Betina Krahn (31 page)

Screwing up her determination, she headed for the garden, bent on dismissing Roscoe and Algy. She had given it considerable thought and decided Cole was probably right; there were some people who would never change no matter how many chances they were given. Much as she hated to admit she was mistaken in hiring the pair, she was more than ready to see the back of them.

But for all her dread and determination, she was unable to sack them; she couldn’t
find
them anywhere. No one had seen them since the previous afternoon. Roscoe and Algy had
apparently read the handwriting on the wall and absconded before she had a chance to get rid of them.

She walked through the garden, assessing the damage, and was relieved to conclude that it probably looked worse than it was. With a bit of effort most of it could be put right again. But to keep from spreading herself too thin, she decided to leave it for later. She had plenty to do inside the factory.

Cole met her just as she was returning to the factory, and he seemed a bit perturbed. She understood why when he raised his chin and she saw that he was wearing his tie and collar.

“I felt just too naked,” he declared, scowling. “Besides, I’ve just spent the better part of the morning coaxing Cravits out of a heap on my bedroom floor. He took the news of my impending reformation rather hard. I had to promise I would restrict my ‘liberation’ to private and informal occasions for the present … at least until I have something suitable to replace my ‘restrictive’ and ‘oppressive’ wardrobe.”

She released the breath she had been holding, relieved that the intervening night hadn’t completely undone the effects of their time by the stream. There was still hope.

“You truly will give reform garments a try?” She gave him a smile warm enough to make him rather regret giving in to Cravits on the vest and collar business. His mouth quirked up on one side.

“In for a penny, in for a pound. But, I warn you, I won’t have you reforming my drawers. An Englishman’s drawers are his castle.”

She laughed and put her arm through his to turn him and lead him back inside. “I swear to you, I have no designs whatsoever on your drawers.” Her voice lowered to a scarcely audible murmur. “But I won’t make the same promise about what’s in them.”

Later that afternoon Cole came up the main stairs bearing a letter that had just arrived. He was staring at the return address and wondering what other Duncan might be writing to Madeline. He was drawn out of his preoccupation by the sound of women’s laughter in the sewing room. Three of the Ketchums were clustered around what he knew to be Charlotte Thoroughgood’s worktable. As he looked in, someone started singing a common ditty, clapping rhythmically.

A surge of fresh feminine laughter greeted the performance and the rest of the women hurried from their work stations to gather around. Judging by the thumping sounds and the bobbing of shaggy blond heads, there was now a dance to go with the singing and clapping. Apparently the celebratory mood of the previous day had carried over.

Unnoticed, he walked closer until with a stretch of his neck he could see Matthew and Luke Ketchum engaged in a parody of a couple dancing. The women laughed and called advice while marking time with their feet and hands. Not to be outdone, Cal Ketchum picked up a pair of Ideal knickers from Charlotte’s worktable and flapped and flourished them raucously as he pranced around the circle of women.

Good-naturedly butting the others aside, he tucked the band of the knickers into the waist of his trousers and continued dancing. The hilarity his behavior produced emboldened him to add another pair to his breeches, covering his rear. When someone handed him a bodice, he tried to don it as well, but it didn’t fit. He hit upon the idea of tying it to a second one and managed to wrap the two around him. Then on impulse he snatched up yet another pair of knickers and plopped them on his head. Fluttering his eyes and preening, he pounced about and declared in a falsetto voice that he was a new, “reformed” woman.

“I mebee freer in these here new bags”—he said, sidling up to the red-faced Charlotte—“but I still ain’t cheap!”

The women howled.

Cole watched the heavy-handed satire with mixed emotions,
recognizing both the buffoonish humor and the small-minded sneer underlying the mimicry.

After a few moments he caught sight of Madeline standing unnoticed across the way, her face scarlet, her eyes dark and growing darker.

Before he could react, she turned and retreated to the offices without saying a word.

Fury gripped him, distorting the sounds of their merriment into an insufferable cawing and prating. Pushing his way through the crowd, he came nose to nose with the mincing Calvin, who had just raised his arms for a twirl. Calvin froze and his brothers lost their grins and their adolescent bravado.

The singing and clapping came to an abrupt end.

“Well, well.” Cole gave the threesome a scorching stare and almost enjoyed watching Calvin redden and jerk his arms down. “We’ve a new girl on the floor, I see.” His smile would have frosted lemonade sitting in the hot sun. “A fetching little thing too. Except that someone should take the poor thing aside and explain to her a few of the facts of life.”

He gave the knickers drooping over Cal’s head a flip. “These, for instance—ladies’ knickers—are to be worn discreetly. On the
inside.
” He snatched them off Cal’s head and with a deadly smile deliberately pulled out the waist of Cal’s breeches and stuffed the knickers in. Cal lurched back, but Cole’s grip wouldn’t allow him a retreat … dignified or otherwise. With outrageous leisure Cole stripped the knickers from the fellow’s waist and one by one stuffed them down the front of his breeches. The resulting bulge was as satisfying to Cole as it was humiliating to Calvin. He turned his head, addressing a wicked aside to the women nearby.

“Really, where
does
Miss Duncan find people who don’t even know how simple knickers are to be worn?”

The snickers and titters his comment elicited were too much for Cal. He ripped off the bust bodices and charged toward the stairs, crimson-faced and frantically tossing women’s knickers out of his pants as he went.

Matt and Luke slunk off in the opposite direction and were running by the time they reached the rear steps. Cole swept the circle of women with a warning look that sent them hurrying—duly chastened—back to their machines.

Moments later Cole found Madeline in the sample room, staring out the windows. Her eyes were dry but her spirits were clearly dampened. He stopped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“They’re thick as clots,” he declared. “Don’t let it bother you.”

“They don’t understand at all,” she said quietly, as if just discovering it.

“As you said, it may take awhile, but they’ll come around.”

“The women aren’t wearing the garments either. Not even Maple or Charlotte.”

“All it takes is one person to start. The others will soon follow.” He ran a finger down her neck. “Just be patient, angel.”

For a moment they stood quietly together, then she stirred and reached for a tablet, saying she would like to do some sketching for a while. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and left her.

By the time he reached the factory entrance, he was in turmoil. There he had stood, watching her disappointment and saying that her wretched workers would come around to her way of thinking and everything would be all right. She was finally getting a taste of the reality he had tried so hard to prepare her for—and he couldn’t bear it! To escape, he had thrown himself headlong into mindless, mush-headed optimism, spouting witless encouragements, telling her the truth she was finally facing didn’t matter. What next, dribbling bad poetry about every cloud having a damned “silver lining”?

He was in serious trouble here, he thought. And he deserved every damned bit of it!

Sir William hobbled back into his chambers, his shoulders hunched with pain and his countenance positively cumulonimbus. Foglethorpe helped him off with his robes, then rushed to the cabinet for the little brown bottle of laudanum. After settling and dosing the old justice, the clerk stood uneasily by with a worried frown and something behind his back.

“Foglethorpe—what in blazes is the matter with you?” Sir William fished his pince-nez from his pocket and peered through it at the anxious clerk. “Something’s got you jittering.” He gave the clerk’s reticence his own interpretation. “Bad news, I gather. Out with it, Fogles—I’m not getting any younger.”

The clerk pulled a newspaper from behind his back and stared at it as if he had no idea how it got there … or wished he hadn’t. “An article in the
Gazette,
Sir William. A rather dubious piece, but touching a case in your venue. I believe Lord Mandeville is mentioned prominently—and in connections one wouldn’t wish to be … aired publicly.”

“Well, give it here, man!” Sir William roared as he lowered his foot onto the ottoman. He tore it open and with Foglethorpe’s direction located the piece on the second page. As he read, his eyes widened. And widened. His face reddened. And reddened. By all rights the paper should have combusted, but it merely crumpled as his fleshy hand tightened on it.

“Damnation!” Sir William thundered, giving the paper a vicious shake. “A scurrilous lot of pig swill!” It agitated him so that he could scarcely focus enough to finish the article. “According to this, Madeline Duncan’s a greedy, licentious little tart with all the morality and social conscience of Attila the Hun. She’s either running a sweatshop like one of those newfangled socialist communes, or she’s running a commune
like a foul, suppurating sweatshop. And damn if—from this idiot’s yellow prose—I can tell which.”

He skimmed the rest and at the bottom caught an item of interest. “Says here that there will be a rebuttal from her cousin, Gilbert Duncan, Esq., printed on the morrow.”

He flung the paper across his desk in disgust.

“Horse manure. Plain and simple. I’ve been thirty years on this bench and I’ve seen all sorts come and go. Unless I’ve gone full dotty, she’s the genuine article.” He scowled. “At least my nephew seems to think so. I don’t suppose there’s a letter in the post from him.…”

Foglethorpe shook his head. Sir William sighed and propped his jowly chin on his hand.

“Dammit, if I didn’t have this dickey leg, I’d be on the next coach to that backwater burg this very night.”

Across town, in Mayfair, Gilbert Duncan was rolling back on his new silk settee, kicking his heels with glee at the slanderous accusations the
Pall Mall Gazette
had leveled against his wealthy little cousin.

“Oh, yesss! This is too, too good. For all intents and purposes, she is now a hot-tailed little tyrant who thumbs her nose at society and coerces her poor, downtrodden workers to comply with her twisted notions of morality.” He sat up and looked at Rupert Fitch, seated on a nearby ottoman, wearing a spanking new suit of clothes but the same old yellow smile. “You do good work, my man. Why, you almost have
me
believing some of this stuff. I only hope my valiant rebuttal will be half so eloquent when it appears in the paper tomorrow.”

“It will be,” Fitch assured him.

“Good.” Gilbert unfolded from the couch and went to pour himself a brandy. “Then perhaps you’d better tell me just what I said in ‘my’ article … so that when I see her in a day or two, I’ll know just how grateful to expect her to be.”