The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

A young boy darted across the floor below, conveying a full bobbin to a man who had turned to one of the machines.

“If you don’t look carefully,” Robert said, “the men and women on the floor fade into indistinguishable browns and grays. You don’t have to see them as anything except the working arms of the machines, flesh and blood instead of steel and iron. Drawing wages, instead of being purchased upfront. But machines don’t sing. Machines don’t hope. And Charingford, I don’t think we could stop them, not with a thousand copies of Captain Stevens. I don’t intend to try.”

“You’re a radical.” There was no heat in the accusation. Charingford looked out over the factory. But now, his gaze stopped here and there—on women who bound the hose up in paper, on men who worked the machines.

“I know,” Robert said.

“If you’d talked to me when first you arrived, instead of writing handbills…”

“I’m growing up. And my wife, it appears, is having some effect on me.” Robert shrugged. “You never know. By the time I’m thirty, I might actually start making a difference.”

Chapter Twenty-five

IT WAS LATE WHEN MINNIE’S HUSBAND returned home—so late that all the servants except one solitary footman had gone to bed. Minnie heard the front door open and then close behind Robert. She could imagine him taking off his things—greatcoat, frock coat—and handing them to the footman. She waited to hear his footsteps on the stairs, but as the minutes ticked by, they didn’t come.

Minnie slowly stood and tiptoed out of their room. The house below had been doused in darkness. The only reason she could find her footing on the great staircase that led to the entrance was that a hint of light was coming from some room in the back. She followed that path of golden light down the hallway.

The door at the end was ajar. Robert sat at the table, a plate in front of him filled with the cold remains from dinner. He wasn’t eating; he simply held his fork in one hand, staring blankly off into nothingness. His head was bowed a fraction, as if he were supplicating the beef before him for some great thing. While she watched, his hand crept to the corner of his eye and brushed against it—almost as if he were swiping away a tear.

He wasn’t crying. He didn’t reach for a handkerchief. But his hand stayed there, next to his eye, as if to ward off any other emotion.

Her own breath caught.

She retreated down the hallway, cursing her soft silk slippers. He hadn’t even heard her coming. Loudly, she opened the door to the parlor and retrieved the package that she’d obtained earlier that day. Even more loudly, she slammed the parlor door shut.

It was impossible to scuff slippers against carpet, but she did her best. By the time she got to the door, he’d set his hand down. That look of intense bleakness had faded, and he even managed to manufacture a little smile for her.

“Minnie,” he said. “I didn’t think you would be awake.”

As if she would have been able to sleep, thinking of him and worrying about his brother. The trial was scheduled for tomorrow. She could see the toll the strain had taken on him. There were dark circles under his eyes, worry lines grooved on his forehead.

“I had a hard time sleeping without you,” she answered. She set the package on the table near him.

He picked up a chunk of beef on his fork. “No time for supper,” he said, almost apologetically, before putting it in his mouth. “And I find I’m starving.”

She sat next to him. “I’m a little hungry, myself.”

They were probably both lying. They probably both knew it.

Still, Minnie took a roll to keep him company, and while he ate, she shredded it on her plate. If nothing else, her presence spurred him on to do justice to the food before him. He ate mechanically—peas and turnips and carrots, as well as the beef in a sauce that had congealed. It turned her stomach to think of it, but he didn’t seem to taste anything he put in his mouth. He seemed surprised when his fork found nothing on the plate.

“Long day,” he said. “I—I think I’ll be going straight to bed.” But he didn’t stand.

Minnie took that as an invitation to walk over to the sideboard and pour a glass of sherry. She brought it to him; their fingers touched as she passed it over.

“Will everything be all right?” she asked.