down the stairs, anger thudding in my steps. I do not know much about business, but not even a household manages without a master to direct it. And as majority owner, I must—I will—insist on Edmund’s presence. Here. Now.

  Even if I must yank him out of his bed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bella

  The carriage rolls past the last of the row houses on Nottingham’s west side. I peer out the window, curious and slightly irritated as to why Edmund insists on living such a distance from the factory. What if a crisis arises? Have the years so much changed him that he now thinks only of his comfort? His needs? What became of the man who lent me his coat in a sudden downpour or bent to a beggar child and handed over the contents of his pockets?

  My brow weighs heavy with a scowl. What a naive woman I am. Such callousness should not be so surprising coming from a man who gave not a whit for my feelings when he walked out of my life.

  Why, God? The prayer is my breath nowadays. Why does it have to be Edmund with whom I must partner?

  Self-pity stings my eyes, a
nd heaving a great sigh, I stare out at an ash tree. Yellow leaves on the farthest reaches of the branches flutter with the first whisper of autumn. The way the morning sun warms my cheek through the window, it is hard to believe that soon winter winds will blow.

  We turn off the main road and onto a narrow lane, winding through more trees. What a glorious ride this will be when oranges and reds dapple the greenery.

  The carriage stops. Stairs thump-bump into position, and the door opens. The jarvey lends me a hand as I descend.

  All my thoughts of Edmund’s comfort seeking fade as I stare, a bit slack jawed, at the cottage nestled in this clearing of oak and willow. A thatched roof curls over the whitewashed walls like a prayer. Mullioned windows with flower boxes flank each side of the front door. It is a cozy croft, well kept and welcoming, but better suited to a farm manager, not a factory owner.

  I turn back to the jarvey. “Are you certain this is the home of Mr. Edmund Archer?”

  He shrugs. “This is the direction you supplied, madam.”

  For a moment, I nibble my lip, doubt draping over my shoulders like a heavy blanket. Did the clerk at the factory copy it down wrong? Then again, perhaps this is the right home. Perhaps Edmund is married to a shrewish wife who wishes to remain separate from the clamour of the city.

  I stride to the door and lift my hand to knock; then I freeze. Am I really ready to meet the woman who stole the role that rightfully should’ve been mine?

  Nonsense. The past is behind me. I am my own woman now. Majority partner of a thriving business that desperately needs a master at the helm every morning. I rap on the wood.

  No answer.

  So I pound all the louder.

  Moments later, the door swings open to a grey-haired fellow with a round face and a rounder belly. One slight nudge and surely the man will roll away like a great glass marble. He smells slightly yeasty, as if he spends too much time begging buns from the cook.

  His gaze sweeps over me. “May I help you, miss?”

  I manage a smile. “I am here to see Mr. Archer.”

  Leaning aside, he gawks past my shoulder. “Your cart overturned, you say?”

  Though I’d heard no commotion at my back, his words alarm me. I whirl, expecting to see the carriage somehow tipped on its side. But the coach sits where I left it, the driver perched on the seat and partaking of a pipe.

  Confused, I once again face the old man, this time with a raised brow. “As you can see, there is no problem with my carriage. I should like to see Mr. Archer.”

  “Well, let’s have it, then.” He stretches out a gnarly hand, his knuckles the size of walnuts. Clearly he expects me to produce something … but what? I can’t help but cock my head like an inquisitive tot. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The bottle of starch water for Mrs. Harnuckle.”

  My former doubts rise with a vengeance. Perhaps I truly am at the wrong house. I retreat a step, consider bidding the man a good day, but on second thought decide to give it one more go. “Is this the home of Mr. Archer or is it not?”

  The man’s outstretched hand rises to his ear, and he cups his fingers while angling his head. “What’s that?”

  “Is this the home—”

  He holds up a finger, disappears for a moment, and then reappears with a cone-shaped trumpet that he holds to his ear. And suddenly the ridiculous conversation makes sense, though why the man answered the door without his hearing aid is a mystery—but not quite as mysterious as why Edmund employs the odd man in the first place.

  I step close to his listening device. “I am here to call on Mr. Archer.” The words march off my tongue like crisply stepping soldiers.

  He shakes his head. “Not possible, miss. Master doesn’t take any callers. Good day.”

  He pulls back, poised to shut the door.

  But I advance, righteous indignation filling me with boldness. A business partner ought not be rebuffed as a common beggar, but how to convince this bumbling servant?

  “Your master’s honour is at stake. Do you understand?” Since he’s lowered his ear trumpet, I practically shout.

  His lips push into an O. “Honour, you say? Master Archer’s?”

  I nod. Perhaps this will work. “Please. I need an immediate audience with him.”

  “Hmm …” His lips flatten. Slowly, though, he opens the door wide, sweeping his arm out for me to enter. “This way, miss.”

  Once past the threshold, he guides me toward the opening on the right side of the small vestibule, bypassing the opposite door that opens into a dining room and ushering me past a short passageway that I can only guess leads to a kitchen.

  “Wait here, miss, and do not venture a step elsewhere.”

  It is strange, this ordering about from a servant. Then again, everything about this venture is strange. Turning from his retreating back, I glance around the room. While it does not meet the standards of a London town house, it is nonetheless a comfortable sort of parlor. A fireplace graces one wall. A bow window with a cushion for sitting looks out on the front lawn, the perfect place to curl up with a good book and a cup of tea on a wintry afternoon.

  But I am drawn to a shelf on the opposite wall. There sits a framed mirror on an easel, a cut-glass lamp, and next to it, a small brooch hung by a ribbon from a nail. It is an oval bubble of glass with intricately woven hair inside, creating tiny fern fronds that encircle two initials.

  C. A.

  My breath hitches. Either this is a memento of Edmund’s deceased mother—though I don’t recall her first name starting with C—or it is a death ornament in memory of his wife. Either way, I feel like an intruder. Such an intimate object is not meant for public viewing. I never should have come. How many times had my husband upbraided me for impetuous acts such as this?

  I dash to the door, hoping to spy the old butler before he finds Edmund, when childish laughter draws my gaze down the corridor. A young girl, six or possibly seven, hobbles nimbly with one crutch, shriek-giggling all the way—until she sees me and stops.

  My fingers flutter to my lips, stifling a gasp. The girl gazes up at me with eyes the shade of Edmund’s yet slightly slanted. Her nose is flattened, her forehead taking up more space than is normal. But for all the oddities, her grin is large and infectious. I cannot help but drop my hand and smile back at her—

  Until a shadowy shape emerges behind her and roars, “What are you doing here?”

  The rage on Edmund’s face is alive, indicting and condemning in one black look. The young girl flinches at his outburst.

  Something ugly settles deep in my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. He is right. What am I doing here? Why did I not confront him in his office instead of in his home?

  Sucking in a breath, I package up regret, ignorance, and fear and stow it deep inside my heart to open later in a quiet—and very alone—moment with God. Then I lift my chin. While I do not know much yet about the business ways in the world of men, of this I am certain: a majority owner ought never to cower in front of a partner.

  “I came to ask you the same, why you are here instead of at the factory, but now I … well …” Further words crumble to dust on my tongue beneath Edmund’s terrible stare. Everything in me screams for me to flee, to hide, or at the very least to bow my head in submission.

  Frantically, I reach for my pearl necklace. The cool gemstone is a tangible reminder of my mother—the woman I want to be. Mostly. Mother was an unapologetic bluestocking, independent of mind but not of means. I wish to achieve both, and so I plant my feet, squashing the urge to run.

  “Flora.” The harsh lines on Edmund’s face soften as he glances down at the girl. “Find Mrs. Harnuckle and tell her Father says you may have a biscuit, hmm?”

  “Yes, Papa.” The girl nods, and though it’s barely possible, her grin widens. “Goodbye, lady!” She maneuvers around and skip-hops on her crutch past her father. His gaze follows her.

  “Goodbye, Miss Flora,” I murmur.

  As soon as the gir
l disappears down the corridor, Edmund turns to me. The coldness in his eyes makes the scar behind my ear ache. A glance like that from Mr. White usually meant some kind of retribution, like the night he’d thrown a brass candlestick. I should leave now. Back out slow and quiet. My fingers wrap all the tighter around the pearl. God alone keeps my feet rooted to the carpet.

  A muscle jumps on Edmund’s jaw as he opens his mouth. “You may have a legal right to half the factory—which I will contest—but you have no business whatsoever in my home. I thank you to leave, Mrs. White, and to keep to yourself what you have seen.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Edmund

  Yesterday’s shock of seeing Bella at my office door is nothing compared to the sickening twist in my gut at witnessing her here in my house. My world teeters at the edge of a black abyss.

  Seven careful years. Seven! Keeping my head down. Vigilant and tight-lipped to a fault. Living at the edge of nowhere, hidden from eyes and whys and flaming lies. But for all my circumspect ways, with one small breach of obedience, old Baxter has opened the door wide to utter disaster. Indiscreet old man! I ought to send him packing today.

  But truly, is the fault not mine?

  The question hits me broadside. The day I bought this house, I should have pensioned off the feeble fellow and hired a more capable butler, but oh, how promises to the dead can bind and bite long past the burying of bones.

  Bella stares at me, and for a brief moment, her composed mask slips. A sliver of raw terror flashes in her brown eyes. She fiddles with a pearl necklace, clearly nervous, and my gut clenches. Have I become such an ogre as to terrify widows in my own home?

  “I am many things, sir, but I am not a gossip. What goes on in your house is your business alone.” Her voice shakes. As does the hem of her skirt. Clearly, my offense has cut deep—adding pain upon pain to the wounds I can never seem to quit ripping wide.

  I am a beast, but for good reason. Always for good reason.

  Yet does that make it right, God?