Betina Krahn (34 page)

“What is going on here?”

They gave one another knowing and stealthy looks that silently elected a spokesman. Thomas Clark slid from his seat on the cutting table and hitched up his breeches beneath his belly.

“We been thinkin’ … about what’s been going on around here. Them people who come today, they opened our eyes a bit.…”

It was some time before Cole returned to the factory. He had walked the ridges and rills in the surrounding countryside, thinking hard and finding very little to be proud of in his behavior of late. Given the insinuations in the article of illicit conduct between him and Madeline—and just how close those insinuations were to being accurate—he realized the wisest thing he could do was withdraw to the nearest inn and
confine his overseeing to daily visits for now. It was bad enough that her work had become an object of controversy; she didn’t need allegations of personal immorality muddying the waters further.

The seal of finality was put on the decision when he realized that he was sitting on a rock overlooking the village, holding his chest at the thought of being separated from her. He closed his eyes and willed that pain back into the most isolated region of his heart.

By the time he reached the factory, he was trying to think of a way to put it to Madeline without making it appear he was abandoning her. He entered through the rear door, oblivious of Roscoe’s and Algy’s broad grins and waving arms. As he mounted the steps, approaching the first floor, he heard a muddled mix of voices, only one of which sounded clear and familiar and full of tension. “You believe you deserve a bonus?”

Madeline. He walked faster.

“You think you’re underpaid and grossly overworked?” Madeline was saying: “You’re bored with your mundane, ordinary tasks? You think Ideal garments are silly and worthless? You believe I’ve kidnapped your infants daily and held them as ransom to get you to do my evil bidding? You think I’ve starved and oppressed and exploited and demeaned you?” Her face was crimson, and by then she was shouting at the top of her lungs. “You believe I’m getting rich off the sweat of your brows, and now you demand your
rightful
share of the profits?”

Trembling with the fury of a hundred slights and cuts sustained from them and for them, she looked from one to another of her workers, seeing them through new eyes, seeing them as they really were, stripped of the glow of the virtue she had idealistically
—foolishly
—attributed to them.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Cole’s turbulent face and clenched fists, and was afraid to look at him. He had been right. He had known all along and tried to warn her.

What an idiot she was
.

The weight on her chest made it hard to get her breath. Tears stung her eyes.

“All of you—out! I don’t want to
exploit
or
imprison
or
oppress
you one minute longer!” She all but chased them out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the building. “You’re free!” she choked out, standing on the stoop. “You won’t have to suffer my abuse ever again. I’m closing the factory. Go on, go find work with those other employers—the ones who will be perfectly fair and equitable, who will give you lodging and train you for new jobs and put up with your children, who will give you all huge bonuses and make sure your jobs are creative and entertaining and fulfilling every minute of the day! And if you find such a sap, and he hires the likes of you, give him my sympathies!”

There was a heartbeat’s pause. Her words hovered on the air.

Suddenly there was a deafening roar and the earth trembled all around them. The building shook so that mortar and dust flew from every window and joint. Thunderous rumbling and quaking seemed to go on and on, pierced here and there by the crack of wood and the shattering of every single one of Madeline’s precious windows—the ones she had so painstakingly ordered and installed. Madeline staggered back and Cole rushed to drag her against him and shelter her from the dust and smoke.

Then, as abruptly as it came, the rumble was gone. In its unearthly wake they heard the sound of rubble falling, sawdust and acrid smoke billowing inside the factory, and gasped at the blackened cloud that rolled out the front doors and whooshed out the broken windows.

The shock of it took a moment to register. Madeline pushed back in Cole’s arms and looked up at the building in mounting horror and disbelief

Her factory had exploded before her eyes. And with it all her dreams had gone up in smoke as well.

It was well past midnight. The London streets were dark and a light drizzle was falling as Madeline turned her tired mount onto Maypole Street in Bloomsbury.

After the devastation wreaked by the explosion, Madeline’s one thought had been to go home—home to the house she had shared with Aunt Olivia. She had gone straight for Netter’s stable and Cole’s horse, and she hadn’t looked back … not even as she crested the last rise, leaving St. Crispin. For a score of miserable miles she had driven herself on, her only solace the thought of reaching the familiar old brick house with its stately Gothic windows and fanciful front turret that stood at the end of the lane. But now, as her girlhood home materialized from the gloom, it seemed strangely dark and forlorn. High grass and weeds dominated the front garden, and the windows absorbed the meager light like dark, scorched holes in the walls.

She dismounted on the step, then led the horse around to the carriage house. Numbly, she
dried the animal down and found it a blanket and some oats.

“Home,” she said, giving the animal’s neck a stroke. “I’m home, boy.”

When she unlocked the front door and stepped inside, she smelled the familiar must of the old house, the accumulated dust of idle months, and the faint remnant of her aunt’s cherished and ever-present lavender. She fumbled at the hall table to light a lamp, then carried it into the parlor.

Everything was draped with dust covers, and in the dim light the room appeared a foreign and forbidding landscape. She ripped off several of the cloths, but felt an odd chill and backed to the cold fireplace, trying to rub some warmth into her aching arms. In the dim light and shifting shadows she seemed to see Aunt Olivia on the settee with a blanket over her lap, looking at her with such love, such hope … such disappointment.

Madeline felt tears bum her cheeks and sank to her knees, giving in to wrenching sobs.

This was her childhood, this place. Full of optimism and girlish dreams. Filled with memories of possibilities now forfeit and expectations she had disappointed.

She was suddenly frantic to get away.

But where? Where could she go?

At the break of dawn Gilbert Duncan’s houseman answered a persistent banging at his front door and found a young woman on the doorstep, looking damp, chilled, and despondent. Her teeth were chattering so that she could scarcely give him her name. He was on the brink of turning her back onto the street, when the master himself appeared at the head of the stairs in his dressing gown to see what the racket was about.

“Cousin Gilbert!” she called in a raspy voice. He started, glowered at her over the railing, then came racing downstairs.

“Madeline—is that you? Dear God, what’s happened?
Are you all right?” When she nodded, then shook her head in confusion, he flung an arm around her and looked about for some clue to her being there. “Are you alone, Cousin? And no luggage? Don’t tell me you’ve come all the way from that horrid place by yourself!”

She raised her head and nodded. “I’m sorry to impose, Cousin, but I couldn’t think of anyplace else to go.”

“Good Lord!” He felt her hands. “You’re half frozen!” He ushered her straight toward the stairs, tossing orders over his shoulder as he went. “Jeffries! A warm bath, some food, and a strong toddy for Cousin Madeline. And be quick about it!”

“There, there, my dear.” He steered her into a guest room, guided her onto a footbench at the end of a four-poster, and knelt before her on the rug. “Tell me about it.”

“After you left … the workers had a meeting and”—she wiped away a stray tear—“and then there was an explosion and the factory windows blew out and everything was ruined … because of … of—” She shook her head, unable to continue for the emotion clogging her throat.

He handed her a handkerchief out of his pocket and she wiped a few tears before drawing an exhausted breath and sinking back into numbed grief.

“My dear, dear Madeline. You’ve been through a terrible time—that is all I have to know. What you need now is someone to look after you, someone to see to your interests, someone to guard you against your own selfless and giving impulses.”

She looked up at him, and somehow saw Cole’s face interposed over his features. She had had someone to care for her. Someone who tried to warn her about her magnanimous impulses. Someone who had tried to help and protect her. She looked away and closed her eyes, holding that bittersweet image a moment longer before it faded. Her shoulders rounded and she sagged against him.

“Oh, Gilbert, what am I going to do?”

“Right now you’re exhausted and confused … and you’ve come to the right place, sweetness. Just put yourself in my hands.” He pulled her to her feet as housemaids entered with arms full of linen and scurried into the adjoining bath. “There will be plenty of time to discuss your future later.”

As soon as Gilbert closed the door to her room, he did a little dance in the hallway, crowing silently. When he looked up, his houseman was standing not far away with an ornate silver tray in his hands, watching with a jaded eye. Gilbert straightened, then swaggered toward the dignified Jeffries.

“Tell the staff they’ll be paid all of their back wages by the end of the week,” he said quietly, leaning closer. “And there will be a tidy little bonus if my dear cousin Madeline is made suitably comfortable.”

Jeffries’s eyes lit with understanding. “I shall inform the staff straightaway, sir.” He raised one eyebrow. “And how long might we expect the young lady to stay?”

Gilbert gave a wicked laugh. “With any luck, Jeffries, ‘until death do us part.’ ”

In the dark, symbolic world of dreams, Madeline kept seeing that monstrous rock over and over, almost human in its sullen and spiteful refusal to move, then in one sudden, cataclysmic eruption it would shatter into a thousand pieces. Then suddenly Cole would be there, staring at her with pity in his eyes, and the pity would slowly turn to disgust and he would walk away. She called to him over and over, but he would never turn back. And when she ran after him, she never seemed to get any closer despite the fact that she was always running and he was merely walking.

Troubled by her dreams and yet afraid to awaken, she slept through the afternoon, the night, and well into the next morning. When she finally rose, she felt stiff, thick-tongued,
and groggy, as if she had drunk too much wine. She stumbled into the bathing room, and when she emerged she discovered a tray had been quietly delivered—tea, toast, and marmalade. Food held no appeal, but she hoped that the warmth of the tea might dispel the chill that lingered inside her. Gathering her voluminous nightgown around her, she perched on a chair and poured her milk and tea. Some of her tension melted as she buried her nose in the fragrant cup.

With a bit of tea in her veins and something in her stomach, she answered a knock on the door some minutes later, and discovered Gilbert, holding a silk dressing gown. He shoved it through the narrow opening in the door and waited for her to don it before entering.

“You look much more rested. How do you feel?” he asked solicitously, leading her by the hand to the fainting couch by the window.

“Better, thank you.” She drew her hand from his and lowered her gaze. It occurred to her, now that she was staying in his house, sleeping in his guest room, and drinking his tea; she knew precious little about her only living cousin.

“First thing … we must do something about clothes for you.” He sat back and produced a winning smile. “There is nothing like new clothes to brighten the spirits.”

“Oh, well …” She glanced down at her robe. “I suppose I should send for—”

“No, no, Cousin.” He laughed. “If you’re to make a new life, you must have new clothes to go with it. And I know just the people to provide them for you in a hurry.” He leaned close and squeezed her hands. “I’ve taken the liberty of summoning one of London’s finest dressmakers. I told you, I have excellent connections.”

He was on his feet before she could mount a serious objection, and it wasn’t until an hour later, when he ushered in an officious little man accompanied by a gaggle of harried assistants—a French couturier—that she collected her wits enough to realize that the clothes he meant were the very sort
of clothes she had always held to be the very next thing to human bondage.

She stood in the midst of her borrowed bedchamber in a borrowed nightdress, considering the couturier’s direction to step up onto the box before the mirrors and thinking of all the times she had railed against the stupidity and oppressive nature of such garments. A powerful ache developed in her chest at the realization that she had been so wrong about so much, she wasn’t certain she could trust her judgment on anything. Her entire world seemed to have turned upside down—or perhaps sideways—and just then she was too numb and disoriented to try to right it and chart a true and distinct course.