Betina Krahn (16 page)

“Well, this appears to be a perfect opportunity to demonstrate to Lord Mandeville the advantages of participatory management. Several heads are always better than one.” She hoisted herself to a seat on one of the bolts and declared: “We need ideas! What can we do to get proper fabric here within the week?”

For a moment they stared mutely at one another, accustomed to following orders, not to being asked to think for themselves. Then Daniel Steadman spoke up.

“Sending this lot back and ordering again could take weeks. Which do you have more of, Miz Duncan, time or money?”

With a look at Cole’s adamantly crossed arms and disdainful expression, Madeline replied: “Neither, unfortunately, is in great supply.”

“Well, with enough money you could buy fabric from a closer supplier, enough to get us started and keep work going for a bit.”

“A closer supplier. Good idea.” She refused to look at Cole. “If we have sufficient capital. What else?”

“Use vat we haff,” Fritz said, waving with Prussian pragmatism to the room full of woolens. “Make … zomet’ing else.”

That possibility had already occurred fleetingly to her and been dismissed. “We have the design and the patterns ready—we’re committed to women’s foundations.”

Daniel Steadman spoke again. “Well, then. You’ll have to find another supplier, someone who has good cottons at a fair price.”

There was a moment of silence, then Beaumont Tattersall brightened. “While at my former employer I made the acquaintance
of the head clerk at Liberty. They are often approached by wholesale linen drapers and manufacturers. Perhaps he could put us on to a source of good cotton.”

“Excellent.” Madeline smiled brightly. “Would you be willing to contact him, travel to London yourself, and pay him a call? I could give you authorization, as our Ideal agent, to strike a bargain within the cost limits we’ve set. You know how we arrived at our estimates and you’re familiar with our production constraints.”

Tattersall seemed a bit startled at being offered such an important charge, but quickly straightened his shoulders and nodded.

Relieved that the catastrophe could be averted, Madeline turned to Cole Mandeville, only to see that he was heading for the stairs. She suddenly remembered the fresh capital she was going to need—the purse strings of which were held in the tight, unsympathetic grip of Lord Mandeville. Clearly, they weren’t out of difficulty yet. Grimly she went after him.

Before she could catch up with him, Roscoe Turner and Algy Bates came tromping in from the rear yard with another fellow in tow.

“There ye are, miz,” Roscoe began, wagging his head. “I’m afraid we got us a bit o’ bad news.” His voice lowered and filled with dire portent. “That rock, miz … it’s a mite bigger than we reckoned. Ten- or twelve-man, at least.”

“A right heavy bugger,” Algy put in with a nod, over his partner’s shoulder.

“But I thought you were taking care of it,” she said, her frayed patience obvious in her voice.

Cole Mandeville had paused and was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. She felt his gaze on her.

“Oh, we will, miz. Found us someone to help wi’ the diggin.’ A feller willin’ to work for the same wage as us.” He gestured to the short, wiry fellow in a fancy bowler standing a few feet away. “Miz Duncan, this here be Rupert Fitzwater.
Come from London to visit his sister over by Flimwell. Says he’s dug up a bit o’ dirt in his time.”

“Miss Duncan.” The fellow dragged his hat from his head and smiled, baring yellowed teeth in a grizzled face. He was dressed in a frayed woolen coat, trousers in dire need of a good pressing, and shoes that had seen better days. “I’d appreciate the opportunity, miss. When I got a job to do, nothin’ stands in my way.”

“Well, Mr. Fitzwater, that being the case, I suppose you’re hired. You shall have to find accommodations among—”

“Oh, he can put in wi’ me an’ Alg, Miz Duncan,” Roscoe assured her. That seemed to suit Mr. Fitzwater, who nodded, and the matter was settled. The threesome exited into the garden to begin work anew.

Her attention returned to Cole Mandeville, leaning against the door frame, wearing an irksome smile.

“More problems, Miss Duncan?” he asked as she approached. “
Tsk, tsk
. I’m afraid you’re going to need a good bit more of that ‘oops’ time before you’re through.”

“What I need, Lord Mandeville, is a good bit less of your condescending attitude.” She halted a pace away, matching his crossed arms with hers.

His eyes narrowed. “What you need, St. Madeline of the Bleeding Hearts, is a walloping great wad of cash to pay for your unfortunate little ‘oops.’ And to get it, you have to have my approval.”

“Your approval,” she said with a genuine spurt of anger. “To spend
my
money.”

“That’s the long and the short of it,” he declared. “My solemn and binding legal duty, you know, protecting you from your own magnanimous impulses.”

“A task made ever so much more difficult by the fact that you wouldn’t know a magnanimous impulse if you saw one.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed as he straightened abruptly and
headed for the stairs. She followed, determined to have her say—and her money.

“What do I have to do?” she demanded of his back as he mounted the steps. He stopped several steps up, and after a moment turned. “What will it take to convince you that the Ideal Garment Company is a viable business concern? That I am both serious about this work and capable of carrying it out? What is the price of your prejudice, Cold Mandeville?”

Anger flickered across his bronze features.

“What did you call me?”

It had been a slip of the tongue; wholly unintentional. But it was so fitting that she realized some part of her had meant it.

“Cold Mandeville,” she replied, squaring her shoulders.

“That’s what you think I am? Cold?”

“If the shoe fits …” she said. “You have yet to demonstrate the slightest bit of human warmth or compassion or generosity of spirit. Since you arrived, you have done nothing but stalk about snarling and passing judgment on everything you see—even though you know nothing of working-class people—their lives, their problems, or their dreams. And you know even less about having dreams of your own.”

His eyes hardened.

“Cold?” he said with a hard-edged laugh. “You haven’t seen
cold,
Saint Madeline. Cold would be looking the other way while this collection of dolts, whiners, and tuppenny dodgers take advantage of a naive young do-gooder who never learned to say no.” He stepped down heavily onto the lone stair tread between them. “Cold would be letting you spend yourself into oblivion trying to provide for people who sleep on the job in every available nook and cranny, drink themselves into a stupor by noon, and refuse to lift a finger to carry food into their house—when it’s been delivered to their bloody doorstep.” He bent close to her. “Cold would
be prizing my comfort more than my sworn duty and stalking off back to a life of pleasant, idle debauchery in London.”

He took her chin in his hand and tilted her head. She could feel his breath on her face. Her heart skipped erratically as his voice became like rough velvet.

“
Cold
would be taking you into my arms right now and kissing you until you melted.”

The touch of his lips would most certainly make her melt—she was perilously close to liquefying at just the touch of his hand. Anger warred with desire, and for a moment, all she could do was stare at his mouth.…

When he turned and continued up the stairs, she abruptly came to her senses. There she stood in the ruins of her righteous indignation, unkissed, unmelted, her pride and lofty ideals still intact, still St. Madeline of the Bleeding Hearts. With a hot rush of confusion, she couldn’t decide if he had decided to let her stew in her own longings or had declined to humiliate her with her own responses. Was he torturing or protecting her? The worst of it was: She hadn’t the foggiest idea whether she should be furious or grateful!

Still struggling with her emotions, she climbed the stairs and stood in the middle of the sewing floor, trying to recall just what it was she had intended to do that day. Stacks of sewing tables, crates full of sewing machines, a series of power shafts—she began to remember as she surveyed that idle lot, including Thomas Clark, who was lounging across the way on a stack of spare lumber. The sight of Thomas’s well-fed face and propped feet sent an unfamiliar trickle of annoyance through her. And where were the others she had asked to be here?

“Thomas Clark!” she called out. With a start, he rolled off his seat and stood, shifting his considerable weight from foot to foot. “I need you to go and find the others—Ben Murtry, William Huggins, Bernard Rush.” When he looked confused, she explained: “Your new neighbors. We need them here to help unpack and install the sewing machines.”

He nodded and ambled toward the stairs. There, he spoke to a ragged, barefoot boy of about twelve years, who was hanging on the banister. A moment later the boy slid down the railing and Thomas sauntered back to his former seat. In response to her scowl, he smiled with earnest indolence.

“That be my eldest. He’ll fetch them others for ye.”

Fritz and Daniel Steadman arrived up the back stairs just then. Immediately they spread out a set of drawings on one of the tables and set to work laying out and marking the work stations for the seamstresses. Before long, more male workers arrived and stood bunched near the stairs, looking around the hall and seeming somewhat reluctant to venture farther.

With some relief, Madeline welcomed them and set them to work in teams of two, carrying and positioning tables, loading and unloading sewing machines on the lift at the far end, and helping Fritz unpack machinery. Shortly, some of the women arrived, bringing with them a number of their children. They perched on the chairs stacked at the end of the hall and, in the way of women everywhere, soon began to visit, leaving their children to race, crawl, climb, hang, squeal, poke about, and generally interfere with the business of creating a clothing factory.

More than once Madeline had to peel children away from half-installed sewing machines, warning them of the dangers of getting too close. Setting Emily to ask the women to watch them, she returned to the task of doling out assignments and helping Fritz and Daniel make final decisions. But before long she was having to remove children from stacks of crates and shoo them from underfoot again. It finally occurred to her to send for Maple Thoroughgood and Charlotte, to have them lead the women to the downstairs classroom and begin teaching them to use the machines. Since the younger ones went with their mothers, that alleviated part of the children problem.

Increasingly, Madeline found herself having to be in four places at once, responding to questions, corralling children,
directing the placement of the equipment, and constantly repeating directions. The men had a disconcerting tendency to do one task, then to stand and wait to be directed to another—even if it was the same one—over and over. Patiently, Madeline explained and re-explained what needed to be done, hoping they would soon take the initiative and continue the work on their own.

Clearly, they were unused to being in charge of their own work. Such a momentous change was bound to take some getting used to. Immersed in a constant flow of demands, decisions, and activity, she was far too busy to worry about Cole Mandeville and his judgmental attitude—for the moment.

But Madeline continued to occupy Cole’s thoughts as well as his vision. He stood just inside the office doorway with his arms crossed and his feet spread, watching every nuance of Madeline’s expressions and movements. He didn’t understand the dangerous fascination she held for him.

Why didn’t he just give her all the financial rope she wanted and then step back and watch her hang her saintly self with it? More to the point, why
hadn’t
he grabbed and kissed her until she was a helpless puddle at his feet? What in hell was he doing, protecting her from his desires and her own stubborn idealism?

A disturbing possibility occurred to him. Was he, in fact, doing what he knew in his bones to be the right thing … no matter how it annoyed or inconvenienced him? The ramifications of that rattled him to the core. Some unexpunged blot of idealism must still lurk deep inside him.

Damn and double damn, he thought, retreating from the all-too-absorbing sight of her, into the superintendent’s office. It had taken a lifetime
of hard lessons, disappointments, and familiarity with the gritty realities of the world for him to achieve the cynicism he was so comfortable with. Now St. Madeline of the Infernally Helpful had reminded him that he, too, once harbored pathetic dreams of making a difference in the world.

The ache beginning in his chest was proof of just how painful those old ideals had been. He knew from experience that the only cure for a virulent case of ideals was a near-lethal dose of reality, having your dreams kicked in by someone in whom you have misplaced your faith. And the more he watched Madeline with her chosen lot of slackers, sots, and cloak twitchers, the more certain he was that they would be administering that bitter draft of reality someday soon. And the plain truth of it was that he didn’t want any part of it, not even a glimpse.