A Hasty Betrothal (8 page)

Once they were safely out of earshot, she yanked her arm from his grasp and pointed to the factory. “You allow that...that oaf...that cad to work with your employees? He is a terrible person. Unkind, unfeeling. How could he say that about her, and so callously? What do you think he has said to her face? You must fire him at once. I insist.” She drew a breath, her chest heaving, eyes flashing.

Feeling rather grim himself, he crossed his arms. “They are in need of an overseer. Grealey knows the running of a mill in minute detail.”

“He is a detriment to your company,” she said hotly.

She looked every inch the hoyden he remembered from childhood. Where had this Elizabeth disappeared to in the last few years, he wondered. Had too much reading destroyed her capacity to feel until this moment? He couldn't help the grin that cracked the surface of his resolve.

“Of course, you would laugh.” Her haughty tones reminded him of the duchess. Casting him a disgusted look, she allowed his driver to help her into the carriage.

As soon as he climbed in, she wasted no time in continuing her diatribe.

“That horrid creature must go at once. I am insisting upon it. I will personally find another supervisor more skilled and more compassionate than that ridiculous ninny. I shall read about other— Why, are you laughing at me?”

Miles tried very hard to hide his smile. “Not at all. I admire your determination to remedy the situation. I had hoped you might have ideas on how to make the mill a better place for the workers.”

She gaped at him. The carriage hit a rut and she gripped the seat. He had the feeling she'd like to grip his throat by the look in her eyes.

“Try not to look so murderous,” he said mildly. “I'm sure if you pick up that book beside you, soon all the injustices of life will be forgotten and you can lose yourself in a story where all is right with the world.”

Her mouth moved but no sound issued forth. She was well and truly vexed. He knew he should feel remorse for egging her on, but he had clearly told her that he was making changes at the factory. She should, at least, give him the benefit of the doubt.

If her eyes shot bullets, he'd be dead.

He chuckled at the thought.

Wrong reaction. She swung her reticule at him and it very nearly took out his eye. Only his quick reflexes saved him from a wallop.

A flicker of irritation lit.

She pursed her lips, placing the reticule-turned-weapon next to her in a prim movement. “Next time you shall not be so fortunate. As I recall, my aim has been true in the past, and if you continue your dastardly teasing, it shall be again.”

Shooting her a rueful look, Miles leaned back against the squab. “It is one thing for an immature young woman of four and ten to hit her brother's annoying university friend with her purse. It is quite another for a betrothed woman to do so. Do you find yourself subject to these fits of rage often?”

“You beastly man!”

“Better to be a beast than an ill-tempered woman.”

She made a sound that came close to a snarl.

The corners of his lips crooked. He stretched his legs and gave her a considering look. “I do not recall your temper being quite so vile, Bitt. I believe this to be a direct result of quiet, restrained living. Much like a pot sitting on the stove, slowly simmering. You've been simmering too long, and now that the heat has turned up, you've boiled over.”

“That is an odd and incomplete metaphor. It makes no sense.”

He shrugged. “I am simply trying to understand you.”

Suddenly, her face wrinkled. Not in the “I'm going to laugh” way but in the way a face does just before water starts streaming down one's cheeks. She pressed both hands against her brow, hiding herself from his view.

“Are you going to cry?” Miles heard the strangled note in his voice, but little could repair it.

“No” came the muffled answer. And that was all.

Eyeing her, he shifted on the seat, straightening in case his assistance was needed. Though for what, he had no idea. Her weeping was his fault, of that he was certain. He should not have teased her so, but it seemed better to tease than to engage in an argument. He did not disagree with her sentiments.

He studied her carefully. After a long moment, she removed her hands and met his look. Yes, her eyes sparkled unnaturally bright but he caught no sight of tears.

“I had thought better of you, Miles,” she said quietly, “than that you'd allow such treatment in your factories.”

Gut twisting, he barely restrained himself from punching the seat. “I am sorry to be such a disappointment.”

“We will muddle through somehow.” She picked up her book and poked her nose into it.

Holding back an oath, Miles forced himself to silence. There was much he could say, but all his words would prove hurtful. She insisted on seeing only what she wanted.

Truthfully, Grealey's treatment of the child was beyond the pale. It was a small droplet in a full bucket of injustices. The power to fix such problems remained beyond his grasp, at least for now.

If only Elizabeth understood. They were not even married yet, and he keenly felt his lack. It did not bode well for their future.

Chapter Eight

R
uination was so very inconvenient.

Elizabeth was still fuming behind the pages of her book when a shudder shook the entire carriage and it came to a grinding halt. The betraying sting of tears had eased, allowing her to set the novel to the side with some semblance of dignity.

“What happened?” she asked. Miles was already rising and opening the door.

He exchanged words with the driver. Then he hopped out, leaving her alone.

Heart pounding, she willed herself to stay seated in the side-listing vehicle. It would not do to have an attack of hysterics. Today had been quite nerve-racking enough without the added bother of an overwrought constitution.

If only she had inherited Grandmother's gift for fainting. To bypass the pounding heart, perspiring palms and dizzy spells and slide into blackness seemed more desirable right now than panic.

Instead she practiced deep and steady breaths, as Grandmother had taught her many years ago. The pressure above her sternum eased. Surely they were not too far from Windermar or its village. They'd been traveling over thirty minutes.

Miles thrust his head inside. “Broken wheel. It will take time to repair. Tom is riding into the village of Windermar as we speak.”

She gathered her book and reticule. “Shall we wait here, then?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “That we shall, unless you'd rather fly to the estate.”

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that her small repast had been many hours ago. “I'd rather dinner and a warm bed.”

“That is several hours from now, dearest.”

She tamped down the tiniest delight at the way he said
dearest
. He meant it in a purely general sense, she was sure. Standing, she went to the door. “Help me down, please.”

He did so, his grip firm. Once safely on the ground, she adjusted her hems, shook out her skirts and smiled up at Miles. “I wish to walk to Grandmother's.”

His brows shot up. “Now? At dusk?”

“It will be faster than waiting for aid, and I'm hungry. We can pass through the village and perhaps pick up mutton pies or fresh stew.”

“I suppose the idea has merit.”

“But of course, it does.” She fastened her reticule more securely to her wrist. Unfortunately, the novel did not fit within the small purse, so she would have to carry it. “Come along, Miles.”

Giving the lopsided carriage one last glance, she began marching toward Windermar. The rough road proved treacherous to her slippers, though, and she moved onto the grassy bank. Trees sporadically lined the road and deep fields of emerald grass surrounded them. She drew in a satisfying breath.

How beautiful and fresh this was compared to the cotton factory. Those poor children. They should be frolicking and climbing trees. Picking flowers and laughing. Not cooped up in stuffy rooms that echoed with unnatural sounds and held dangerous machines.

She became aware of Miles walking beside her, his cologne a sweet addition to the land's natural scents.

“Are you still angry with me, Bitt?” he asked some time later.

The village could be seen. Only a few more minutes and they'd be within reach of food. She took time answering him, for after her outburst earlier, she realized her unfairness toward him but could not fathom how to fix it.

“I was surprised,” she said carefully, using every ounce of self-control to contain her anger at what she'd seen.

“You think me capable of great greediness, I suppose.”

His words sullied their companionable walk. Elizabeth frowned. “I do not think such a thing of you, but surely there is a way to run the mill without exploiting the populace and destroying its youth.”

He laughed, but the sound was dry and without humor. “If such a way existed, I would be the first to find it. I bought this factory several months ago and am still making renovations. Tell me, Bitt, what would happen if I fired all the children today?”

“You'd make less cotton, which means less money,” she answered promptly. An uncomfortable heaviness invaded her. His questions felt like a test of sorts, one which she would certainly fail.

“And?”

“And what?” she answered a tad too crossly. She had never known herself to be quite so shrewish as she had been today. But he deserved it, she reminded herself. What kind of man employed children? Stole their childhood?

Not the kind of man she wanted to marry, she thought grimly.

“Think deeply about it.”

Gritting her teeth, she stomped forward. She was thinking about it, wretched man. He acted as though she was half-witted.

She dodged a root poking out of the ground. She glared at him. “If you fired them, they'd have nowhere to go. I suppose they do not employ nannies.”

Miles made a rather annoying sound, almost like a barely restrained cough. She crossed her arms and willed herself to reach the village. Her stomach rumbled, cramping. If only she could eat. Her toes stung and every step brought a new pebble to dig into the tender flesh of her feet. Her patience for Miles and his desire to defend himself threatened to flee.

Setting her shoulders, she silently willed him to drop the subject.

He did not.

“You're jesting, I hope?” He came up beside her, reaching for her reticule. He jogged the reticule in front of him and the coins clinked. “I daresay, Bitt, my workers could live on what you have in here for a month.”

“Nonsense.”

“Is it?” He cast her a look, the deepening shadows lining his face with disapproval. “With all your book reading and skill with numbers, it is a certainty that you must be aware of finances and the necessities of living.”

Uncomfortable, she trudged on, saying nothing. Once again, Miles treated her as a spoiled, ignorant lady. “I am not interested in hearing your disparagement of my character.”

“But you are interested in the plight of my employees.” He released the reticule. He cut a dashing figure at dusk. Tall and lean, striding forward on sturdy boots that were no doubt more comfortable than her flimsy slippers.

“I am angry about their lifestyle,” she corrected him. “Especially since you have the power to change it.”

“As do you.” He gestured to the reticule.

They were entering the outskirts of Windermar. “Throwing money at people has never solved poverty. Education, literacy. Those are practical solutions.”

“And I ask you again, what would happen if the children in the families did not bring home income?”

Elizabeth blinked, his meaning sinking in. “Their families would starve.”

“Exactly.”

The firm, more finely combed roads of Windermar's village offered her feet a respite. “Mrs. Rose at the inn makes a fabulous meal. Perhaps you'd like to stop there before going on to Grandmother's?”

“Before we eat, I'll make arrangements for transportation at the livery.”

She ducked her head out of habit as they passed cottages. The townspeople knew her and had always treated her with fairness, if not a bit of reserve.

When they stepped into the sweet warmth of Mrs. Rose's dining area, the last bits of tension seeped away.

“Lady Elizabeth, to what do we owe this visit?” Mrs. Rose met them halfway in, curiosity creasing her flushed features as she surveyed Miles. “Mr. Hawthorne? Is that you, sir?”

“Mrs. Rose, it's been a long time.” He took her hand and kissed the top.

Silly gallantry, but Mrs. Rose giggled. “A bite of food for you two? Ye all appear right famished.”

“Indeed, you know my appetite.” Miles flashed his signature grin. It always looked just the slightest bit crooked, as though he planned a spot of mischief.

Elizabeth felt herself relaxing. This was the Miles she knew. Flirtatious and charming, a hint of mockery in his smile and no trace of that serious, irritable businessman. She set her reticule on a roughly hewn yet clean table near a wall. She settled into a chair.

“I'll arrange for travel and then I'll be back,” said Miles. He went to speak with the man at the door as she sat, enjoying the quiet. It was a lovely feeling to soak in silence. Or rather, to live in her own bubble without outside interference.

Although the dining area was not empty, no one spoke to her as it would be unseemly to approach one above their station. She was able to lose herself in her own comfort. A steady bustle enlivened the atmosphere and a fire had been started in the pit at the other end of the room. Mostly commoners ate here at this hour. She doubted she'd see any peers passing through. Grandmother did not often entertain visitors, but when she did, it was at her London house.

Elizabeth wondered how her parents fared. Had they succeeded in tamping down the gossip? Perhaps Lady Englewood had spread word that she'd seen them at Gunter's. The betrothal was scheduled to be announced in next week's papers.

Then Elizabeth would begin planning the betrothal ball. She did not relish the task, but since Miles wanted her to do it, she would. She owed him a great deal. But hosting a betrothal ball... She shuddered. The very thought made her squirm. At least today had not been so terrible, she supposed. She propped her chin on her hand, watching Miles across the room. She could not reconcile her childhood friend with the man across the room. He had grown up. He had changed.

Sometimes she felt as though she were still the same girl, marred and simple.

Today had opened her eyes, and perhaps that had been his intention all along. How many times had he reprimanded her for her reclusiveness? Caused her to feel overindulged and spoiled?

Miles turned and caught her staring. She gave him a little flutter with her fingers. No anger stirred. She'd always found it hard to stay perturbed with him.

If he wanted what was best for his workers, then his words regarding child employment made sense. He was truly in a quandary.

Miles waved back and a tiny flicker of warmth in her belly caught her by surprise. Of course, she held a measure of affection for him. He had, after all, been a part of her life for a long time. But what was this feeling inside, this unsettled tumultuous churning of her stomach, the uptick of her pulse when he smiled at her?

Horrified, she jerked upright.

Was she attracted to Miles? It could not be so. Was it because he'd shaved off that infernal mustache? Creating a younger-looking, less refined, more dashing hero?

Blinking hard, she opened her book, but the inn's lighting was too dim. The words fuzzed and, annoyed, she slapped the book closed.

“Nothing worth reading?” Miles pulled out a seat, obviously done with finagling a ride home.

“It's too dark. Were you able to request a hackney?”

“Even better. The owner's son is riding to your grandmother's estate with a note from me and will hopefully return with her carriage.”

“Perfect. I have not yet ordered food.”

“I took the liberty.” His lips lifted, revealing his white smile. “You did well today. I regret that the state of my factories shocked you, though.”

She lifted a shoulder, tracing the crevices on the table with her fingertip. “It was not so horrible. I have simply never seen such miserable surroundings.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

A restlessness filled her. “Is it so everywhere? Surely there are societies designed to assist the poor?”

“Dearest, you truly have locked yourself away.”

She stopped tracing as indignation flared through her. “Not at all. I am aware of the state of the world. I simply did not realize...” She trailed off because a dreadful squeeze had taken hold of her heart. Those children. Their haunted eyes. That ragdoll worn into a mangled, stitched-together cloth by innocent hugs. “Children find joy even in their dark circumstances.”

“They do.”

“And that dreadful man...you cannot keep him, Miles. He called her
ugly
.” Her voice caught. She had heard that word about herself too many times. By her own parents, though they had not known she stood on the other side of the door.

“Do you think she is ugly?” Miles trained his gaze on her.

Mrs. Rose brought their food, setting the steaming bowls of stew before them with a hunk of bread.

“Thank you,” said Miles, but he did not take his eyes from Elizabeth.

Her stomach twisted. “Of course not. But I question God. Why does he allow such circumstances? Not only hers, but all those who suffer?”

“Would you have every flower be a rose?”

“You avoid the question, but I understand the point you wish to make. Comparing people to flowers does not explain why some have so much, and some have so little.”

His eyes flickered. His fingers clenched, and she thought perhaps he might not respond.

But then he said, “I have no answer as to why one child grows up in a well-fed, comfortable estate and another sleeps on cobblestones. But I do believe that beauty cannot be measured by one opinion. Becky, that is the child's name, by the way, is a perspicacious child who is thankful to be alive. When she was born, she found it difficult to nurse and for many years no one knew if she would live. Eating is problematic. Her family treats her with a great fondness. She is beautiful to God and to all those whose lives she touches.” He spooned his stew. “Do you honestly think because one man calls her a name, his words will influence her entire life?”

“Sometimes that is exactly what happens. You are being condescending.”

“You're upset with Mr. Grealey, and rightfully so, but Becky has borne more than one man's half-witted insults.”

“What goes on in her heart may not show on her face.” Elizabeth looked down at the stew, filled with carrots and potatoes and a delicious-smelling broth. “Once again, I feel as though you are chastising me when it is your manager who spoke unpardonably.”

“We are both tired and perhaps overly sensitive. We can speak of this later.”

“We will, indeed.” She draped her spoon with stew, mindful that while her opinion of Miles had risen, her opinion of herself had dropped.