3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 39
“Th–thank you,” I stutter, unsure what else to say. The man is so masterful with words, I suddenly feel like a tot trying to converse with an Oxford scholar.
“Your letter, Uncle?” Once again, Edmund comes to my rescue. “Why did you wish to contact me?”
“Oh, the despair of it all.” Blowing out a huge sigh, Mr. Dickens claps his hat back atop his head and turns to Edmund. “There has been a great spiraling down, a cooling of youthful yearnings to ash and dust. Tell me, my boy, how does one revive the beat of an ardent and amorous heart?”
“I am sure I do not know.” Edmund pauses as a train whistle blows. “But whatever has happened sounds rather dreadful.”
“It is.” Mr. Dickens’s face folds into great lines of sorrow. “With my writing and public reading schedule, I am afraid I have neglected my poor sparrow, my dearest Kate. I fear she may be headed for yet another nervous collapse. It is my fervent wish to mend the strain in the fabric of our marriage. That is where you come in.”
“Me?” Edmund’s brows are twin arches.
“Indeed, my boy. How better to return to Kate’s good graces than with a Christmas gift of a fine bit of lace? A fancy. A frippery. Something to intrigue and delight the feminine psyche. Would you not agree, Mrs. White?” His penetrating stare darts to me.
“I—” Completely at a loss, I swallow, hoping the action will produce eloquent words, or any words at all. A simple “Yes” is all I manage.
“Well put, madam.” He winks then once again faces Edmund. “So, Nephew, I will need your finest. Your best. Your most excellent ornamentation of gossamer thread and wonder. But just a small swath, mind you. Enough for a new fichu, something to reside proud and royal against my lady wife’s swanlike neck. I can only hope it will woo her and restore me to a more noble standing in her eyes. Can you have it to me by Christmas Day?”
I bite my lip. With all the machines tied up in meeting Lord Hampton’s order, there is no possible way Edmund can say yes to his uncle. And my heart breaks a little over that. Clearly the man is trying to save his marriage. What would it be like to have a husband who actually cherished his wife?
Unbidden, my gaze is drawn to Edmund’s handsome face. Could he ever love me like that?
La! What am I thinking? I gasp from the wayward thought and from what comes out of Edmund’s mouth.
“Yes, Uncle. I shall have that piece of lace to you by Christmas. I vow it.”
I can’t help but gape. How on earth will he pull off such a miracle?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Edmund
What is it with women and their obsession to spend copious amounts of time preening in front of a mirror before facing the public? Bella does not need powders or creams or whatever concoctions females use to make themselves beautiful. Loveliness radiates from her—so much so that since the kiss, I’ve purposely kept my distance. It isn’t safe to be near her, and every time I cannot avoid it, it takes all my strength to keep from kissing her again. The first time was a mistake. One more and she’ll surely run away, which would be to Flora’s detriment, for my daughter is smitten by her … every bit as much as I am.
This partnership is doomed.
I stroll to the far side of the hotel lobby and stop near the mantel, where I pull out my watch and frown at the glass face. Half past nine. What is keeping her?
“Running late, are you?”
A deep voice booms behind me, and I turn. Then tense. My nemesis stands a pace away, huffing like a bull. Though Richard Birkin can be no more than fifty, his lungs wheeze as if he’s eighty. The skin below his eyes wrinkles like walnuts, scrunching in layers from his know-it-all smile. Despite the well-tailored suit that rides the lines of his shoulders to perfection, he is a coarse man, all burlap and sandpaper. I know Birkin to be a shrewd opponent, always looking for an edge upon which to stand and leer down at others. But working in the mills since the age of seven will do that to a man.
“I’m surprised you’re here.” I tuck away my watch and fold my arms. “Were you too busy this summer with your gold medal in Paris that you did not take in the exhibits?”
“Ahh, so you heard about that, did you?” A chuckle rumbles out of him, riffling the lengthy whiskers of his moustache.
It’s a struggle to keep from rolling my eyes. All of Nottingham has heard of his manufacturing award and still does. How much does it cost him to continue to run newspaper articles elaborating upon his achievement?
“Indeed.” I force a pleasant tone and step aside, allowing him plenty of room to bypass me. “By all means, don’t let me keep you.”
“Nothing of the sort. Just waiting for Adams, who I daresay will be ready to go before your new associate is.” He advances and elbows me. “It’s a folly, you know, this partnering with a female. You won’t be winning any awards of your own if you keep her on.”
So, word has travelled about town. Though truly, it’s a wonder it’s taken this long. I lift my chin and stare him down. “Mrs. White is doing her best to learn the business, a valiant effort if you ask me, in light of losing her husband.”
Birkin sniffs, his broad nose flaring all the wider. “You’ll be sorry, Archer. Women are better ornamentations in the home than in a factory, though she is a feisty one, I’ll grant you.”
I narrow my eyes. “How would you know that?”
“She came to my office, begging for money”— a scowl pulls down his fleshy brow— “or more like she was sent to my factory to do your dirty work. Did you really think I’d fall for the wiles of a sweet smile in a skirt?”
Bella visited this piranha? I shake my head, dumbfounded. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That’s right. Play the innocent. It was a good try, but a failed one.” He pauses as a man in a grey coat clips past us and heads out the front door, leaving behind the scent of far too much bay rum shaving tonic. Birkin pokes me in the shoulder with a podgy finger. “You’ll have to work harder than that to get a spy into my factory.”
Unfolding my arms, I clasp my hands behind my back. It’s either that or punch the smirk off the man’s face. “I assure you, sir, I have better things to do than spy on you.”
“Ahh, yes.” Something glimmers hard and bright in his dark eyes. “Lord Hampton’s order, eh?”
My breath catches, so stunning are his words and vivid in my mind is the jaunt of the new factory worker as he’d sidled along with Gramble … something I needs must check into when I return. Is Birkin’s accusation of spying naught but a cover-up for his own activities? Is he responsible for planting eyes and ears at Nottingham Lace? For now, I school my face into a mask of indifference. “How would you know about that?”
“I have my ways.” Birkin shrugs. “It is strange, though, why you’ve chosen to come to London when you should be managing production. A bit brassy of you, if you ask me.”
My jaw clenches, rock hard.
“Come, come. Why not be done with this rivalry?” He claps me on the back. “Get rid of your lady partner and join Adams and me. The three of us together can put a stranglehold on prices instead of this profit-hindering competition. My new warehouse is ahead of schedule, and there will be space enough for us all to store and mete out lace at will. The bottom line is supply and demand. Strangle the supply now and then, and demand ups the price, benefiting us all.”
“All except our buyers, and ultimately the customers who only wish to improve their lot in life by a little bit of finery. No, Birkin. I’ve told you before, I’m not interested.”
“Turning us down again, eh?” Thomas Adams, a scarecrow of a man, gains Birkin’s side. “It’s your loss, Archer, especially if you cannot make Lord Hampton’s order.”
Blast! Adams knows of it too, though not surprising. The two are thick as scabs on a pox victim.
“I suppose we shall see about that, hmm?” I reach for my pocket watch once again and flip open the lid, studying the glass face instead of the two manufacturing scoundrels in front of me.
Adams huffs. “Come, Birkin. There’s no helping some people.”
They stride out the front door. The gust of cold air blasting in from their departure barely cools the anger running hot through my veins.
Snapping shut my watch, I wheel about and stalk from the lobby, intent on pounding at Bella’s door to urge her along—but I stop before reaching the stairs. A woman’s light laughter rolls out from an open door not far down the corridor to my left—Bella’s laughter. Have I seriously been waiting all this time, the exhibition already started, while she partakes of idle chatter with some acquaintance?
I turn down the passageway then stop before entering the room. From this angle, I have a clear view of Bella’s back as she converses with a man who clutches a leather messenger bag. Light from the windows glints off his spectacles, so he’s likely not seen me. In reflex, I retreat. Surprise, confusion, and not just a little jealousy battles for the upper hand in my mind. Who is this man she meets with alone, and why is she—
“Thank you, Mr. Barlow. With your legal help, I have no doubt I will be victorious.”
Bella’s words curl out the door and prod me, along with my own rising fury, to hie it back to the lobby. I knew my impulsive kiss had upset her, for such has the awkwardness been between us since, but is she seriously trying to find some way to oust me from my own business because of it?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Bella
Stares. Whispers. I am a skirt amidst suit coats at this exhibition, drawing more attention than most of the machinery. Some women might relish the power of turning men’s heads, but I huddle closer to Edmund’s side. He spares me a glance but not a word. He’s hardly said a thing since leaving the hotel this morning.
The longer we stroll through the aisles of black-iron machinery, the more my good humour fades. Several times I’ve turned to Edmund to tell him of my conversation with Mr. Barlow and how hopeful the law clerk is to find Hester’s son in America. But Edmund is engrossed in the industrial wonders housed in these three large rooms. Perhaps this is what a normal business outing is like, solely focusing on the new innovations in equipment and tools. This is the world of men, after all.
Yet I suspect something more is at play. Storm clouds brew thick and dark in Edmund’s gaze. Something is not right.
When we stop near a loom that is soon to be demonstrated, I turn to him before the noise of the machine begins. “Have I done something to offend you?”
He studies me for a moment instead of one of these infernal machines, and I study him right back. His jaw doesn’t clench, so he is not angry. There is no tic near his left eye, ruling out irritation. But that is all I can discern, for his handsome features give nothing away.
“What makes you say that?” he asks.
“You have not said more than two words since we left the hotel.”
“This is not a ladies’ tea. It is an exhibition. I am here to learn, as should you be.”
A flash of heat rises up my neck and burns across my cheeks. He is right. What a childish, self-centered woman I am to think his reticence has anything to do with me. We are here on business, nothing more and nothing less.
I offer Edmund a sheepish smile. “It might help if I knew what I was looking at.”
“Here, stand in front of me.” With a light touch on my arm, he ushers me close to the rope separating the crowd from the large machine. “The demonstration is about to begin. Perhaps the exhibitor’s explanation will help.”
On the opposite side of the rope, a paunch-bellied man in a leather apron and sleeve protectors wields a long pointing stick. His booming voice rises above the crowd and the click-clacketing of the other machines currently being presented. The tip of his stick points to various parts on the machinery. I fix my gaze to each different assembly and strain to understand. But as the exhibitor goes into detail on dobby mechanisms, cam shedding, and jacquard cards, he might as well be speaking Portuguese.
The man starts the machine, and while it runs, I peek over my shoulder at Edmund. He is wide-eyed, his gaze following the movements of arms and levers and whirling gears. I am not surprised. He understands everything said, comprehends each detail of the moving parts that weave thousands of threads into a gossamer piece of lace. My admiration for him grows—and confidence in myself shrivels. The men here have every right to look at me askance, for I am an imposter. A little girl who’s stepped into her dead husband’s shoes and pretends to walk tall while woefully shuffling amongst giants.
The exhibitor shuts down the great machine. The crowd disperses. Edmund advances and engages the machinist with all manner of questions and comments. I try to listen, to learn, yet my rumbling stomach distracts, and I press a hand against it. We’ve been here all day without a bite to eat. Perhaps we might take a short break for some tea? I turn to Edmund and wait for an opening to ask him.
But his gaze is pinned on the man. “How much?”
“Eight hundred pounds.”
I gasp. So much? Such an enormous amount could provide housing for all of Nottingham’s blind women, not just the five I hope to help.
Edmund doesn’t so much as flinch. “Will you take half up front and the other half come the new year?”
My jaw drops. He cannot be serious. Perhaps this is some industry ploy to determine what sorts of financial boundaries apply in different situations. Maybe it’s simply an academic pursuit or a bout of mental mathematics.
The exhibitor narrows his eyes at Edmund, as if by stare alone he can sift and measure the reliability of a potential customer. “I suppose that could be arranged, sir, depending on the amount of your collateral.”
Edmund doesn’t bat an eye. “Nottingham Lace and Hose is my security.”
I stiffen. This is no game.
“Ahh, Mr. Archer, is it? Your wares are well known, sir. As such, I think I can safely say that yes, such a restitution can be arranged.” The man shoves out his hand.
I barge in front of Edmund, blocking the handshake. “Pardon me.” I smile sweetly at the exhibitor then turn to Edmund. “We need to talk about this.”
A frown worries his brow. “There is nothing to discuss.”
I lean toward him and lower my voice, speaking for him alone. “As majority owner, I say there is.”
The earlier storm clouds I’d seen in his gaze now billow to a dark rage, deepening the colour in his eyes to blue black. I’ve pushed him too far, but so be it. As Edmund’s partner, it is only right he hear me out.
He looks past me to the exhibitor. “I shall return shortly.”
“Very well, Mr. Archer. You know where to find me.”
Without a word, Edmund turns and stalks off. I gather my hem and follow his long legs. My empty stomach churns all the more. This will not be pleasant.
Edmund stops at a cleared space near a wall, and when he faces me, my throat closes. Fury clenches his jaw, and I flinch—but do not retreat. If this were Mr. White, I’d be inching back, hoping he didn’t notice my movement. But this is Edmund. He will not strike me. Or so I hope. I rub the old scar. God, go before me.
Holding on to that thought, I lift my chin and soften my voice. “I am sorry to have been so high-handed, but it was the only way I could think of to get you to listen to me before spending such a monumental amount.”
A deep sigh rushes out of him, and he plows a hand through his hair. “I do not mean to leave you out, but I am used to making snap decisions on my own. Your former husband never questioned me on purchases as long as I provided justification for my actions. And this is justified. You know we need to meet Lord Hampton’s order. That machine guarantees we will. The speed is unlike anything I have ever seen and that is with two less people to operate it. Why, we can decrease our payroll by cutting several workers and increase production simultaneously.”
“But eight hundred pounds!” I shake my head. “You know there is not enough money in the books to provide for that.”
“There will be that and more once we fill t
he earl’s order. It is the way of business to take calculated risks.”
If this is the way of business, I don’t like it. Not at all. The clatter of machinery and low drone of men’s voices pound in my head so that I want to scream.
I stifle a groan and splay my hands. “Can you not simply repair machine number seven? I thought you came here to speak with a machinist about just such a possibility.”
“I did, but that was before I knew what kind of innovations have been brought to market, and, well …” His Adam’s apple bobs, and he averts his gaze. I step closer and wait.
“This machinery … I have not seen the likes of some of it. I was not able to attend the Exposition Universelle this past summer. Leaving Flora for that long was out of the question. Had I been able to, I would not currently be battling old seven, for I would have purchased a new machine then and there.”
His voice is strained. So are the cords on his neck. Telling me this costs him in ways I don’t understand.
I reach out a tentative hand and place it lightly on his sleeve. “I am not your enemy in this, truly I am not. All I ask is that you take the time to consider such a large expense before committing to it.”
“There is no time!” His gaze darts back to mine. “With seven breaking, we are falling behind on production.”
“Then you shall fix it. I know you shall. There is no one better suited to the job.”
His lips twist into a wry smirk. “I am not a miracle worker.”
“No, but you know the One who is.”
“It takes more than faith to fill an order.”
No. He is wrong. Without faith, there is nothing, a lesson I have learned the hard way. I press my fingers into his arm, praying to drive home my words. “I may be uneducated in the ways of business, but there is one thing I know. Either your faith will move mountains, or your doubt will create them.”
He sucks in an audible breath, and ever so slowly, the rigid lines on his brow ease. “You are a wise woman, Arabella White.”