The Unraveling, Volume One of The Luminated Threads: A Steampunk Fantasy Romance (7 page)

chapter Eight

Annmar accompanied Mistress Gere
to the farmhouse. At the back entry, the lady pulled a rope hanging along one of the porch posts. A bell clanged once overhead. When they entered the dim hall, a stout woman with short white hair met them.

“Ah, Mrs. Betsy, thank you for interrupting your baking. Meet our new artist, Anna—Ann Marie—”

“Please, call me Annmar.”

“Annmar Masterson.” Mistress Gere smiled. “Annmar, Mrs. Betsy Campbell is in charge of the house kitchen.”

Mrs. Betsy wore an apron and smelled of fresh bread. The older woman dipped her head, revealing sprinkles of white dust. She took Annmar’s proffered hand in her strong ones, her gaze as warm and welcoming. “All right, duck?”

Duck
. Annmar swallowed. She hadn’t heard the friendly endearment used by Peak District folks since Mother had died.

“Mrs. Betsy and her staff serve three meals a day.” Mistress Gere paused and ran her gaze down Annmar again. “But if you need something in between, get her permission. She runs a tight ship. Mrs. Betsy, not only did this girl have a long trip from Outside’s Derby, but she had a bit of an adventure in the bunkhouse’s lower storage. Might we have something light for her in my office?”

Annmar’s stomach sank.
That
was the bunkhouse? Yet the reference to Outside piqued her curiosity. Mr. Yates had also used the term. Apparently, these Blighted Basin people knew about the rest of England, but no one
Outside
knew about the crater valley, or the Gateway.

They followed Mrs. Betsy down the hall bisecting the house. She turned left through an archway into a huge dining room. Mistress Gere gestured to the right of the old house’s enormous front door, to what would be the receiving parlor in most town houses. Shelves lined the walls, holding books but also an assortment of glass canning jars. In their thick syrups and tinted juices, the fruits and vegetables displayed vibrant colors, like a kaleidoscope in the afternoon sun. A delicate lady’s desk angled into a corner so someone sitting at it could see the hills out the side window.

Mistress Gere pointed Annmar to a seat before the desk, while she took her chair and picked up a paper. “Mr. Fetcher gave you my letter explaining the terms of employment, but may we review?”

Annmar took the letter from her satchel. Mistress Gere didn’t get far before a girl about Annmar’s age arrived with a tray. Under her kitchen apron she wore a blue flannel shirt and… A bib-and-brace?

Trousers, like a man? Annmar stared. And on her feet, work boots. This farm girl’s feet wouldn’t hurt from walking on rough stones.

The girl set a tea tray on the corner of the desk and straightened. Instead of leaving like a servant would, she thrust out her hand. “I’m Mary Clare Pemberton.”

She had reddish-blond hair, and the brightest green eyes… Which started to disappear under her frowning brows.

Annmar shook herself and jerked out her hand. “Oh. Pleased to meet you.” If Annmar painted this girl’s hair loose from the ribbon binding it back—it had to be curly with those puckering waves—she could draw twining flowers, or better yet, vines of some farm crop that would offset the bib-and-brace. What a contrast the feminine and masculine elements would make—

“Are you well?” Mary Clare peered at her. “Miz Gere, I think you better put her to bed as soon as possible.”

Drat, she’d drifted again. “No, I mean, yes, I’m fine, though a little tired perhaps. I apologize for staring.” The truth was probably her best explanation. “I was picturing your unusual eyes and hair in a painting.”

Mary Clare burst out laughing. “Unusual? I shall introduce you to my sisters. The lot of us green-eyed, strawberry blondes, and any curious enough to sit for you to paint, I’m sure.” She headed to the door with a wave. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Annmar the Artist.”

Annmar the Artist? Would her job separate her from the local people as much as coming from…the Outside? Annmar squeezed the sketchbook in her lap and darted a glance to the contemplative Mistress Gere.

“Eat, please.” Mistress Gere returned to her papers. “The traveling expense money has been turned over, correct? Eight half sovereigns.”

Annmar nodded and picked up a dainty cup.

“Good. You have arrived to start a two-week trial and are therefore due those weeks’ compensation.” Mistress Gere took four gold coins from an envelope and passed them across the desk. “Beyond that, I pay out wages each Saturday evening, after we return from Market Day.”

Market Day sounded normal enough. Trying not to appear too eager to pick up the money, Annmar blew across the steaming tea before sipping it.

Mistress Gere sat back. “I request a two-week trial of all employees. Give our collective the full two weeks before making a decision if we are suited to each other—your art for our advertising needs and our ways to your lifestyle.”

“I believe that sounds fair.”

“Fair is exactly the term I like to use,” Mistress Gere said. “In fact, equitable, unbiased treatment of my workers is a maxim I practice. My operation has attracted a diversity of…
peoples
from throughout the valley. Blighted Basin is home to several distinct cultural groups that may not appear different, but their talents are unique, and I dare say, I’ve needed them all for the successful operation of a large farm. Yet, as a consequence, our atypical customs may not meet the conventions others wish to accept.”

Annmar took a sip of tea while sorting the information. What unusual customs might these valley dwellers have? It didn’t matter. Any country ways would be foreign to her. She could accept a fair amount of oddness to earn these wages.

“I ask that you keep an open mind,” Mistress Gere said. “Following the trial, we will discuss the autumn weeks and perhaps an obligation for the winter months, when the weather makes leaving Blighted Basin more difficult.”

So much was at stake. Annmar had to hope Mistress Gere would decide on offering her the full position, or not, by the end of the trial, because much beyond that and Mrs. Rennet likely would have found another machinery illustrator, even with the current high demand. She had to try. “I will.”

“Tomorrow, try some of our products,” Mistress Gere said. “Explore how you would depict them. We’ll meet in the evening to review your thoughts and sketches. It may take us a few days to come to an agreement on a style, but by next Wednesday, I’d like to see ten to a dozen label mock-ups of a variety of fruits and vegetables.”

The expectations sounded reasonable. While Wellspring’s owner read the work agreement aloud, Annmar took another, deeper sip of tea. Hints of herbs danced about her mouth, so subtly mixed she couldn’t discern them. The sandwich was a tasty blend of minced vegetables in a creamed cheese, but what were they? How in the world would she contrive labels for Wellspring’s products if she had no idea what these ingredients were?

Annmar shifted in her seat. It was a trial she was agreeing to, after all. If she couldn’t do the work, they’d know soon enough and dismiss her.

They signed the contracts, and after Annmar tucked her copy and the coins in her satchel, Mistress Gere rose. “Come, let me give you a proper tour of our whitewashed fortress.”

“Sorry about that.” Annmar grimaced, but to her relief, Mistress Gere smiled.

Outside, they walked toward the bunkhouse building, now a center of activity. Several wagons pulled by steam tractors had arrived. Two boys and a woman—all dressed similarly to Mary Clare, or in trousers and their shirtsleeves, with only waistcoats topping their homespun shirts—unloaded bushel baskets onto a dumbwaiter platform. It hung by chains from a dormer extension where several more farmworkers waited beside a barrel-like engine.

Annmar’s gaze shot to the gears on one end. Chains wrapped around a sprocket led up to a cogged pulley at the peak of the dormer roof. Beside the machine, an older, dark-skinned man called down and everyone backed away. He threw a lever. The engine chugged to life and the chains jerked stiff. They crept over the grinding gears and the platform rose.

“Oh, my,” Annmar exhaled. “The mechanized windlass in use.”

Mistress Gere raised a brow at her. “You recognize the machine? It’s among the latest in farm improvements.”

“I, uh…” Annmar stared at the churning apparatus. She could leave Mr. Shearing out of this. “The shop I worked at produced its advertisements.” Ones she had drawn.

“Ah. Yes. Shall we?” Mistress Gere gestured to the wide wooden stair leading to the second floor.

They ascended and the platform kept pace, its crates filled with squash and tomatoes. The clinking chain made conversation impossible. By the time they reached the top, the idling windlass hissed quietly. The gray-haired man held the platform steady while men and a few girls grabbed the crates and swung them into the space beyond. One of the young men sported a rather unruly haircut. While his dark brown hair lay short around his ears, most on the top swept long across his brow, something never seen on the streets of Derby. He turned and met her gaze.

Annmar caught her breath. His brown eyes were like none she’d seen, wide and slanted, the rich chocolate color making a strong focus in his paler brown-sugar skin. Face on, his rounded ears were prominent, nearly animal-like, and cute.

Oh, to capture this strange, no, exotic look… Her finger slid along the side of the sketchbook and found the pencil splitting its pages.

He grinned, the smile open, friendly and playful all at once.

Before realizing she’d done it, Annmar smiled back. He was gorgeous. And her age. Much more suitable than Mr. Shearing would ever…oh, my! Her chest and neck heated.

Something hit her foot and clattered away with a familiar sound. She ducked toward the windlass to pick up her pencil. Straightening, her gaze caught the gold-edged, green lettering emblazoned across the machine’s water tank: Shearing Enterprises.

The flutter of excitement died. So there would be reminders, even here.

Mistress Gere gripped her elbow and guided her inside. “I’ll introduce everyone at dinner,” she said, “after you’ve seen your room and had a chance to freshen up.”

The workers ferried the crates past overstuffed chairs circling a wood-burning stove and piled them on one side of an open room. Swings, ladders and ropes led upward to more ladders set in mazes with crisscrossed beams in the second-story rafters. The height had Annmar swaying. Who would risk their necks up there?

Mistress Gere murmured, “A gathering place in poor weather.”

Behind her, someone called, “All clear!” and a hiss erupted.

“Come into the preservation kitchen,” Mistress Gere shouted above the chain’s clinking,
and led the way through swinging doors that swished closed, blocking the noise. An herbal-scented moisture hung in the empty kitchen, one far larger than any Annmar had known. Large gas cookstoves stood between washing sinks and high preparation tables, half of them cluttered with glass jars, canning kettles and cooling preserves. Wellspring continued to use glass jars, not the more popular tin canisters or cans as they’d become known, because Mistress Gere felt her customers should see their food.

They had just agreed on the size of a label that would still allow this when the door opened again, and in walked the fascinating young man, wiping his palms down heavy brown trousers held by worn leather braces.

He was big. Much bigger than she’d realized from across the platform, he had the firm muscle of a broad, well-defined body. His rolled sleeves revealed fine, dark hair that covered the lovely brown arms he loosely swung. He planted his feet before them.

“This is the artist from the city?” His deep voice nearly purred.

“Yes.” Mistress Gere crossed her arms, but couldn’t keep a smile from curling her lips. “I should have known you’d be in here as fast as you could manage, my boy. Annmar, may I introduce Daeryn Darkcoat, perhaps the most gregarious individual among our farm family. Daeryn, Annmar Masterson, who, as you noted, is a city girl and not at all used to our casual country ways. You will keep to the borders of her territory until she gives you permission to enter.” The tall woman fixed him with an eye-to-eye look.

Annmar blinked at the bizarre introduction, so forthright, and made while he lacked a jacket, or even a waistcoat…never would such an impropriety occur in Derby. Yet she’d been warned and had promised to pardon their atypical customs.

Daeryn, which Mistress Gere pronounced
day-rin
, seemed to take it in stride. He nodded, a single dip of his chin. “Yes’m.”

He didn’t pause between that acknowledgment and extending his hand. His gaze searched hers curiously, and he smiled, not the grin of before, but almost shyly.

Her stomach flipped. Sweet wasn’t how anyone would normally describe a young male who had so clearly crossed into manhood, but that was her exact thought. She wiped her clammy palm discreetly in her skirt folds before shaking his hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “Are you finding the Basin to your liking?” His rough-skinned hand clasped hers in neither a strong nor a weak manner, but one that conveyed gentleness for its size.

His warmth felt nice, and her head muddled a bit. “I, uh, I’m happy to have arrived, to be here. Yes. It’s all been…fine,” her mouth murmured.