An Untitled Lady (14 page)

What had his new bride thought to see this house, when she’d dreamt of castles all her life? Had he been in the same position, he might have had the same snappish feelings, too. In fact, he was lucky she’d only bitten his head off this evening. She should have punched him. He would have. He’d acted worse than Deacon.

She deserved better than him. At the least she deserved a decent home, with dress-presses and cupboards and what all. In that nightdress, her hair in loose braids, she had glowed. He liked the heft of her, the shape of her here in his bed. He hadn’t even minded that the canvas was down. With a finger, he kissed her neck, the lightest of caresses. She sighed in her sleep, and something locked tight in his chest released. He traced her shoulder, then over the blanket covering her hip. This part he could get comfortable with. If only she were this pliable when awake. Or in heat.

That shriek had been raw fear. Whatever had installed the fear wasn’t going to have to clean up after its mess, Nash was. He wasn’t sure where to start. He didn’t know if he had the patience. He only knew that if he did not do something to repair the damage, his own sad cock would be sorry indeed.

{ 15 }

The next afternoon, Maddie turned her new key into the lock and let herself into the hatbox that was her new home. Sitting through the sermon at St. Mary’s, and simultaneously pondering whether her vicar of old had planted that seed of terror in her mind, had worn her out, but her first encounter with her mother’s resting place in full sunlight brought some peace. The air was lighter when the mills were closed.

She dropped the key into her reticule and took the stair to her boudoir to hang up cloak and bonnet. At least they had places now. Even at church, she’d felt singled out, and not because she’d come without her family. That would have been true in Bath. Here most of the parishioners looked like working women and their children; both groups stared openly at her. The rector hid his surprise with more skill.

His sermon, on doing one’s duty, only served to vex her further. What was her duty now? Follow the lead of her husband, but he didn’t appear to want much of her, and what could she rightfully demand of him? What he had wanted, last night, she’d failed to give.

Some of the women followed her same path home, over Shude Hill and through Thomas Street. They didn’t speak to her, but nodded amiably enough. Two stopped to watch her enter this house. She was the news of the neighborhood by now. She hoped their stories reflected well on Nash, despite her soft Southern accent and foreign-made cloth. By what else could they judge her?

She found him in the main room, reading yet another newspaper. “More protests?”

“Not in London.” He set the paper on his lap and rubbed at his brow.

“I missed you this morning. When did you leave?”

“Shade past six. Weavers are an early crowd.”

“On Sunday?”

He shrugged. “They wanted to deliver today. I’m told there’s a rally in Oldham tomorrow. You’ve missed dinner. Churching takes so long?”

Maddie glanced at the clock on the mantle. Four o’clock. The half-hour she thought she’d spent clearing her mother’s place must have been twice that long. “I visited my mother’s grave again.”

It felt so strange, having another mother. She’d already been to Mary Moore’s graveside more than she ever had that of Lady Wetherby. It was not thought proper for a child to haunt her parents’ grave; the new viscount had forbidden it. She sat sidewise on the chair in front of the folded-out writing table.

“Why so far away?”

Butterflies, suddenly awakened in her stomach, raced toward her throat. She gulped them back down. “I apologize for last night,” she said formally, as if distant words could mask the immediacy of her emotions.

His face stilled, his expression intent on her. He didn’t say anything. No longer butterflies but bees of panic shot out to her limbs. He patted the chair beside him, offering it to her. Maddie scolded herself for jumping to conclusions as she sat down. Her rotted imagination ruined everything.

“I do not believe an apology is necessary. You obviously could not help what you felt. I did not realize how repellent I am.” He softened his words with that self-deprecating half-smile, but his indigo eyes were sad. She wanted to reassure him, but didn’t know how he would take to reassurance. He seemed a hard man.

“You must know you’re catnip to the ladies.”

“Now I know you taunt me.” But he laughed, and Maddie’s buzzing bees settled back to sleep. He took her hand, stroking it, over and over. But soon enough his thoughtful frown returned. “Last night, it frightened me, as well. What could have caused it? Has it ever happened before? You looked scared to death.”

She shook her head.

“Something that happened only once, perhaps, but now you avoid the activity, or the color, something, that caused it. Anything?”

Maddie was sure she didn’t know what he was getting at. Then she did remember something. A scent.

“The barbershop.”

“The barber? When would you ever go there?”

“Never, except for the once. We girls wished to buy a gift for one of our teachers, who was returning to the continent. We collected money to buy him an aftershave, because he often smelled of mothballs and we thought he might have more luck with the ladies if he carried a sweeter bouquet.”

She had gone to the busiest barber on High Street. The man had been kind to a rather nervous young miss. She hadn’t been afraid at all of him, until she nearly fainted.

“I see now it wasn’t the barber that frightened me. It was the scent.”

After she’d explained her errand, the barber had opened up a small bottle of powerful perfume. He hadn’t even told her the price before she had run out of the store feeling as if she were chased by hounds.

“All this time I thought it was him. I even whipped up a tale of terror for the girls. Another girl went to a different barber. He must have given her a different scent, for when Mr. Purdy dabbed it on, I didn’t need to run.”

“A scent.”

“That can’t be it. You weren’t wearing anything last night. Besides, I like your smell.”

His eyes sparkled, and she realized what she had said. The bees painted her face hot red. “That’s a comfort.”

The blush burning her cheeks reminded her she’d missed bathing this morning. “Do you think there’s enough water to bathe today?”

“Aye, but not enough hands. The Willises are off until tomorrow. Didn’t you have a bath yesterday?”

That was only a sponging wash, barely enough to signify. She needs must wash once a day. It was part of her, part of Godliness. Bathing was not negotiable. She would have put it in the marriage contract had she known she’d be living in a house that had to collect the rain for bath water.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure they refilled the pitchers before they went. I had to push Mrs. Willis out the door. They with a new grandchild to see. All she thought of was you.”

He leaned in. She held still as he kissed her temple. “I like your smell, too.” She blinked slowly, the bees settling down, sated.

He leaned back. “I’ve arranged for us to be invited to sup with the Heywoods. She can introduce you to the crowd, and then you can begin making calls. How do you like that?”

She’d like rather for him to give her more of those kisses. “I’d be grateful to them.”

“Heywood has been a mentor to me. We’ve joined in a fabric scheme that could bring steady work to Manchester. Now that Deacon has put off the daughter, your being on good terms with his wife could mend things.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“The dinner’s not for a few days, though. So what do you say to a tour of the warehouse tomorrow?”

The secret sanctuary?

He grinned at her expression. “Monday’s are a bit slow. We could wait until Tuesday. That’s a market day.”

“Tomorrow is better.” And perhaps she could return on Tuesday, and Wednesday, too. If she could convince him to share this part of his life, maybe she could convince him to share more.

* * * *

“You don’t seem as fearful tonight.”

Nash undid the hooks at the back of his wife’s dress. She’d already sent five of her trunks back to the castle, a good sign. At dinner, she talked about the household budget, and how it would need at the least an incremental increase. Painful, yet also a good sign. Plus, she wasn’t screaming in fear. Yet.

He tried to remember which touch, which sound, had set her off. Was it her thigh, her hip, her belly, her breast? He ran a finger up from the base of her spine, bare now but for her shift. She shivered and leaned into the touch.
Good
. As he neared the nape of her neck, she pulled away, turning so fast he caught a glimpse of giant green irises before they shrunk back to normal. What could have happened to her neck?

He knew she wanted him to say
I’m not going to hurt you
. But it galled him to be distrusted so. He turned away from her, silently cursing the man or beast that had wrecked this moment for her. He prayed the damage wasn’t permanent.

She laid a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “I’m sorry. Please.”

“Come to bed.”

When she slid in beside him, she wasn’t wearing anything but gooseflesh. “I’m not afraid.” Her voice shook.

He pulled her into an embrace, his chin at the top of her head. At first, it felt like hugging a female scented tree trunk. Soon, her arm eased, and wrapped itself about his waist; her hummingbird heart slowed to a steadier rhythm.

He skimmed his hand along the side of her face, up over her ear, over and over, always avoiding the neck. Her breasts caressed his chest, but the nipples weren’t hard. He was, though. He hadn’t had a woman since he returned to town, first simply to make sure he was still clean, later because he spent himself on his work. Perhaps his cock had had something to do with this sudden interest in securing a bride.

She didn’t flinch as his hand dropped to the rounded corner of her shoulder, but she did pull away. That frightened look was in her eyes, like a cat unsure if you are going to stroke it or strike it. But her mouth was firm and practical. He wondered if he could kiss it soft again.

She clamped her jaw shut and rolled onto her back. “I’m ready.”

“For what?”

“It might be better to do it quickly.” Before the screaming started, she didn’t need to say.

Her eyes big and water-bright, her mouth a straight line, she looked as terrified and as brave as a sailor facing his first gale wind.

“So you are a virgin.” He traced her brow.

Fear forgotten, she glared up at him.

“Forgive me.” He kissed the line he’d traced. “But I’ve never seen a naked woman in bed less ready.” He couldn’t take her like this, no matter how hard his body ached for it.

“When, then?”

“Tomorrow, or tomorrow, or tomorrow. No rush, Em. We have our whole lives together.” He pushed on her shoulder, and she rolled onto her side, like the night before. He slid his arms around her middle, under the soft weight of her undertouched breasts, and pulled her close.

“I like this.” She sighed into him, wriggling her buttocks deeper into his groin.

“Me too,” he said, lying only by omission.

“I like Maddie. Not Em.”

“Maddie, then.”

He’d nearly nodded off when she spoke again. “We’re a family, aren’t we?”

He wasn’t sure what she was asking. “We make up a household, yes.”

“I had a family, once. Father, mother, brother, me. Like your family.”

“I should hope not.” She stopped cold. Nash felt his shame wash over him. Here she was talking fondly of her dead family, when he only pretended to want his dead. “Do you miss them?”

“Every day. But I don’t remember them. I wasn’t yet four when they all died. I’m haunted by ghosts of memories.”

“Shhh. Why tell me this now?” His eyelids were so heavy. He blinked hard to stay with her.

“I want to find my family. My real family.”

That woke him up.

She sighed. “My father must be alive. Richard Moore, Seventeen seventy-seven, but no date of death. He might be in this town, tonight.”

This was a bad idea, but Nash couldn’t quite put his finger on why. He sighed into her honeysuckle hair. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

She quieted, and quickly fell asleep. He felt he’d dodged a bullet that he hadn’t known to watch out for.

Perhaps she would forget by tomorrow. He would make her forget. He had an entire warehouse with which to distract her.

{ 16 }

The warehouse, just off the newly widened Market Street, resembled nothing more than a defunct opera house. More than four stories high, its front had once been a warren of windows. Now the window frames held dingy canvas tarps, giving the impression the building was a sleeping spider.

“Had to cover the panes to avoid the window tax.” Nash handed her out of the hack coach to the neatly swept courtyard. “Boards would have been cheaper; we have to wash the canvas every few months. But the fabric lets in some light, at least. Some of the rooms would be caves without it.”

A handful of people, most carrying bolts of cloth, were making their way to the front of the building, marked
Quinn & Sons
in four-inch-high letters. He saw her staring at the sign. “It read
Brown & Sons
, and I was too cheap to paint over the whole sign.”

“Or optimistic. These are all your workers?” Both the men and the women dressed in simple cloth, their clogs clacking on the cobbles as they walked.

“So to speak. They are hand-laborers, spinners and weavers. They do their work at home, in Middleton, Ashton, and Oldham. They bring in finished work and take the raw materials, cottons and some silks, home to finish.”

“It was weavers you came to trade with yesterday.”

“This crew must not be going to the meeting.”

Maddie wanted to hold his hand, but held back. Just to be allowed to see the warehouse was a treat, Mrs. Willis had told her. The housekeeper herself had only been once, at Christmastide, and that was only to hand out gifts of food.

The courtyard looked quiet enough, but when they walked around to the side, she saw a line of horses and carts and young men darting to and fro.

“These are come to deliver Saturday’s orders. Customers come in a few hours, order their goods, and by the time the carts return, they are loaded up again. On a good day, we finish with less inventory than we started with.”

“Do you ever run out?”

“Better to run out than sit on an inventory from quarter to quarter. Although there’s not much one can do when the winter-weight fabric doesn’t arrive till spring, or a packet of intricate buttons during a workers’ strike.”

“There is no strike yet.”

“Just the threat is enough to stop a manufactory from buying. They can always pick it up at the last moment.”

“Unless you are out.”

“Right. Then they are shut down again, and blame me.”

Men carrying oversized bales of tightly packed cotton made a steady stream out the barn-wide doors. Nash directed Maddie to a smaller door to the side.

They entered a wide, deep, open space, bathed in brackish light from the canvassed windows. Wooden crates taller than she was lined the far wall, with those of assorted sizes marching toward the front.

“We keep the most perishable items closest to the doors, and the most popular.”

“What is moving today?”

“New cotton from Virginia. Many of the manufactories want the cotton already spun, so I’ve had to engage the work of spinners. The spinning machines aren’t dependable.”

They skirted around the crates back toward the front of the building. Nash must have a dozen people working for him.

“You are a large merchant?”

He turned back to wink at her. She blushed at the double entendre.

“Just a supplier, but I’m the largest in town, by volume. The manufactories are king, though. I’m but a prince.”

Up the stairs at the corner, and they were on a balcony that ran the length of the warehouse. The wooden rails were swept clean.

They paused in its center. Nash leaned his elbows on the railing. Maddie gripped it with both hands.

“Afraid of heights?”

“Prudent is all.”

A man passed behind them, carrying jars of some sort. “We keep small batches, oils and perfumes, up here. Careful, man,” he called out. “You’re spilling some.”

“You carry oils and perfumes?”

“Very little. Overseas trades often are uneven, and rather than cash or receipts, which aren’t easy to exchange, the difference is made up in other items. Once I received a family of monkeys.”

“They were part of the trade?”

“One was; it was caged. The others were a surprise. Perhaps a family that didn’t care to be separated.”

“What did you do?”

“I gave them to the London zoo.”

“You sold them, you mean.”

“Gave. And they inveigled a donation from me for their upkeep, as well.”

“A merchant with a soft spot?”

“Don’t let it get around.”

As the lean man passed by again, Nash stopped him to ask about the oils.

“Mebbe hairline crack. Checking t’others.”

They followed him into a small room lined with shelves of coarsely hewn planking. Strong scents fought for dominance of the air; cinnamon seemed to be winning. The floor under the set of urns was slick. Nash found the culprit, a jar on the top shelf, and handed it to his man. “Olive oil. And good, too. Take it down and see if we have another pot for it.”

He hoisted it onto his shoulder and turned to go.

“Hold the handrail,” Maddie couldn’t help but exclaim.

Nash chuckled. “Want to smell the perfumes?” He led her across the way to a shelf of mismatched glittery vases and pitchers. “None carries much value.”

She reached for a deep emerald jar, like one she’d pictured with reading the Arabian Nights. “Are they all perfumes?”

“And potions, and magical creams. We don’t usually sell them, although some do go to perfumeries. I mainly use them for gifts.”

“You give a lot of gifts?”

“To customs agents, merchants’ wives, magistrate’s daughters. They buy me a bit of goodwill in a country where businessmen who trade overseas are looked at askance.”

Before Maddie could ask more, they heard a breaking like crockery, then a shout and a sickening thud.

“Man overboard.” Nash ran toward the door. Maddie followed, but crashed, softly, into his back at the doorway.

“Stay still. The walk is slick.”

“Where is your man?”

“Fell. I’m going to go the other way. You stay here.”

He turned and ran to the other corner of the building, taking the stairs two at a time. Eyes on the boards, Maddie stepped onto the walk, reaching for the rail and gripping it hard before she looked over.

The image swam before her eyes, then she swallowed her vertigo and the edges sharpened. The man lay on the floor, his eyes closed, face drawn up in pain. One of his legs was bent the wrong way, and the white of bone peeked through a tear in his pants.

Maddie’s vision blurred again, but she forced herself to be strong. Nash and another, older man had reached the porter. Nash patted down the man’s arms and good leg, and then touched the broken one on the thigh. The man’s soft groan echoed through the warehouse. All other activity had stopped.

The gray-haired man stood and turned so fast he almost dislodged his spectacles. Nash looked up and called for water. He bathed the man’s face, and then started talking to him in a matter-of-fact tone.

She couldn’t hear the words, but his voice seemed to carry a dull magic. The porter’s moans grew softer, his eyes fluttered closed. Two men carried up a folding cot. Nash hoisted the lanky porter, who though thin must weigh ten stone, as if he were nothing, setting him gently on the cot.

Not two minutes later, the spectacled man returned, with steaming water and cloths, and a doctor. Maddie strained to hear him. She followed Nash’s path down the stairs, though far more slowly and carefully, and was soon at the scene.

The doctor stood, his handlebar mustaches drooping. “Have to amputate.”

Nash crossed his arms belligerently. “There’s little chance of gangrene. Why don’t we set it first and see what occurs?”

“Longer course of treatment, and it still may not work. You’ll pay for the upkeep?”

Nash nodded yes. Maddie hated that medical care was always a question of who would pay.

“Then find me two sturdy pipes and binding cloth.”

Nash nodded, and his men scurried to search out the tools. He saw Maddie by the couch and scowled, but didn’t say anything.

He did take her arm, though, and none too politely. “You know what to do, doctor? Splinting, not amputation.”

“As you say.”

Leaving him to it, Nash pushed Maddie under the walkway and through a door into an office, and then kicked the door shut.

She spoke first. “Why didn’t you listen to the doctor?”

“Why didn’t you listen to me, when I told you to stay put?”

Maddie huffed. “You don’t always know what’s right.” She hadn’t hurt anything or interrupted anyone.

“But I am the master here. In the warehouse, you do as I say. Understand?”

His eyes were stern, mouth set hard. He was serious, Maddie realized. He wasn’t just playing the merchant while his men ran the business, as Deacon had told her.

“Understood,” she whispered.

He pushed out a breath and released her arm. She rubbed it absently.

He touched her hand. “Sorry if I bruised you.”

“I’m not that fragile,” she shot back.

“Right. About the doctor, his answer to nearly every ailment is amputation. I think he would have had my head off last winter when I had the cold, if it wouldn’t have killed me. And losing a limb is just about as fatal, for a man who earns his living as a porter.”

“Why does it cost more?”

“The physician will need to return, and there are more supplies to purchase. But the end result can be far better.”

He set his hands on his hips. “That railing was supposed to hold. Jem must have had oil on his hands, so when he grabbed for the rail, he slipped under.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “At least we didn’t lose him.”

“You know the names of all your workers?”

“I try. I can’t pay top wage, but I try to treat my men fairly. Jem took a pay cut to work for me. He said it was worth it to know he was guaranteed work at least forty weeks a year, and to be treated like a man.”

“Will you pay for his care?”

“Aye. Once he can maneuver again, I’ll set him to work in the office until he returns to full strength. I’m lucky, for he can read and cipher a bit. Unlucky for you, though.”

“Why?”

“I was thinking of offering that bit of work to you. You said you wanted something to do.”

“Wouldn’t that hurt your reputation? In Society, I mean?

He tilted his head, considering her. She liked the way his hair swung over his eye. “I thought you wanted to be a useful wife. Not just ornamental.”

“I do.”

“Then who cares what Society thinks? You’re a wife helping her husband. What is more natural than that?”

Maddie looked about the office, a counter and two stand-up desks with tall stools, a window with a view of the courtyard. She could be here with him? Wanting shimmered from her belly, rising to her throat.

She swallowed it back down. She would never want to take the food from a working man. “Does Jem have family?”

“A wife and two babes. Perkins is going to collect her and prepare the house for the invalid. It’s bad news, but it could have been worse.”

The spectacled bookkeeper had returned. “The wife is weepy but ready. Did we lose much inventory?”

“Damn the inventory. Sorry, man,” Nash put a hand on his shoulder. “Perkins here is supposed to ask that sort of question. No, just a pot or two of olive oil.”

“At an hundred pounds a pot.”

“What is it, compared to a man?”

“Depends on the man.” Mr. Perkins’s face creased into a grin.

“For Jem, threescore pots of oil.” Nash said, matching his grin.

For the next few hours, Maddie sat in the corner watching as Nash and his bookkeeper sorted out the bills and charges. This part was both familiar and strange. At the girls’ school, she’d had the books to herself. Here they seemed to need to talk about the transactions. She ached to be the one Nash had to talk to.

She remained within the office as Nash went out to treat with the merchants arriving to buy his bales and bolts and jars.

He seemed to be friendly with everyone, from the driver coming to pick up a missed box to the owner of the biggest manufactory, a Mr. Malbanks. Through the open doors, Maddie watched a slice of life she had never seen before. It was a man’s world. The only other woman she saw inside the warehouse was the cook who had brought the bandages for Jem.

Too soon, Nash declared it was time for luncheon. “Sales are done. When we return, we’ll package the items for tomorrow, deliver the ones for today, and call it a day.”

“How often do you get a shipment in?”

“Every day, small shipments. A big one once or twice a month, depending on the seas and the speed of trade in Liverpool.”

They left by way of the front door, avoiding the horses and hubbub. “Thank you for showing me this.”