3 Charming Christmas Tales Set in Victorian England Page 42

  My gaze shoots to seven first. The hulk sits idle, but Edmund is not elbow deep into it. All over the great floor workers scurry about, but I turn my face toward a huddle near the door—the only ones who are not moving—and am rewarded. Edmund converses with Mr. Franklin. The scar-faced Mr. Gramble is anchored near their elbows. This won’t be as difficult as I thought.

  On my way out of the office, I swing Edmund’s dinner basket atop his desk. There is no need to lug it with me. A paper catches a breeze from the basket’s movement and flutters to the floor. I snatch the thing up, intending to put it back, when a large sum printed at the bottom of the page, along with the words Half Due upon Arrival, catches my attention.

  Lifting the invoice closer, I frown while I read. Understanding creeps into the dark corners of my heart where fury hides, rousing the beast, and a great ugly glower weights my brow. This is not to be borne!

  I clutch the paper and fly from the office. The factory walls blur as I steam ahead and charge through the production-room door. Edmund turns toward my arrival, but my throat is so tight all I can do is growl, the sound of which is lost in the noise of the clackety machines. How dare he gaze so innocently at me when all along he knows what he’s done?

  He angles his head, his blue eyes studying me. “What is wrong?”

  “This!” I thrust the invoice up to his face. The pounding of my heart rises. So does my voice. “You went behind my back and bought the machine! How could you?”

  Before I draw another breath, he grabs hold of the upper part of my arm and hustles me off the production floor and into the bowels of a corridor. He doesn’t stop until we are well beyond the door; then he shoves his face barely an inch from mine. “You little fool. Your lack of discretion could be our ruin.”

  “If ruin comes, it is not by my hand!” I wrench from his grasp, shaking with fury. “You are the one who moved ahead on a purchase without consulting your majority partner. I daresay Mr. White would have had your head on a platter, as should I.”

  His eyes deepen to blue black, and the line of his jaw hardens. He is deathly quiet. Though everything inside me screams to flinch, to run away, to hide as I did whenever Mr. White looked at me so, I plant my feet and lift my chin. I am in the right, and here will I stand.

  Edmund closes his eyes and, ever so slowly, inhales deeply before blowing it out, long and low. Several times. When he next opens his eyes, I hardly recognize the man staring out. Weariness lives behind the blue. The kind that’s tired of life. The kind I know so well.

  “You are right,” he murmurs then clears his throat. “I should have spoken to you first. To be fair, I have meant to discuss the purchase with you all along, but I have been so consumed with meeting the Christmas deadline for Lord Hampton there has not been a good time.”

  His excuse rings true. I see it in the lines crisscrossing his face. I lower my hand and take a step back. “You have been rather preoccupied.”

  “Obsessed, more like it, though for good reason.” A sheepish smile lifts his lips, and the fatigue in his gaze eases. “Even so, can you forgive me?”

  The tilt of his head. The veracity in his tone. A schoolboy caught wagering at cards couldn’t look more contrite. The rock-hard fury in my heart softens. I reach for my reticule and pull out the coin entrusted to me by Mr. Barlow, finally knowing that this is the right place and time to give it away. I hold it out on my palm.

  Curious, Edmund retrieves the bit of gold and holds it at eye level. “What is this?”

  “A second-chance coin. When I first considered this venture, my law clerk warned me against it, but seeing my determination, he thought I might need to give a second chance to those around me, especially my new business partner. Turns out he was right.” I step closer to Edmund, breathe in his familiar, manly scent, and the rest of my anger melts away. “I forgive you, but please, let there be no more secrets between us.”

  He clutches the coin and lowers his hand, then peers down at me. “If that is the case, then there are a few more things we should discuss.”

  My throat tightens, and I swallow down a rising fear. “Such as?”

  “Let us start with your law clerk.”

  My law clerk? Though I know it’s unladylike, my nose squinches, for I am at a loss as to what he could possibly mean by this turn of conversation. I shake my head. “I do not understand.”

  “When we were in London, I saw you speaking with the man before we attended the exhibition.”

  “Oh, yes. I completely forgot to tell you about that.”

  His brows lower into a menacing line. “Is it so easy to forget a planned takeover?”

  “Takeover? You mean you thought …” I shake my head. “Why, I could not manage this factory on my own! I am still learning how one of those confounded machines in there works.” I flutter my fingers toward the production-room door. “My meeting with Mr. Barlow had nothing to do with you or the business. I had asked him to find Hester’s son, and he told me of a breakthrough in locating the man. That is all.”

  “Hester?”

  “One of the blind women.”

  “Ahh …” Understanding flashes in his eyes. “The one who is ill, yes?”

  “Indeed. Though thankfully, she is on the mend.”

  “I am happy to hear it, and even more happy to hear you are not thinking of buying me out.” He winks.

  My heart skips a beat in response, and warmth floods through me. I cannot help but grin up at him. “You will not have to worry about that. Ever. I am content to be a mostly silent partner.”

  He steps close, hardly a breath away, so near the heat of him flushes my cheeks.

  “There is no one I would like better to partner with.” His voice is husky, laden with promises and desire.

  Unbidden, I lean toward him. Will he kiss me again? Every nerve in my body yearns for it. The slightest movement on my part, and I could be in his arms, could get lost in his embrace.

  Gracious! What am I thinking?

  I suck in a breath and pull back, resisting the urge to fan my heated face. “And the other thing we should discuss?”

  “The other …?” He falters for a moment, then glances over his shoulder before answering in a low voice, “From now on, anything business related must be discussed inside my office with the door shut. I have reason to believe Birkin has planted a spy amongst the workers—and he will try everything in his power to keep us from meeting Lord Hampton’s order.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Bella

  December air stings my cheeks as I step outside the main factory door. Night has fallen in earnest. Large white flakes drop from the heavens, one landing wet on the tip of my nose. I swipe it away with a shudder, yet neither the dark, the chill, nor the snow is to be blamed. Something else is at play. Something indefinable. Elusive. Though I try, I cannot name the unease creeping up my back.

  As I scurry toward the gate, I scan the yard. The loading dock stands idle, the last dray of the day having been discharged at least an hour ago. The stillness of it feels like a death, but an empty dock certainly poses no threat. Farther down the yard, the old warehouse sits black against black, its silhouette as forlorn as a widow long forgotten. Not one of the lanterns hung at intervals around the yard stretches to that neglected corner.

  All manner of dark shapes and shadows are rife in the silent space, yet no danger resides here. Until morning calls in twelve hours, the hub of activity lies inside the factory. I chide myself for being a skittish filly. Edmund’s talk of subterfuge and spies must’ve crawled into my subconscious and taken up residence in the gothic part of my imagination.

  I reach for the latch on the gate, and my hand pauses on the cold metal. I stare at my coat sleeve, unable to shake the feeling that something is behind me. An insane battle wages in my head—rush pell-mell out of here or spin about and face the unknown monster at my back? I stand immobile, giving in to the niggling unrest that caused me to hesitate in the first place.

  And that�
�s when it dawns on me. My arm is empty. No basket handle loops over the green wool of my coat. All this caginess for wont of a forgotten basket filled with holiday garland? What a ninny!

  I turn, intent on retracing my steps, when a streak of black blurs at the corner of my eye. I snap my gaze toward it and squint. A man darts along the line of buildings, keeping close to the walls, headed toward the old warehouse. Edmund doesn’t use that space anymore, so there’s no reason for the fellow to go there, especially with such haste … unless he’s up to no good.

  Unless he is a spy.

  Keeping my distance, I follow on quiet feet, praying to God my skirts won’t rustle overloud.

  Too late.

  The man wheels about, and I flatten against the wall, hoping the long gutter reaching from roof to ground is enough to block the sight of me from where he stands. It’s a small hope, but one I cling to with white knuckles. I strain my ears, prepared to flee at the first sound of footsteps crushing gravel.

  All that fills the air is the muted click-clacketing of the looms, a team of horses’ hooves clopping on the cobbles outside the factory gates, and the erratic pounding of my heart.

  I inch closer to a small crack between gutter and wall. The man still stands looking in my direction, as fixed as a roebuck scenting a hunter. I hold my breath.

  Apparently satisfied, he retreats a step before turning away, and that is his mistake. The glow of the lantern on the wall nearest him catches on the ridge of a long scar snaking over his face.

  Mr. Gramble. Of course. I’ve harboured doubts about the man since the day we first met, and he was on hand when I foolishly confronted Edmund about the new machine. Underhanded scoundrel!

  He continues his stealthy trek. So do I. Keeping a safe distance, I trail him, fully expecting him to dart into the empty warehouse. What better place for a covert rendezvous with one of Mr. Birkin’s collaborators?

  I stop and watch—but Mr. Gramble bypasses the dark building and slips around the corner of it. Should I follow into such a black abyss or return for Edmund? Either way, other than an uncharitable disposition toward the man, I have no proof Mr. Gramble is up to no good. Perhaps he simply seeks privacy to relieve himself.

  Undecided what to do, I remain, watching, wondering if he will soon reappear—when footsteps and a low voice travel out from a darkened alcove twenty or so paces to my left.

  “Birkin’s, the biggest house on the hill. You know it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then repeat it, boy, so I know you’ve got it right.”

  “I’m to go to Mr. Birkin’s rear door, ask for the valet, and tell him of a new machine that’s to arrive by—”

  Hearing more than enough to condemn, I whirl, fury pulsing through my veins. Whoever the spy is, it’s not Mr. Gramble.

  I snatch the nearest lantern off a hook and storm toward the sound. All I need is one peek on my way past the darkened recess, and I shall fly to the safety of Edmund and let him handle the situation.

  A boy-sized shape tears out and plows into me, knocking me akilter. I teeter precariously while the boy skitters off, desperately trying to retain my balance while holding tight to the lantern lest it fall. I barely catch myself and my breath when out steps a man.

  “Mrs. White?”

  The light in my hand casts macabre shadows upward on the foreman’s face, ghoulish and altogether unnerving—and once more I stagger. Mr. Franklin, one of Edmund’s most trusted men, is the traitor selling secrets to our competition?

  He frowns. “What are you doing out here?”

  I inch away, hoping to engage him long enough to gain sufficient space that I may outrun him. “Though it is none of your business, I am looking for a glove that I may have dropped out here earlier today. You have not seen it, have you?”

  His gaze darts to my hands, and the lines on his face carve deeper.

  My tan kidskins—both of them—are a dead giveaway.

  I bolt.

  Not soon enough. Fingers dig into my upper arm and yank me backward, hurtling me around. I yelp, but before I can call out, I am relieved of my lantern and the ability to scream. Mr. Franklin’s forearm wraps tight around my neck, pinching off my air supply and pinning me tight against his chest, despite my wriggling.

  I claw at his sleeve, desperate to breathe. My feet drag over the frozen gravel. I writhe and wrench, but the man is as much iron and steel as the machines he oversees. My lungs burn. My vision fades. And just when I am ready to give in to the foggy void that beckons me to surrender, I am shoved to a cold, hard floor.

  Gagging and choking, I roll to all fours, my chest and gut convulsing with the sudden intake of air. Once again I am yanked from behind, this time upward, to my feet, and my arms are pinioned behind me. Rope cuts into my wrists. I’d cry out, but I’m too busy trying to regain my breath.

  “Move.” Mr. Franklin prods me toward the rickety stairway leading up into thick darkness. Lantern light spills over bundles of cotton stacked in neat rows. It doesn’t make sense. Any of this. The warehouse that should be empty. The man who should be loyal. Why was I foolish enough to get myself into this predicament?

  The first steps are solid, but the rest are in varying stages of rot. There is no railing, and I stumble. Falling off either side means a broken neck. But the jabs to the small of my back compel me to keep climbing.

  “You cannot do this!” The words are hoarse, as burning and ruined as my throat. “When Mr. Archer hears what you’ve done—”

  “I’ll be long gone before Archer hears anything.” A devilish chuckle raises the hairs on the nape of my neck. What exactly does he intend to do with me?

  Three stairs from the top, wood splinters, and my shoe goes right through the step. I pitch forward, the urge overwhelmingly strong to flail my arms. Yet I cannot. There is nothing I can do but plummet sideways, until I am jerked upward and thrown to the landing. My chin scuffs along the wooden floor. Pain explodes in my face. And once more I am broken and bleeding at the feet of a man. Will this cruel cycle never end?

  Mr. Franklin hauls me up and shoves me through a door into blackness. I know all too well what sins are committed in the dark. I stumble forward and pray.

  God, help me.

  Will He hear me this time?

  I clench every muscle, waiting for the inevitable hot breath against my cheek—when a door slams. The light recedes. I am left alone, trembling, but untouched. My chin drops to my chest.

  Thank You, God.

  The second my whispered words pass my lips, wood cracks.

  I jerk my head up.

  Mr. Franklin curses.

  A sickening thud hits the warehouse floor below me. Glass shatters.

  Then all is quiet.

  I rush to the door and holler against the wood. “Mr. Franklin?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Franklin!”

  I strain to listen for a moan or a groan, for surely he’s fallen through the rotted stairs. Again, only silence. I slump against the door, weary, broken, defeated. What will Edmund say when he finds me locked up, incapable of protecting myself let alone the secrets of the trade. I should have gone to him first. What a stupid, stupid girl! With a shaky hand, I reach for my mother’s necklace. My fingers touch nothing but the feverish skin at my collarbone.

  No!

  I claw at my bodice, hoping frantically to feel the chain, which was likely broken in the scuffle. Please let it be tangled in my fichu. Please let it be snagged on a button. Please let it …

  My hopes fade. My hands drop. It’s gone. Lost. Everything is lost! A sob starts to rise, animalistic, primal—but dies before it passes my lips. I stiffen then press my ear to the wood, praying I am wrong in what I think I might hear. But the longer I listen, the more terror steals my breath.

  Small crackles. A sharp pop. An increasing unholy whoosh.

  Fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Edmund

  What a day. I shove away the uneaten basket of food on
my desk, plant my elbows on the hard surface, and drop my head into my hands. For one blessed moment, I breathe. Just breathe. Lord, but I am exhausted. Weary of the long hours, the fight to meet Hampton’s order, trying unsuccessfully to balance my time between work and caring for Flora.

  But most of all, I am tired of fighting my attraction to Bella. Once again, we’d come far too close to an embrace, a kiss, a promise. Things unseemly for business partners.

  My cheeks puff with a sharp breath, and I lean back in the chair. On a whim, I fish the coin from my pocket and hold it up to the lamplight. The edges are jagged. The embossed lines on one side are nearly worn smooth. I rub my thumb over the lettering, the coin warming beneath my skin. How many people before me have held this bit of metal in their hand? Of what crimes have they needed forgiveness? Were they desperate? Grateful? Sinners or saints? Valid questions, all, but not nearly as significant as those rising in me like a prayer. I lift my eyes to the ceiling.

  Is this a sign, Lord? Are You giving me a second chance with the woman I can no longer deny that I love?

  The banging and clanking of machinery is my only answer. Even were God to send down a lightning bolt with a big yes skewered to the end of it, it is impossible for me to pursue her. She is my associate. The majority partner. And there is nothing I can do to make it otherwise. I am not a miracle worker.

  “But you know the One who is.”

  Startled, I freeze as Bella’s words from the exposition return in full force. “Either your faith will move mountains, or your doubt will create them.”

  I rub my thumb over the surface of the second-chance coin then set it on the edge of the desk, staring at the thing. Is that my problem? Am I creating a mountain between us because I refuse to trust God to make a way for us?

  Before I can follow that thread of thought further, the door bursts open. Gramble charges in, tugging an errand boy by the ear along with him. I shoot to my feet. The man’s audacity to barge into my sanctuary unannounced is stunning.