Emily French (24 page)
Authors: Illusion
Sophy did not. The public admission of human frailty in him had an instant tenderizing effect on her. Her throat convulsed. She supposed even experienced assault commanders must yield to weakness occasionally.
His nearness, the warmth that radiated from his body so close to hers, made her pulse quicken. She wanted to throw her arms around him and press her body to his.
Instead, she wrapped her arm around his waist and helped him down the narrow passage. In the process, she completely forgot her own fears. Seth’s hard mouth quirked.
Ashore it was cold and damp, the fog still swirling with curling tendrils underfoot, the sun diffused and ragged within the clouds. Sophy shuddered as the wind nipped savagely at her face and ankles, and icy blasts crept up under her skirt.
To Sophy, the omnibus ride seemed interminable, even though it took a fraction of the time the ferry journey had. Perhaps the inclement weather had something to do with it, but she now felt filled with energy and a desperate longing to be busy. To do something, anything, to keep her mind occupied with thoughts other than Seth.
New Jersey was a rapidly growing industrial center, with numerous smokestacks stretching like long fingers toward the sky. Through the mist, which now appeared to be lifting, Sophy could distinguish the dark mass of the mountains to the west.
In no time at all, they arrived at Weston’s Textiles, an enormous one-story structure in the heart of Paterson.
Sophy was fascinated by the great, high-roofed building where textile production took place, and not a little impressed by Seth’s knowledge. She had never been in a factory before, and the sight was dizzying.
Long aisles of machinery spread before her, whirring and clanking as workers toiled to produce the cloth. Her eyes traced the endless movement of the long wooden pins, frantically hurling strands of thread against the rollers several feet away.
“Are you ready?” Seth asked, watching her mouth.
Sophy raised her head and her eyes met his. There seemed to be a smile buried in them, trapping her gaze. Time froze. The look in his eyes squeezed the very breath from her body. Her head went light and fluttery, though her heart was racing. Taking a deep breath, she smiled, the radiant smile of a rainbow across a clouded sky.
Seth stood quite still, watching her. She was smiling at him in that open way of hers, her eyes bright. He suddenly realized how much he cherished that smile. If he had been a less controlled man, he might have succumbed to the urge to touch her face, even allowed his fingers to brush her mouth.
As it was, he remained exactly where he was, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, fingers inert. But the blazing intensity in his gaze belied the outward calm of his voice. “Let’s go and find George Dunwoody.”
They reached the main processing section before they found him. Footfalls approached, echoing on the wooden floor, sharp above the dull hum of the machines, heralding the arrival of George Dunwoody. The manager was a ruddy-complexioned man in his forties, shortish and a bit stocky.
“Good morning, sir, ma’am.” His voice bland, he turned to Sophy with a stiff little bow. Heavy brows and a flowing mustache hid any expression in his eyes or mouth. “Mr. Lethbridge mentioned that you would be visiting today.”
The smile that still played around Seth’s eyes was replaced by a face-crinkling frown. “Charles is here?” he echoed in disbelief, dark brows climbing.
“Certainly, sir.” George Dunwoody’s striped waistcoat drew tight over his solid girth, and his mustache twitched. “Mr. Lethbridge is in the Engraving Room. Courtauld’s have put in a big order for the new ‘Summer Palace’ design, and he wants to check the print run.”
“Fair enough.” Seth cut him off with a flick of his hand. “I’ll see him later. In the meantime, we’ll just wander around for a while.” His voice was even, but Sophy could feel the tension that vibrated through the tall frame.
Grasping her elbow firmly, Seth steered her over to where great lengths of fabric were rolling off the calenders. Light came from an unidentifiable source lost somewhere above them. The air was filled with the whirring of the cylindrical rollers. Seth showed her a new design that was running through. It looked sensuous and rich, and the varying textures gave it a heavy sheen.
“Mr. Weston, sir!” a voice called over the droning of the machines.
Seth excused himself, went to the foreman and exchanged a few words with him. Sophy studied her husband’s broad back. She was consumed by her aching need for the full and thorough loving of this man. He looked so good to her, appealed in such a fundamental way to her senses, she wanted to surrender unconditionally.
No! Every scrap of her intuition was fairly screaming that advice. What sort of marriage would it be to a man who didn’t understand about love? The sting without the honey!
Realizing that she was staring, hungrily, she felt the warmth rise in her cheeks and looked away from him back to the blur of colors in front of her. Dancing like dust motes on a beam of sunshine, or on the wild singing in her bloodstream, they were trying to tell her something.
Love is like that fabric, she thought musingly, a shifting plenum of color lending it a dazzling and illusory solidity.
When Seth came back to her, he was frowning. “We need copper rollers for this process. It is an innovative time. If we want to progress, we have to keep up with it.” He lowered his voice. “Expansion is expensive, and both George Dunwoody and Matt Tyson argue that it is the bread-and-butter lines, the run-of-the-mill products that keep us going.”
There was a tiny silence while Sophy thought rapidly. “I don’t know about Mr. Dunwoody. He’s probably content with what he has to manage at present. Is that not so? I do know Matt Tyson only talks money, especially what not to do with it.”
Two thin vertical lines appeared in the center of Seth’s brow. He continued to stand, unmoving, his scrutiny intense.
“Is that not so?” she repeated, putting one small gloved hand, fingers outspread, on his arm. Her grasp contained an urgency she could not have explained, even to herself.
At the touch, Seth sucked in his breath. “Yes. But I fail to see what...” He shrugged, his eyes narrowed to thin blue slits.
With feminine intuition guiding her, Sophy went straight to the point, her voice quiet and earnest. “Take my advice. Don’t let anyone tell you dreams are only illusions, castles in the air. Follow your dreams. I’ll wager they can become reality.” She blinked rapidly, her love for him making her appeal fervent and personal. “If you want something, go after it, boots and all! Forget the cost!”
A slow grin suddenly revealed very white teeth, but his eyes were still gleaming with an unreadable emotion. He cocked his head to one side. “Are you encouraging me to go into debt, Sophy?” He met her eyes, daring her to deny it.
She stared at him for a minute, a blank, curiously opaque look. Then she blinked as if she were trying to remember a stray thought that had just crossed her mind. Around them, the din of the machines continued unabated, crashing off the walls and ceiling, echoing back upon the ear.
Sophy inhaled slowly, trying to find the words. She knew by the tone of Seth’s voice he was trying to provoke her, but could not think why. She wondered what he wanted. Wondered what sort of answer would be best to give. In the end, she told the truth.
“I’m saying don’t be a pattern card. When a door opens, go through it. If you want something badly enough, then you must do it.” The smoky eyes she raised to his were full of warmth. “Those who sit and wish for things accomplish nothing.”
“You’re talking money. Weston’s is on an even keel just now. Wouldn’t it be a pity to—” he gave a short, dry laugh “—rock the boat?”
For a moment, they studied each other. Sophy stopped breathing for a few seconds. Then she sucked in a breath of air and stood very still to conceal the fact that she was trembling. She felt him go unnaturally still beside her. She paused to lick suddenly dry lips.
“Sometimes it’s necessary to go against sound logic. I’m certain you don’t need me to tell you that. Anyway, who wants profits from mediocrity?”
The cool question hung in the air like a beaded curtain.
He looked a little taken aback, as if he hadn’t expected such a direct charge. “Damn it, Sophy, do you have to twist everything I say?” He exhaled deeply. “That’s no answer, and it’s too early for dramatics! I know there’s another market to be tapped, material for the discriminating, but it would cost money to expand. Money I haven’t got!”
“Money is like muck. It’s useful only when it’s spread around. If you’re too proud, or too paranoid, to use my inheritance, let it rot in Matt Tyson’s bank vault. Who cares?” She swallowed convulsively. Reminding him that he had married her for her dowry was no way to win his heart! “You’ll have sufficient funds from your own resources when I finish my assignment and plug any financial leaks!”
“Ah.” He said it as if it were a word with meaning. “Your assignment. I had forgotten,” he murmured dryly.
Sophy felt a moment of irrational chill, and shivered involuntarily. His mouth twisted into a smile, and he took a step backward, deliberately changing the subject. His voice was as tight as a coiled spring.
“You had better begin your investigations while I talk to Charles.”
Sophy thought furiously. “Charles seems to have a finger in every pie. Set him up as our spy. He could help us locate the traitor.”
“You have nothing in your head except your tongue, which is as loose and heavy as the clapper of a church bell, and just as meaningless,” Seth rasped furiously.
“Now who needs a strong dose of reality?” Her furious voice was as determined as his own.
Sophy knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as it was out of her mouth. She mentally felt him pull away and experienced a shaft of pure self-disgust. Echoes of Tessa’s lectures rang in her head. Around her the hum of machinery was like a constant admonition.
You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar!
You’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar!
Seth was still as a statue, thinking, abruptly suffused with a curious kind of ache. He wondered how he could explain his doubts and fears to Sophy. How could he, when he was not even sure he could explain them to himself? He only knew it was as Shakespeare so cleverly put into Ophelia’s mouth, “We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”
He caught the eye of the manager, hurrying from the sanctuary of his office deep in the back of the building. When Mr. Dunwoody joined them, Sophy accepted his offer to escort her through the remainder of the complex. She was intensely aware of Seth, knowing his eyes, like chips of blue quartz, were following her as she passed through the door into the next section.
It was a new world to her, this world of technology. The swatches of fabrics, wovens and prints, as well as passementerie, were exciting. Because she’d always been interested in color, the dyeing operation had special appeal. Especially the molten metal process, which completed in several seconds, George Dunwoody told her, stroking his mustache lovingly with one forefinger, what had previously taken an hour or more.
Standing on the threshold of the cramped clerical area, Sophy noted the stacks of papers and binders on every available surface. Bookshelves climbed the walls on either side of a narrow fireplace. A shaded lamp burned, suspended on a chain from the high ceiling, swaying slightly so that shadows moved and perspective was shattered.
Empty shadows and dusty silence. Dust motes danced in the flickering heat of the lamp. Gray air hung in sheets in the dim corners and on high-backed leather chairs. The machines could scarcely be heard here, only as a faraway sound, a kind of persistent thrumming.
Sophy wandered casually between two desks, working her way around behind one of them, considering carefully how to begin her financial audit. She stood and moved her fingers over a leather-bound journal. Her gloved hands were like white flowers against the dark binding.
Momentarily startled, George Dunwoody watched beneath heavy lids, his colorless eyes barely discernible, as she idly opened a ledger. He made an exasperated noise, as if clearing his throat. When she began leafing through the pages, he bent forward slowly and gently put his hand on hers.
“There is not much of interest here for a woman, Mrs. Weston. I am sure you would prefer to enjoy a cup of tea or coffee with your husband and Mr. Lethbridge,” he told her a little shortly.
Sophy thought she heard anger mixed with the sarcasm in his tone. She primly removed her hand. His contemptuous calm was amusing. It took a violent effort of will to stifle the laughter that threatened to bubble over inside her. As it was, the humor was clear in her eyes although she managed to keep her expression suitably haughty.
“Not at all, Mr. Dunwoody. I am not an empty vessel without an opinion of my own. I am interested in all of my husband’s affairs... not just color and design. It’s all fascinating... the politics, economics, the lot.”
George Dunwoody evidently did not think such a foolish objection worth answering because he disregarded it totally. His eyes narrowed to slits. He watched her in musing silence for a long minute, as if considering carefully how to continue.
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