chapter 12
“You may go to bed,” Mrs. Broadhurst told the maid watching Jack. “I will stay until Steven comes on duty.”
Once they were alone, he debated crutching toward her, finishing what he’d begun last night. But she’d been drinking then. He took a step toward her.
“Are you ready for your next dose of laudanum?” she asked softly as she skittered toward the sideboard.
He checked for the knifing pain that made him crave the oblivion of the medicine and found only a dull ache that was no longer setting his teeth on edge. He moved back to the bed and sat.
“Not yet. Doesn’t hurt as bad.” Even if she wasn’t touching him, he didn’t want to sleep while she was with him.
Her hair was different, loosely twisted—more as if to get it up rather than the elaborate kind of style that she wore in the evenings, and instead of a gown with a low dipping neckline, a tight waist with wide skirts, she wore a loose garment made of velvet.
“You don’t want to go so long the pain gets out of control.” She avoided his eyes.
Rather than continue to examine her, he nodded toward the sideboard. “I can fetch it myself, if need be.” Moving gingerly, he scooted back on the bed. “Where are my clothes?”
“I’m afraid they were ruined when we removed them, but I will send for Mr. Broadhurst’s tailor. You will need a suit or two to work in the office.”
Jack winced. No, the sooner he returned home, the better chance he had of making it to London on time. “I don’t need another suit. What I need are clothes so I can go home.”
Her mouth tightened.
“I am grateful for all that you’ve done, I am, but I cannot afford a new suit.” Especially not one made by Mr. Broadhurst’s tailor.
“If you insist on paying, we’ll deduct it from your wages.”
He rubbed his hand over his face. Even if he didn’t get the job in London, he needed to tell her he wouldn’t be able to be a clerk. But admitting he could barely read and write would undoubtedly take him down another peg in her estimation. “I cannot afford Mr. Broadhurst’s tailor.”
She blinked. “There isn’t one in the village. And I can assure you, Mr. Broadhurst would chose one in Manchester who offers the best value. Besides, you do not need clothing just yet. You must bear with being an invalid a bit longer.”
“I should practice with the crutches. I should be clothed while I am out of this room.” He’d have to manage stairs or suffer the indignity of being carried down them when he did leave. How he would ever manage the ladder to the loft where he slept in his father’s home was another question. “Broken leg or no, I will have to get up and down stairs.”
“Would you like to try now? It is gone one. No one is likely to be awake.”
She’d avoided the issue of his getting dressed, but practice was probably more important than his dignity. He reached for his crutches again. “Why are you?”
Her cheeks bloomed and she tilted her head down. “With all the guests, the servants are overtasked. If I sit with you a few hours, I can lessen their burden.”
So was he to believe she wouldn’t sit with him if not for the guests? Or was that what she wanted to believe? A wave of irritation passed through him. A man who could spend thousands upon thousands for a wife could afford the pittance of a few servants’ salaries. “Hire more servants.”
“Mr. Broadhurst cannot bear to see employees standing about, so they would be dismissed as soon as the guests leave.”
He positioned his crutches. He could tell her he didn’t need a minder, but he needed to learn to stand without assistance. As it was, his left leg shook like a palsy victim as he pushed up to a standing position. His arms shook too. He didn’t know when he’d ever been this weak.
“Besides, Mr. Broadhurst would not approve the expenditure if I listed you as a cause. As it is, I am only granted this boon because I am in a position to bargain.”
The reminder that she had anything to offer Mr. Broadhurst or what she was likely offering the miserly old man only made Jack clench his fists, but then he released them before she could notice.
She held out her hand. Taking her proffered assistance, he made it to his foot and positioned the crutches under his arms. He swung away from her.
“I need to learn to do for myself without help,” he muttered by way of an apology. It sure as hell wasn’t because he didn’t want her to touch him, but then when he had her hand, he hadn’t wanted to let go.
Her mouth tightened. “You’re not exactly steady.”
She followed him to the door. He leaned to open it and she put her hands at his waist. Knowing she only meant to stabilize him, he groaned. He wanted so much more.
Her hands slipped away as his crutches encountered the marble floor. The marble was slick, so he concentrated on the placement. She glided across the floor and turned up the gaslights. Everywhere he looked there was a marker of how different her world was from his, yet he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Everything about her made him want her more. If only she had been callous or cold, but she wasn’t. The quietness about her, which others had taken as a superior attitude, was born of a calmness he admired.
As he planted the crutches on the bottom stair and prepared to swing up, she fisted her hands in the material at his sides.
“I shall stay right behind you in case the crutches slip,” she said.
He couldn’t even be aggravated at her lack of confidence in him. Truth was, he didn’t know if he would have the ability to go up the risers or if there was a better way about it. “I don’t want to hurt you if I fall.”
“I won’t let you fall,” she said with such grim determination he believed her.
He went up the first stair. Her hands brushed his sides, but she let the effort be entirely his.
“How many people are in your family? Beth wasn’t entirely certain. She started naming names and I lost count at eighteen.”
“My father has sixteen children and one on the way,” said Jack, taking another step.
“Is that typical for families in the village?”
“Having so many children, yes.” He went up another riser. Ascending was not as tough as he feared. But without needing to concentrate on going up the stairs, he was even more aware of her hands brushing against his waist. “Most would say we have been lucky to only lose two children and my mother.”
She sighed.
He looked over his shoulder.
Her eyes looked flat. “It seems to me that education is the only way to give those of the village hope to rise above their circumstances, but not only does Mr. Broadhurst fight me, you and the other villagers do as well. I want to understand. I want to help, but as long as Mr. Broadhurst is in charge there is only so much I can do.”
Jack watched her face until she looked sideways up at him. Her blue gaze through the lace of her lashes hit him like a punch to the stomach. He sucked in a deep breath. “I know you do. I wish I was young enough to benefit from the schooling.”
Her hands were still against him, touching his back and stomach, since he’d twisted. She stood a stair below, but she might as well be standing pressed against him, for what he felt. She cocked her head and studied him intently.
He had to stop thinking of her and that her husband might not be around much longer, as if she’d allow a millworker to comfort her when she was a widow.
“Did you not have schooling?”
“My mother taught me.” Until he’d been too tired from working to even pay attention to the lessons. Now was a perfect time to tell her he was inadequate to be a clerk. But he couldn’t force the words out. Instead he asked, “What will happen when Mr. Broadhurst is no longer in charge?”
Her chin and shoulders dropped, and she looked down at the marble of the entry hall. “It depends.”
“On what?”
Her lips curled up, but the smile didn’t touch her eyes. It might have been the saddest smile he’d ever witnessed, and it tugged at him. He would have reached out and touched her, cupped her arm, or pulled her into an embrace, but the crutches stopped him, which was a good thing.
“Should you like to continue up the stairs or shall we see about getting you down?” Her briskness returned as if the window she’d opened to her soul was best forgotten.
“Up.” He could hardly fault her for keeping secrets when he wouldn’t share his own. He twisted and swung up another stair.
After a couple of stairs she said, “Mr. Broadhurst does not like the idea of a woman being in charge. He believes we are too softhearted and too likely to make business decisions with our emotions.”
Jack wasn’t sure how to respond. He knew of no woman running so large an operation as the mill, but his knowledge was limited to Lancashire. There were women who seemed to run their own affairs well enough. Everyone knew the greengrocer’s wife was the one who managed the store, and the midwife handled not only births but served as an apothecary.
“Perhaps he is right,” she said on a sigh.
“Women are as capable of running a business as men are, but they do tend to get distracted by having children.” Neither the midwife nor the grocer’s wife had children, and perhaps that was what made it easy.
Mrs. Broadhurst made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
Hell, it was a thoughtless thing to say. Most women wanted children. She was probably no different.
He swiveled and pitched toward his weighty cast.
Her arms circled his waist and she pulled him to her as he strained to find his balance.
As he regained his equilibrium, his harsh breathing echoed in the stillness of the night. The warmth of her body burned against his, and he wanted to stay pressed against her forever. Holding the crutches was the only thing that stopped him from wrapping his arms around her.
She stared up at him. Her lips parted, her chest rose and fell. She felt the pull between them too. He knew it just as sure as his name was John Applegate.
She backed away. “I don’t know why I’m telling you these things.” A shadow crossed her face. “Are you steady on your feet—foot?”
“Yes. Thanks.” He turned back to take the rest of the stairs. “It hardly matters what you tell me. It’s not as if I’m going to tell anyone. Even if I did, people would think I made up stories.”
Her hands settled again at his waist, holding material but not touching him. “Why? Are you in the habit of telling false tales?”
“No, but no one would believe you picked me as a confidant. They’d probably believe that I dreamed it while on the laudanum.”
Her voice dropped to whisper. “Did you dream what you said earlier about Mr. Broadhurst’s previous wife?”
Jack winced. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You shouldn’t have said it because it was true or because it was a dream?” Her hands tightened in the material of his nightshirt.
He’d given her the perfect opportunity to brush off what he’d said as the delusions of a drugged state, but with quiet determination she had plowed ahead. Did anything scare her?
“Her death was suspicious, supposedly by her own hand,” Jack said in an undertone. “And he married you only a few weeks later.”
“It wasn’t a few weeks,” she muttered.
“That’s the way I remember it.” He took another step and she nearly unbalanced him by tugging back. Leaning forward, he waited until she realized what she was doing.
She moved her hands forward. “How old were you?”
“Nearly four and ten. Old enough to remember.” He wanted to turn and watch her face, but then perhaps she wouldn’t like that.
He took the last few steps and leaned his weight on the crutches, glad to be on a flat level again. She had yet to move her hands away, but he doubted her continued clutching of his nightshirt was to assist him.
“Mr. Broadhurst has worked hard all his life,” she said, but her voice wavered.
“That he has,” agreed Jack. His admiration for the man’s accomplishments hadn’t set well with his coworkers. But it was a double-edged sword. He understood. When the demands one placed on oneself were high, one was often disappointed in the lackluster efforts of others. Yet, he hoped that were he in the same position, he would not be as harsh as Mr. Broadhurst. Twisting, Jack began the process of turning around.
Her hands dropped away. “He has been generous with me and my family.”
“Very,” agreed Jack. “Would that he was as generous with those who make him wealthy.”
She stared at the floor. “Were he not concerned about how the difficulties in the Americas will affect the price of cotton, I could probably persuade him to raise wages. Although he would regard it as another mark of how I am too concerned for the welfare of the workers. Other mills employ more young women for they are cheaper labor.”
Jack had to think beyond the needs of his family and see it from the perspective of the Broadhursts. Working in the office as a clerk would give him valuable knowledge—more than the mechanical workings of machines—how a business worked, how money was managed, how goods were ordered.
He wanted to learn, but he knew once he revealed his lack of education, the opportunity to clerk would be withdrawn. To delay his application for the job in London might destroy his chances there. But he was torn. She factored too much into his decision and had no idea of the way he thought about her.
But if Caroline were using feminine powers of persuasion to get him a chance, he wanted her to stop. That another man had the right of her body scorched him. “Then don’t ask him,” he said.
She lifted her gaze to his face. For a second they stared at each other.
“I don’t understand what you want,” she said. “I thought you could help me to know how I could best improve the lives of our workers—how to give them opportunities and prevent poverty amongst them, but—”
“I want this.” Jack waved his arm around and then gripped his crutch.
“This?”
“To become wealthy like Mr. Broadhurst, to live well, to have a beautiful wife, like you.” But he’d never conceived of paying a king’s ransom for her or the mysterious woman who might eventually become his dream wife. A woman who looked like Caroline, had her poise and courage, and most of all had her generous heart. Hell, he wanted her. All along he’d wanted her, not some poor imitation of her.
Her cheeks colored and she looked away.
“But I am not the best example of a typical villager.” He had postponed marriage to have a shot at a better life. “And even though I should relish the opportunity to learn, I won’t do well as a clerk.”
She blinked as she searched his face. “Why not?”
Looking down the staircase he had ascended, Jack wanted back down in his bed and a new dose of laudanum to ease the increasing ache of his leg. He should just answer her question, but the words were gritty in his mouth.
“I suppose we should get you back downstairs,” she said softly.
He leaned down to put his crutches on the stair below the landing, but the fall yawned before him. Caroline hurried around him and reached out to grip his nightgown.
He took the step, but felt as though one wrong move could pitch him headlong. Reversing the process of going up had seemed like a good idea in theory, but not so much in practice. The muscles in his good leg protested.
The next step, he tried to go leg first, but there was no way to lower the crutches. He brought his leg back to the second riser and stopped.
Caroline studied him and bit her lip.
“I would have thought going down would be easier than going up.”
Her eyes narrowed and she looked at the railing. He did too.
“I could summon a footman. Or perhaps you could try scooting down like a child might.”
“No. I’ll figure it out.” The last thing he wanted was to descend on his backside. He leaned one crutch against the banister and then gripped the bar as he went down the next step.
Her head nearly brushed his chest as she kept hold of the sides of his nightshirt. If he didn’t fear toppling her and sending them both crashing down to the foot of the stairs, he might have used both crutches. This way took effort but was more in his control.
She looked up and caught him watching her. She flushed and looked away. “Are you sure you’re strong enough for this now?”
“I’ll manage,” he gritted out. “If I have to I’ll slide down like a child, I’ll swallow my pride long enough to do it.”
Her lips twitched. “I would probably find that less distressing.”
“I would find it more.” He took another step.
This time her head did brush his chest, and he couldn’t resist letting go of the banister and touching her shoulder.
She jerked away as if he’d burned her.
“You could give me a little more room,” he said. “So I don’t topple you.”
“Of course.” She backed down two stairs and stared at his midsection.
He hated the gap between them. His breathing was labored with exertion and her proximity. But for his accident, he never would be this close to her. He had to stop thinking of this time with her as anything beyond an aberration. “I began working in the mill when I was five.”
Her gaze shot up.
“Only little ones can get in and sweep under the looms, otherwise the lint builds up and catches fire.”
“There has to be a better way.”
“Perhaps. Using floor traps so an adult may clean underneath would be better. I’ve long wanted to try, but devices that eliminate labor are not welcomed by my people. If you want, I can draw some diagrams, so it might be done.”
She shook her head. “You will be too busy in the office to worry about production.”
Jack sighed. “I worked ten hours a day by my eighth year.”
Her forehead crinkled.
He forced out the explanation. “I didn’t get much schooling after that. I doubt I can clerk.”
“But you insisted on helping Beth with her schoolwork.”
“Because it is important, but my mother had many children after me, and she couldn’t keep me awake long enough to learn. I can write my name, add and subtract, but I can’t do much more.”
Caroline’s forehead only rippled more. She stared at him as if he had grown horns. “But you were reading Dickens.”
“I was trying to read Dickens, but I did not make it beyond the first sentence.” Now she knew his dreams were folly and his efforts to follow along with his youngest siblings’ lessons had been halfhearted. He should have been trying harder. He knew his letters, he could read simple things, but words over five or six letters stumped him.
“Well it is a long sentence,” she said with a soft smile that didn’t erase the strain around her eyes.
“I have ideas to make the machinery more efficient.” Jack bit his lip. “If I cannot convince some in London to implement my work, perhaps Mr. Broadhurst would let me rebuild a few pieces. I could save him money.”
It wasn’t how he wanted to share his inventions. He’d wanted to gain the backing of a company already engaged in making mill machinery, be given license to build his machinery, test it, patent it, and sell to any mill. Or he’d hoped to make enough from mill machinery to follow his true interest in building mechanized carriages one day. Horses were too expensive for villagers to keep, and in crowded towns like Manchester or even London, a horseless carriage would be so much more practical. But all that was nothing as he watched dismay spread over Caroline’s face. “Say something,” he said.
“I’m thinking.” She turned her face toward his, her blue eyes serious. “Can you write at all?”
He hated that he’d disappointed her, but it was better now than later. “I know my letters. I just . . .” Would she help him? “If you teach me, I could learn.”
Her forehead crinkled. Then her gaze slid down and away. “I’m sorry. I am no tutor, and between the mill and the guests, I couldn’t spare the time.”
Jack closed his eyes. She was doing so much for him already; he hadn’t the right to expect more. “It doesn’t matter.”
She shook her head. “I will find easy books for you to read, and if you can master them, we will ask the vicar to give you lessons.”
“He won’t. I’ve asked him before.”
Caroline’s brow lowered and she bit her lip.
“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “I don’t need to be a clerk. I can do other things. Do not put yourself out.”
Her gaze tipped toward him.
“I’m good with machinery,” he said when she didn’t speak.
“I know.” She still stood in front of him but had gone far away, as if he’d become too much trouble to her and she wanted out of his presence. His leg shook as he took the remaining few steps. His arms felt like noodles. She skipped up the stairs to fetch his other crutch, making his efforts to tackle the stairs seem puny in comparison. She handed him the crutch. “We will speak more of your future tomorrow, but you should rest now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered as he wondered if he had lost her respect. He had to end this farce soon. For his sanity if nothing else, he needed to remember what it was like to live without servants, without his own room, fire, and bed. Without Caroline’s soft hands touching him, without her concerned eyes following him, and her voice flowing over him as she read to him.