Betina Krahn (8 page)

Fitch instantly discerned the salacious potential. Prospective headlines—
Heiress Wages War on Corsets! and Heiress Strips Off Her Petticoats!
—flitted through his mind. He was just as quick to perceive the hint of self-interest in the fellow’s tone.

“And this misguided young thing … she is a relative of yours?” he inquired.

“My cousin.” On those handsome lips the words had a strangely unpleasant ring. “She got the lion’s share, you see. While worthier relations were—well—” The young gentleman’s smile suggested that he was too much a gentleman to elaborate.

“Say no more, Mr.…”

“Duncan. Gilbert Duncan. My lady-cousin is Miss Madeline Duncan.”

“A millionairess with a loathing for boning,” Fitch said, measuring each word as if readying it for lead type. A tobacco-yellow smile bloomed on his stubbled face. “Well, Mr. Duncan, I can see ye’ve got a terrible burden to bear. And old Rupert Fitch here has a willin’ shoulder to lend … and a willin’ ear.”

Cole Mandeville stormed out of the Law Courts like a man possessed. And indeed he was possessed—by two stunning
blue orbs, an oval of luminous ivory, and a cloud of burnished silk, all wrapped around the steely core of a genuine do-or-die social reformer. Moments ago he had found himself standing flatfooted and speechless, staring down into Madeline Duncan’s remarkable blue eyes and seeing into her blasted soul.

Her inner landscape seemed as pristine and unsullied as a newborn babe’s. No avarice. No guilt. No sinkholes of self-interest. No gaping wounds to compensate for. It just wasn’t possible. No human being could survive to her age without a few ravages to the soul, not even the most sheltered or privileged.

Not that she was particularly ancient, he thought furiously, hailing a hansom cab and feeling his vest riding up again as he raised his arm. Nor particularly hard on the eyes. It ought to be a law of nature that strange females had to
look
strange.

Giving his vest a savage jerk, he settled back into the worn leather seat of the two-seater cab and squinted at her memory, searching it for the flaws he knew must be there—a hint of orange in that perfect chestnut, a taint of muddiness in that penetrating blue. Under such heated examination her image evaporated and he was left glowering at the horse’s rump through the carriage glass and feeling very much like one himself.

He should have known his uncle was up to something, should have headed for the door the minute he spotted his former colleague at the counsel table. He had presumed the old boy intended to treat him to the spectacle of “Fartsworth” at work, expecting it would somehow lure him back into the profession. He never imagined the old goat had more direct designs on him—involving him in the case itself!

And such a case. A damned infernal female with delusions of messiahship out to save the world from the twin evils of corsets and poverty in one fell swoop!

Corsets and poverty
. The absurdity of it struck, and he began to laugh.

When laughter had purged much of his tension and he sobered, the smile that lingered on his lips slowly acquired a bitter edge. The chit wasn’t just idealistic, she was downright ignorant. If life in the law had taught him anything, it was that people didn’t want to better their own lot; they wanted somebody else’s lot to better them. People didn’t want to be delivered from their vices; they wanted to learn how to pursue them without getting caught. Given a choice, human beings would always choose their own comfort and self-interest above grandiose abstractions like devotion and loyalty and justice. The unlucky few who somehow became yoked to such ideals were doomed to disillusionment and despair.

Unbidden, her face invaded his mind once more—earnest, determined, and so insufferably righteous. So the brazen chit intended to give him a lesson in ideals, did she? Well, not before life gave her a lesson or two in the grim reality of the human condition. A vengeful pulse of satisfaction went through his veins at the thought that he was going to be there—front and center—to see it happen.

What was it Uncle William said? Part of his charge was to save “Mad Madeline” from her own magnanimous impulses?

He smiled.

Like hell.

When the sun came up over the village of St. Crispin a fortnight later, Madeline watched it as she had every morning for the past two weeks—from her second floor bedroom in the superintendent’s house that nestled beside her factory. She cradled a cup of tea between her hands and savored occasional sips as she stood by the window, surveying the wakening village.

This was her favorite time of day and her favorite way to spend it: overlooking the modest stone houses lining the cobbled lane and the rectangular patch of green at the heart of the village. In that first golden light of morning the limestone of the buildings glowed as if gilded and the grass and trees appeared like a deep teal velvet. Each morning she absorbed the sight and stored it in her heart, feeling like the richest woman alive. Each morning it renewed her determination to make a success of her factory and of the garments that would free women to live fuller, more productive lives.

“Another drop of tea, Madeline?” a voice
asked from behind her. She started out of her thoughts and turned to find her stout, round-faced housekeeper standing by the writing table where her breakfast tray sat.

“No, thank you, Davvy. I need to get to the office early this morning. The first shipment from Manchester is due anytime, and I have two more families arriving today.”

“And
him.
” Mrs. Davenport folded her hands at her waist and leveled a narrow look at Madeline. “You do seem to keep forgetting that
he
is arriving today.”

“How could I possibly forget?” Madeline set her cup back in its saucer on the table. “You haven’t ceased mentioning it since his wretched letter arrived.”

“Only because you have refused to mention it since the letter arrived.” Davenport studied her as she paused to peer at herself in the mirror of the dressing table. “We should have made arrangements.”

“I have made arrangements … of a sort,” she said, tucking an unruly lock of hair back into the ribboned net around her simple chignon.

“What do you mean ‘of a sort’?” Davenport frowned and folded her arms over her ample bosom. “This is no time for any of your stubbornness, Maddy Duncan. We should be gracious and hospitable—prepare a welcoming dinner at the very least.” When Madeline didn’t agree straightaway, a glint appeared in the housekeeper’s eye. “Your aunt Livvy, bless her, always said the route to a man’s goodwill was through his stomach.”

Madeline halted in the midst of reaching for the long blue smock that hung on the open wardrobe door. She knew full well what Davenport was up to in invoking Aunt Olivia’s name, but was somehow unable to dismiss it. “No, Aunt Olivia always said the route to a man’s goodwill was generally through his prejudices.
You’re
the one who always insisted that men think with their stomachs.”

Davenport gave a harumph of annoyance. “Well, at least think about it.”

Out the door and hurrying down the narrow footpath leading from the house to the factory, Madeline took a deep breath of country air and did think about it … or, more accurately, about
him
.

Her last glimpse of Lord Mandeville was as he stood in the justice’s chambers, livid with outrage at the affront she had just dealt him. If she hadn’t forgotten, it wasn’t likely he had either. And it was even less likely that his opinion of her and her venture had improved in the intervening two weeks.

Strangely, his ire wasn’t the only thing she remembered. She had never been one to recall faces well, but for some reason she could recall every line, every curve, every shading and texture of his. In the quiet of her room at night, in the privacy of her inner thoughts, she also remembered the curious and somewhat worrisome tingling she had experienced as he loomed over her. It wasn’t merely the excitement of verbal combat or of the passionate defense of her strongly held beliefs. It was something else, something she had never experienced before. Something alarmingly personal. And feminine.

All the more reason for her to see that his lordship’s stay in St. Crispin was unexpectedly brief She had to get rid of him. It was the only sensible thing to do. And in order to get rid of him, she had decided, she would have to convince him that both his oversight of the Ideal Garment Company and his presence in St. Crispin were unnecessary.

To that end, she had plotted a strategy along two separate but complementary fronts. She planned to convince him of her sound management and the ability of her employees by demonstrating the progress they had made in clothing designs, the manufacturing process, and the factory itself. Only the most narrow-minded and vindictive of men would refuse to see the good that was happening here. Despite the animosity between them at their first meeting, she hoped that Lord Mandeville’s professional objectivity was worthy of Sir William’s high opinion of it.

Her secondary strategy addressed his presence in the village. A man of his elegance would no doubt find St. Crispin’s meager accommodations difficult. With a little help they might become altogether intolerable.

Looking up, she found herself a short distance from the front doors of the factory. She paused. As always, her worries and cares began to fall away at the sight of the tall brick-and-limestone building and the freshly lettered sign over the main entrance identifying it as
THE IDEAL GARMENT COMPANY
.

The factory was simply the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, a dream in the making. The large windows on the first and second floors still awaited a coat of paint, and the roof, which had suffered moisture damage during the years of neglect, still had holes here and there. The entry yard needed a great deal of stone to make it passable in wet weather, and there was a good bit of cleaning and painting to do all around. But such exterior flaws were easily remedied, minor compared to what had been accomplished inside the building.

Rolling up the sleeves of her blue smock, she headed inside and up to the offices, stepping carefully around the defective boards in the stairs, which were due to be repaired any day now. As she strolled through half-finished cutting tables, envisioning them piled with layers of cloth and surrounded by cutters and apprentices, she was startled by a snarling sound from a nearby stack of lumber. Investigating, she discovered a man sprawled on his back on top of a pile of boards, snoring furiously.

It was Fritz Gonnering, her German-born engineer. Her first impulse was to awaken him, but then she spotted the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor beneath the stubble on his face.
Exhaustion
. He had probably been working into the wee hours again. He had designed a system of pulleys and shafts to run an entire factory of cutting and sewing machines from a single coal-fired engine and now was laboring night and day to install and perfect it. Madeline shook her head, suffering a pang of conscience at how hard he was working.
Then she hurried on through the cutting rooms and up the back stairs to the offices.

Proceeding past the clerks’ desks and the door to the superintendent’s office, she headed straight for the sample room. It was here, in this spacious area flooded with light from newly installed windows, that the designs and patterns for her new garments were being painstakingly assembled.

The litter of creativity was everywhere. Bolts of fabric were propped against table legs and cabinets; sketches, drafting squares, and curve templates hung on pegs near the door; and pattern books and drawing pads were stacked on shelves and spilling over onto the worktables that lined the walls. Half-cut pattern pieces, palettes of fabric swatches, bolts of trims, and huge spindles of thread and rubberized elastic were piled higgledy-piggledy on every horizontal inch. In the center of the room stood a pair of wire dressmaking forms wearing a collage of paper patterns and pieces of fabric.

She felt a surge of warmth in her chest. The room was a mess, but in some ways it was her favorite place in the entire village. It was here that she started every morning, thinking, imagining, helping Jessup Endicott, her pattern maker, translate the ideas in her head into manufacturable pieces.

A commotion outside drew her back down the hall, where she discovered Emmaline Farrow, standing in the middle of the main office with her shawl hanging from one shoulder, looking distraught and clutching a wriggling eight-year-old in one hand and a six-year-old in the other.

“I’m so sorry that I am late …”

“I only just arrived myself,” Madeline responded.

“It was just …” Tears were working their way up Emily’s throat into her eyes. “I tried making porridge again and it scorched and stuck to the horrid pan and I had no time to do it all over again.…” The boys set up a wail as they buried their heads in their mother’s skirts, and she looked as if she might swoon.

This was the third time this week that widowed Emily
Farrow had ruined her children’s breakfast and arrived in the offices looking frazzled and overwhelmed. She was having a difficult time adjusting to a life of reduced means—cooking her own meals, laying her own fires, doing her own laundry, and looking after her own children.