Betina Krahn (13 page)

“You truly are despicable,” she said, sounding a bit hoarse in her own ears.

“Well, you did say you believed garments should be as natural and comfortable as possible.” He smiled. “What could be more natural than this? Though, I must confess, the idea is not entirely original.”

Aunt Olivia had always admonished her to make her tongue follow her brain rather than the reverse. Just now that advice, though difficult to follow, served her well.

“Why don’t you go home, Lord Mandeville? You don’t want to be here, and heaven knows, I don’t want you here. You have no sympathy for our goals and purposes, and”—she cast a furious glance at his “design”—“you certainly have nothing to contribute creatively.”

She felt some satisfaction in seeing the curve of his mouth straighten.

“I would be more than willing to send you all the reports and descriptions and sketches you could possibly need,” she continued. “I could even have Beaumont copy our ledgers for you to peruse at leisure … in the comfort of your own home. Sir William need never know you didn’t stay the entire three months.” The look she leveled on him and his design was hot enough to boil water. “I’ve come this far without your helpful
advice
. I believe I can manage the rest of the way on my own.”

For a moment she thought she saw signs of his turgid
male pride wilting. But in a wink he was in complete control again and tossed aside the pincushion.

“I’m not going anywhere, Miss Duncan. Like you, I have a task here, and it’s high time I got on with it.” His expression sharpened as his eyes took in the chaos of the sample room. “I want to see some actual reformed garments—not just fanciful sketches. I want to know precisely which items you intend to manufacture first, and I want a timetable for the completion of the first shippable product. And while you’re at it, I believe you need to explain just how and where you intend to sell your garments—what sort of customers you will try to attract and how you will go about letting those unfortunates know that your clothes are available.”

She studied the flecks of fire in his eyes and realized that her steeled manner had struck a bit of flint in his core. He had obviously expected a different reaction to his “design,” and since he hadn’t gotten it, was reverting to his officious legal persona.

“I’ve told you what garments we intend to make first: the bandeau bodice and knickers. You’ve already seen the sketches—”

“Which were most unsatisfactory,” he said, settling back on one leg and looking speculatively at what she was wearing. “I want to see the finished articles.”

“Well, we don’t have them read—”

“Oh, but you do. According to you, you’re wearing them even now.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot in spite of her determination to remain cool. “Lord Mandeville, I do not intend to throw open my tunic and haul up my skirts simply to satisfy your curiosity.” She halted and made herself take a calming breath. “However, if you would be so good as to accompany me to my office, I can easily meet your other requirements.”

She was out the door before he had a chance to respond.

The superintendent’s office from which she planned and conducted her business was a modest room containing a desk,
a long, paper-laden worktable, a cabinet for filing documents, and three worn but comfortable-looking wooden chairs. She directed him to a seat and turned to the neatly labeled stacks of documents on the worktable, selecting papers from first one, then another.

“You asked for details …” She turned to him, scanning the document on top of the stack in her arms. “We have hired most of the workers we need, and the factory itself will be fully functional by the end of next week. Tomorrow we will set up the sewing machines, and on the day after, Fritz will connect them to the power shafts by means of his belts and pulleys. We will begin with twelve machines, and once our production level is established, within a month or so, we will add a second tier of seamstresses, bringing the total to twenty-four. Depending upon orders for the garments, we could add a third tier before the year is out.

“As soon as the machines are installed, Maple and Charlotte will begin instructing the seamstresses in the use of them and give the women a chance to practice … by week’s end if everything goes according to schedule.”

“And if it doesn’t?” He propped an arm on the back of the chair, looking roundly annoyed by what he was hearing.

“We have built into the schedule some ‘oops time,’ at least, that is what Fritz calls it. Unexpected things will come up in a first-of-its-kind venture such as this, and we are prepared to handle them too.” She glanced back at her papers. “Then, while the seamstresses are being instructed, Daniel Steadman will set up the cutting floor and train-in several new cutters. Since cutters can cut so much faster than seamstresses can sew, we’ll begin with a half dozen of them, and add another half dozen by year’s end.” She sorted through the stack in her arms, selected a number of documents, and thrust the lot into his hands. “These will explain the budgetary specifics of each stage of development.” He gave them a perfunctory scowl, then irritably plopped them on the desk beside him.

“About these exemplary workers of yours, how many of them have ever worked in a garment mill?” he asked.

She paused, assessing the question and the possible motives behind it. “Only Daniel Steadman has actually worked in a clothing factory before. But every one of our employees has skill relating to the task they were hired to do. A number of the women have worked in dress shops and all of the men have worked with machinery of various sorts, except for Harley Ketchum and his sons, who are adept at carpentry.”

“And just how do you intend to sell these wonders of sartorial ingenuity?” He was studying her out of the corner of his eye. Something in that appraisal sent a tremor through her.

“I’ve made plans for the marketing as well.” She shuffled through the documents in her arms and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I intend to send letters describing our philosophy and our garments—perhaps even a few samples—to a carefully selected list of women. I shall ask for opinions and endorsements, and then, using those testimonials, I shall personally call upon a number of reputable and forward-thinking department stores to suggest that they offer our garments to their customers on a trial basis. Once the outlets are in place, I will place advertisements in various ladies’ publications and journals and—”

His hand had gone up to halt her.

“Who is on your select list of women?”

She referred to her list, not because she didn’t know the names by heart, but to escape his glowering countenance. “Viscountess Harberton of the Reform Dress Society, Mrs. Oscar Wilde, Mrs. Annie Besant, renowned suffragist Miss Ada Ballin, social reformer Mrs. Josephine Butler, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell and Dr. Elizabeth Garret Anderson, the first women admitted to the British medical profession, the trade unionist Mrs. Emma Patterson, journalist and lecturer Mrs. Florence Fenwick Millar, Lady Goldsmidt, Mrs. Millicent Fawcett, Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst.”

“Good God.” He snorted. “It’s a damned gallery of viragos.”

She bristled. “Hardly. All these women are at the forefront of their fields. I also mean to approach a number of society patrons—Lady Maria Ashton, Mrs. Tyler-Benninghoff, Lady Hargraves, Mrs. Edith Evanston, Beatrice St. James, the Countess Sandbourne …”

“The dragons of the ‘Upper Ten.’ ” He rolled his eyes. “You haven’t a prayer.”

“You think not? Lady Ashton and my aunt Olivia were girls together in Brighton and kept up a lifelong correspondence. I have had several notes from her since Aunt Olivia’s death. And Lady Beatrice is a distant cousin of my deceased mother’s. She has always consulted Aunt Olivia in matters regarding fund-raising for her charities. Each of these ladies has some personal connection to me or to my aunt. I believe they will at least do me the courtesy of listening.”

Cole’s jaw clenched as he looked over the stacks of paper on the table. Each was labeled with what looked like a place card identifying some function vital to the Ideal Garment Company: hiring, equipment, transportation, materials, records, garment design, advertising, sales, finances, facilities.

The size of those stacks of paperwork finally registered in his mind, evidence of the planning she had invested in her “mad” venture. In terms of sheer quantity, the output would be worthy of an entire government bureau. And as for quality, she had clearly thought through every possibility. He looked up at her with grudging respect.

Red crept up his ears as he realized just how much he had let his prejudices interfere with his judgment. Even having glimpsed something of her true nature on that very first day, in the courtroom, he had still completely underestimated her. According to his worldly frame of reference, idealism such as hers could come only from a thorough ignorance of reality. Now, faced with her logic, her energy, and her
sensible strategy, he felt his condescending assumptions being knocked end over end.

And if there was anything Lord Cole Mandeville, Barrister at Law, could not abide, it was being blindsided by the facts.

“Very well, you have made plans, I’ll give you that,” he declared, rising to his full height in an unwitting effort to regain his sense of superiority. “But plans on paper are a far cry from a functioning factory turning out a salable product.” His gaze slid over her hair, trying to avoid those dangerous pools of blue that seemed to hold such an unholy fascination for him. “Putting your plans into action may prove more difficult than you realize. There are other factors to consider. The motivation of your workers, for instance.”

“My workers are very dedicated.”

He smiled tightly. “To their own comfort and well-being, perhaps. But what about your crusade to rid the world of corsets and reform the way people dress? How do they feel about that?”

Madeline stared at him, hoping her surprise didn’t show in her face. In truth, she had never really given thought to how her workers might feel about her reformed garments. She had simply assumed that they would support the rightness of her endeavor.

“They are eager for the chance to improve their lot and in the process to do something constructive for the world,” she said determinedly. “They know an opportunity to better their lives when they see it.”

He chuckled. “On that, Mad Madeline, we most certainly agree.” His gaze settled on the top button of her tunic, then veered away. He cleared his throat. “But I cannot help wondering how they will feel when they learn you mean to garb the women of Britain like
beefeaters
on parade.”

“B-beefeaters?” She looked down at her scarlet tunic with its velvet trim and her trousers, and her face flamed.
Snapping her head up, she glared at him. “My garments don’t look the slightest bit like a royal guardsman’s uniform!”

“Other than the red frock coat, the trim, and the trousers, you mean?” His amusement at her rising outrage was insufferable. “If that is your idea of salable clothing, I shall have to report to the court that you’re going to be bankrupt very soon.”

“How dare you!” She took a step toward him, the blood roaring in her head drowning out more prudent voices. “Our designs have graceful, supple lines and construction that allow for freedom of movement. In Ideal garments women finally will be able to breathe healthfully, to bend and stoop and reach while working or engaging in exercise. My garments will free women to be and to do whatever they want!” What
she
wanted to do right now was to smack the amusement from his face. “You want to see garments?” she demanded. “Come with me!”

Sailing out the door, down the rear steps, and into the garden, she led him quickly along a narrow foot trail leading toward the rear of her nearby house. As they reached the edge of the proposed gardens, Roscoe suddenly appeared and planted himself in her path.

“Beggin’ a minute o’ yer time, miss,” he said, dragging his incongruously elegant bowler from his head. “But me an’ Algy, we run into another hitch.”

“What?” She glowered at this intrusion into her righteous indignation.

He led her toward the center clearing and there she spotted Algy leaning on his shovel beside a hole that was wider but no deeper than when she’d seen it last. At the bottom of their shallow excavation was a broad, rounded stone at least four feet across.

“It be that rock, miss.” Roscoe stuck his thumbs under his suspenders and contemplated the obstinate mineral. “What ye got here be a six- or seven-man rock.” Algy vigorously
nodded his agreement. “It’ll take a site more diggin’.”

She glared at that widening impediment, sorely tempted to name it “Lord Mandeville” and take a pickax to it. “Can’t you plant around it?”

“It’s smack in th’ middle o’ yer cursantheemums, miss,” Roscoe pointed out. “Ye move ’em and ye got to move somethin’ else … then somethin’ else. Afore ye know it, yer garden’s sprawled from here to Dover!”

She made a noise of disgust. “Then get help and dig up the wretched thing!”

Brushing past Cole, she headed for the path once more and Cole followed. Not, however, before he saw the broad smiles Roscoe and Algy exchanged.

He trailed her to the rear yard of the sizable brick house he had noticed earlier that morning. Once inside the rear door, he found himself in a roomy, open-beamed kitchen furnished with surprisingly modern conveniences; a porcelain-clad stove with double ovens, a water pump in a copper-lined sink, and racks of shiny copper pots and utensils hanging above the long table. Smells of fresh-baked bread, roasting chicken, and something richly seasoned and being baked au gratin seized his senses and interfered with his motor skills. He suddenly had difficulty putting one foot before another. His mouth began to water. His vision began to narrow.

“Your lordship?”

At Madeline’s prompting, he cudgeled his senses back under control and forced his feet to move in her direction. She led him through a pleasantly furnished dining room and into the front hall, where she instructed him to wait in the parlor while she fetched the garments. His head still swimming with the intoxicating effects of those aromas, he ambled through the indicated doorway and found himself in a handsomely appointed sitting room.