The Lie and the Lady (30 page)

They all watched the realization hit Mrs. Emory hard. Yes, when they toured the top floor, none of the poles and gears had been spinning. But when they came down to this floor, the grindstones pulverized grain into flour, powered by a wheel and shaft that redirected through the floor at a different angle, heading out of the mill itself, to the engine house next door. When everyone went to look out the small window, they could see that a plume of smoke was feeding out of the stack, calmly puffing away.

“And as you see, it's very quiet. You hardly noticed it.”

“Mrs. Emory didn't notice at all,” Miss Goodhue said under her breath with a giggle.

“Add to that, the steam is kept far away from the grain on the other side of the mill. The millwrights based the layout design on those grain mills powered by water,” Turner said, smiling. “They are very adept at keeping the grain dry.”

“And should fire ever break out, there would be a surfeit of water on hand,” Margaret added, her eyes lighting up.

“True,” Leticia said, sending Margaret a look, praying that she end the subject there. “And since Mrs. Emory said we were all perfectly safe . . .”

“I did no such thing!” she cried.

“Are you certain?” Leticia replied, nonplussed. “I must have misheard then. Mrs. Spilsby, do you recall what Mrs. Emory said?”

“She . . . she did indeed say that we are safe.”

“I did not—”

“Do you really wish to contradict the vicar's wife—who, I must imagine, lives by a code of integrity?”

Mrs. Emory's mouth opened, but this time no sound came out.

“Then surely you have to admit, the mill—even with the new steam equipment—is perfectly safe. And running very well.”

“I will do no such thing,” Mrs. Emory said stiffly.

“Come now, Louisa,” came a new voice from the staircase. Curiosity had obviously gotten the better of Helen, as she was standing behind them. “This little grudge is silly. We never meant to cost your Harold his employment.”

“In fact, once the harvest begins in earnest, we hope to be able to hire on a dozen men,” Turner added.

“Oh—I'll have to tell my brother!” the butcher's boy squeaked. “Pa says he's useless hanging around the shop!”

Mrs. Spilsby leaned over and whispered to Mrs. Robertson, who nodded fervently. “Oh yes, my nephew is looking for work too . . .”

“MOIRA!” Mrs. Emory cried, hoping to bring at least one minion back in line. But this time, it was not to be.

“It's true,” Mrs. Robertson replied, her back straightening.

“Well, I . . . that is . . .” Mrs. Emory grasped for words, and for her dignity. “I believe the morning is over. We cannot dawdle all day, there is business to be done. Ladies . . .” She swept past everyone, past Helen, and descended the spiral staircase.

But for once, no one followed her.

“Well, if you all would like to see the rest of the mill,” Turner said, unable to stop grinning. Enthusiastic nods greeted him.

They trooped down to the next floor, where the flour was sifted by weight and grind into different funnels, which were then funneled again into sacks beneath that.

Everyone was duly impressed with the functions of the mill. The butcher's boy and Margaret especially were peppering Turner with so many questions (Who are your millwrights? How many pounds can be milled in one day? Does one pound of grain equal one pound of flour? What does that lever do?) that Helen had to step in to put a stop to it.

“If everyone would like, I have tea and sandwiches back at the house. You are all more than welcome to a spot of refreshment,” she said graciously, basking in the glow of the town's favor.

Mrs. Spilsby and Miss Goodhue claimed to be famished, since they had not eaten any of Mrs. Emory's tea cakes, and led the group down the rest of the stairs and out into the mill yard.

“That was well done,” Helen said to Turner, once Margaret (again bringing up the rear) had passed by.

“Thank Le—Lady Churzy,” Turner said as he eyed the bags that were being filled with flour from the sifting floor above. “It was her plan.”

“You are a true friend.” Helen smiled gratefully at Leticia. “If there is ever anything I can do for you, do not hesitate to ask.”

“It was my pleasure,” Leticia replied. She could demur, but why? It had been a pleasure, watching Mrs. Emory dig her own grave.

“Mother, I will catch up to you—this sack of flour is nearly full and needs to be changed,” Turner said, unhooking the burlap from where it had been fed by the funnel above.

“How do you change the sacks?” Leticia asked, stepping closer and peering up at the workings. After their tour, she was as enthralled with learning how the mill worked as the butcher's boy.

“Wait!” Helen said, but it was too late.

Because flour was still flowing. And when Turner removed the bag, flour ended up flowing freely.

And “freely” included, in this instance, all over Leticia's face.

“HERE, THIS SHOULD HELP,”
Turner said as he handed Leticia a cloth dipped in water. They were back on the ground floor of the mill, where Turner had fashioned a small space for himself out of what had been a storage room. There, he had a desk and drawer, for purchase orders and the like, as well as a pallet and some basic necessities. Necessities that included a razor, a basin and pitcher, and a looking glass.

“May I see?” she asked, indicating the looking glass.

“Probably not the best idea,” he said, hedging.

“Is it that bad?”

When the smoke—or rather the flour—had cleared, Leticia was left blinking the white powder from her eyelashes. And Turner and Helen were left agape.

It was his mother who sprang into action.

“Oh dear—and your dress too!” she said. “You can't take tea like that.”

Leticia looked down at herself. “I can't cross the mill yard like this,” she grumbled.

“John, take her down to your office—she can clean up there,” Helen said. “I'll tell everyone you're visiting the necessary. Just hurry up! That butcher's boy is going to eat me out of house and home.”

While Leticia was still blinking flour out of her eyes, he took her by the hand and led her here. As soon as he could, he dropped her hand. No need to tempt fate. His body was still coursing with energy, pulsing with his nervousness and triumphant showing of his mill. The contact of her hand in his only further muddled his mind.

“It can't be any worse than my imagination, so just hand me the looking glass,” she huffed.

He shrugged, handing it to her. “Suit yourself.”

She took one glance at herself and almost dropped the mirror. “You didn't tell me it was in my hair!” she cried. “I look like a crone.”

“No,” he protested. “You look lovely.”

The glance she sent him was particularly effective given her artificial pallor. “Not even you can believe that.”

But he did. She looked—to be honest, she looked like she had taken a face full of flour, but there was no one in the world who could have worn it as well.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her as much, but he stopped himself. That wasn't something she wanted to hear, surely. Not from him.

She took the damp cloth and wiped the flour off her face, the pink of her complexion bringing her to life with each stroke.

“Did I miss any?” she asked, peering at herself in the looking glass.

“Just here,” he said, indicating behind his ear.

“Where?” She wiped at the spot on her corresponding ear, completely missing it.

“Let me.” He couldn't stop himself. He took the cloth from her hand and ran it gently over the spot behind her ear, following the faint line of flour down her neck to the collar of her cloak.

“Ah . . . thank you,” she said, her eyes dropping to the floor as she took the cloth from him and stepped back.

He nodded, the only response he could manage. Then, once she was at a safe distance, he said, “I'm glad to see your neck is better.”

“Hmm? Oh yes,” she replied as she slipped the cloak off her shoulders and shook it out. “It was an unfortunate side effect of not knowing what to do. When I had a plan and a means by which to execute it, it cleared right up.”

She folded the cloak neatly and laid it over the back of her chair. Then she began pulling at the pins in her hair.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What I must.”

Then, the last of the pins in her hand, she flipped her hair forward, and shook out the flour from the long, mahogany tresses.

“You're getting flour all over my bed.”

“That's the price to be paid,” she replied from underneath all that hair. “God knows I'll never get it to look as good as Molly did, but this is the only way to get the flour out. Where did you get the grain, by the by? It's not quite harvest season yet.”

“Purchased it last harvest, stored it in the granary.”

“And not an ounce gone to rot. Another check in your steam equipment's favor.”

White powder fell out of her hair—which, in her present bent position, nearly touched the floor. It took everything in him to not reach out and let his fingers slide through those dark locks.

“So you took Molly on as your ladies' maid, did you?”

“Yes,” she said. “How do you know who Molly is?”

“She's how I knew which bedroom door was yours.”

She paused in her motions, apparently trying to remember. But then resumed shaking her hair. “Ah, yes. Now I remember. Well, I decided it was prudent. She came cheaper than anyone else, and the position elevates her so much that she'll never tell tales out of school again, lest she risk her position. Plus, she actually is quite talented with hair.”

“Your practicality astonishes me.”

“Thank you,” she said as she flipped her hair back and brought her head up again.

And stopped his heart.

Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling and dark, dizzying from the movement of her head. Her hair flung back in wings from her temples, streaming down her back as if caught in the wind.

He'd never seen her look like that. So open, and young.

So free.

It took some moments for his heart to start back up and for his hearing to be restored. But when it did, his heart nearly stopped again.

“You have a bed,” she said.

“What?” he replied.

“You have a bed in here. Why?”

“Oh,” he replied, sighing in relief. At least, he thought it was relief. It was the residual energy from their triumph over Mrs. Emory. That was what was affecting his hearing. And his heart.

“I work late some nights. It's much simpler to lay my head down for a few hours here.”

“That would make sense if you lived quite far from your work. But your real bed—which I'm assuming is much larger and warmer than this thing—is merely across the mill yard.” She narrowed her gaze, contemplating him. “You're sleeping here as protection, aren't you?”

His mouth formed a grim line. “It's merely a precaution. If someone wanted to burn down the mill . . .”

“When the mill burned before, it was by accident.” Suspicion entered her voice. “Wasn't it?”

“The first time, I believed it was an accident, yes. And I swelled with guilt because I was not here. But the second time, when we were nearly done rebuilding . . . I've had my suspicions. And the explosion the other day reinforced them.” He could see the concern in her eyes and let his mouth tick up at the corner, just to make her feel better. “But accident or no, if I'm here, it reduces the likelihood of it ever happening again.”

“You can't spend every minute of the day in the mill,” she said.

“Not every day, no. Every night, however . . .” he reasoned.

It's not like he had anything else to do at night. Except for those rare occasions someone came knocking on his kitchen door.

By the way her eyes darkened, she was thinking along the same lines. Then, remembering herself, she looked away. At the floor, at the desk—anywhere but the bed—and her eyes eventually found the looking glass.

And something strange filtered through his blood. The realization that she was as affected by him as he was by her.

The question was . . . was he stupid enough to do something about it?

“I . . . I need to pin up my hair,” she said finally, nodding toward the looking glass, where it sat on his desk. “Would you hold that for me?”

“Of course.” He took the mirror and held it level with her face. She reached out once to adjust his hand, but then drew back as if he were hot to the touch.

Interesting.

“I still cannot believe you are sleeping in your mill,” she said, by way of conversation, as she separated her hair into long sections, rolling and twisting them into place.

“It's not so bad,” he replied. “At night, when everything is still and dark . . . I can go out onto the balcony on the fourth floor and see all the way down into Helmsley. And I know.”