Once Beloved (15 page)

“Virtue? As if such a one as you has any at all,” Gordon scoffed.

She curled her hands into fists and pressed them against her legs, fighting the urge to slap him. Meanwhile, Daniel reached around her to grab his brother by the shirt and bodily whirled him toward the bedroom door.

“Out! I warned you. This is finished. Mrs. Martin will be on her way home shortly, and I'll be about my work soon after. That's all you need to know. Now get out!” He herded his brother through the main room and yanked open the front door. Gordon glared at her malevolently before Daniel shoved at his shoulder. “Go, Gordon. No good will come of this.” More gently, he added, “Go home. See Ruth and your children. I'll run the fields today. Just let this bide for now.”

She could have cried with relief when Gordon turned his back and stomped out. She slumped against the bedroom doorframe before realizing that her boots were still undone.

“I'll be ready to go in just a moment,” she said quickly as she hobbled to a chair.

“We should talk,” Daniel replied without looking at her. His voice had a flat, empty quality, but she refused to let herself interpret his demeanor.

“No, Daniel, there's nothing to talk about. I won't darken your door again.” He looked as if he wanted to object, but he said nothing. A few minutes later, she walked out. And she refused to be upset that, in all that time, he wouldn't look her in the eye.

N
o one was more surprised than Helena to find herself again a passenger in Daniel Lanfield's cart. It had been several days since the unpleasant incident with that nasty woman at the village shop, several days since that disconcerting night she'd spent at his home, several days since she'd sworn to herself that she would avoid this man without exception. What was that saying about necessity and its offspring, invention? Ha. Vanessa and Mrs. Weathers certainly invented some fantastically pressing reasons why she simply had to accompany Mr. Lanfield on his day trip to Bradford. She touched the list of “rare but essential” items that couldn't be acquired in Marksby. Utter rubbish. It was as if everyone meant to torment her.

To be fair, Vanessa still oscillated between indignation and stubbornness. One moment she insisted they couldn't give “that virago” any of their business or their money and the next she declared that they must make daily visits until the shrew gave her aunt the proper respect. But when Mr. Lanfield arrived at the door to fetch Mrs. Weathers for the excursion, it was mortifying to have the woman hem and haw and insist that Helena go in her stead. Helena had sworn she'd avoid his presence entirely. And he'd maintained a neutral stance through the entire exchange, as if it didn't matter to him who rode along to Bradford. But Mrs. Weathers and Vanessa were so peculiarly insistent that she go to Bradford, it didn't seem worth arguing. So here she was, sitting alongside this silent rock of a man. She tried not to look at him, tried to focus on the road ahead, but she was constantly aware of his every move, even the slightest twitch of his hands as he steered. When he finally relaxed into the seat, his thighs flexing beneath the rough fabric of his trousers, her heart was beating faster for reasons she didn't want to explore.

It seemed pointless to try to make conversation, but the silence stretched oppressively over miles and miles, and she had to do something to distract her from this unaccountable sensitivity to his presence. Finally, she blurted, “Why are you helping me?”

“Because of your grandmother.” His curt, facile reply irritated her.

“There are myriad ways to provide aid to her without suffering my presence. Why are
you
helping
me
?”

“Because you need it. I've seen enough in these past weeks to know that you couldn't manage this trip without assistance.”

“That is untrue!”

“How would you get to Bradford otherwise? Mr. Weathers? It's hard for him to make such journeys these days. And I was already going.”

“But you despise me.”

“No, I don't,” he replied matter-of-factly. She stared at him in disbelief. And, damn him, all he did was stare right back.

“Oh, suddenly you don't? That's news. Care to explain?”

“No, I simply don't. Does an elephant despise an ant? Does the ocean despise a grain of sand? I don't despise you because you are simply too inconsequential now for me to bother.”

She didn't believe that either, but she couldn't garner the nerve to confront him about the kiss they'd shared in his home, the kiss that was burned into her memory and made her skin tingle even now. No, it would be better to leave that particular incident unexplored. Better to accept his indifference than to follow that kiss down its mysterious, ambivalent path.

As they entered the city, she found that Bradford wasn't what she'd expected. She'd been a child when she last visited with her parents, and since then, the town had exploded into a metropolitan hodgepodge. The buildings were a mix of old and new and gave her the impression of a colorful flower garden overtaken by imposing weeds.

“Do you think Marksby would have grown this way if the railway agreement had gone through?” She hadn't meant to say the words aloud, and she was as startled as he by the question.

He looked around thoughtfully before replying, “There'd have been growing pains, no doubt. Bradford was already a metropolitan center. Would the village have changed this drastically? Who can say? But I doubt it. I don't believe we would have allowed it to modernize quite so severely.”

She nodded but couldn't help wondering if modernization would have benefitted the village as much as everyone seemed to think.

Still exceedingly sensitive to his nearness, she was relieved when he suggested they meet at a designated location in the shopping district after their respective errands. She was even more relieved by how smoothly her transactions went, without the slightest malice or unpleasantness. She didn't even think they overcharged her. But as she exited the last shop, purchases in hand, her senses were jarred by the overwhelming surge of passersby. She stepped back into the shop, trying to catch her breath. Leaning her forehead against the shop window, she closed her eyes and focused on the cool glass against her skin. Surely, she could get to the meeting location just a few blocks away. It was at the edge of a park. She just had to keep walking. As she ran through calming thoughts in her head, she looked out the window and noticed that the crowd had dissipated somewhat. So she took a deep breath and then determinedly stepped out the door, staying close to the buildings so that she could slip into a doorway if a large group of people passed. She just barely managed to keep the anxiety at bay until she found their meeting spot.

As she sank onto a park bench, she couldn't help but notice that it was at a slight remove from the walking paths and traffic but still easily visible from the thoroughfare. When Daniel finally appeared, she was embarrassingly relieved that he came down and tied up the cart.

“We should stop for a meal,” he said gruffly. “I was told we should try the inn at the end of this street. Simple but good.”

His nonchalance startled her, despite her hunger. He was treating her as he would a friend, and it was . . . disturbingly appealing. But could she manage that kind of environment after struggling just to get to the park? Looking at his expectant face, she felt a strange and unfamiliar confidence. It was only a meal, and it was nearby. And she couldn't bear being so trapped by her emotional reactions. When she agreed, he led them silently down the lane, his presence serving as a calming protection against the rest of the world.

When they entered, they found that the only space left was at a table already occupied by a well-dressed man who was greeted by everyone who passed by. Helena's internal alarms rang in her ears. Too many people. Too much. But Daniel's low voice gave her focus.

“I won't allow any harm to come to you,” he said quietly. And she believed him. Just before they reached the man's table, Daniel asked one of the barmaids whether they should join him or wait for another table.

“Go on!” she said brightly, “Mr. Salt is always happy for company. He tends to be quiet, but don't let that dissuade you.”

Annoyed by the overly familiar way in which the barmaid leaned against him when she answered, Helena was watching his face carefully for his reaction. So she didn't miss how he cocked his head when he heard the man's name.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“Mr. Salt? I only know what I've heard, which I never count for much.” He shrugged but looked at the table intently. “He introduced the import of alpaca here, which has affected the local farms quite a bit.” His voice took on a hard edge, but he shifted his jaw as if struggling to suppress his reactions. “He's held important posts here in Bradford too. I've heard he has grand plans to revolutionize conditions for mill workers. In fact, you'd get along with him well, now that I think about it.”

The mention of mill conditions did, in fact, draw her interest. She'd spoken privately with so many factory workers in London, young and old, who suffered horrible conditions, even with all the reform laws. It would be fascinating to discuss potential solutions. And the idea that the popularity of alpaca wool affected Marksby reinforced her thinking that more factors shaped the village's prosperity than just her long-ago escape. Focusing her attention on the table ahead, she felt the rest of the room fall away, her anxiety held at bay by concern for those in the mills.

When they approached Mr. Salt, he didn't make much of a physical impression, but then again Helena was fully aware that appearances didn't always convey reality. The man's hair and thick beard looked difficult to tame, and he had a distant look on his face, as if he was working to figure out a complex problem. Hesitant to intrude, she touched Daniel's arm and whispered, “Perhaps we should find another table. The man is clearly occupied, and we shouldn't disturb him.”

Her voice must have carried more than she anticipated because, to her chagrin, the man abruptly shifted his attention to them and stood politely.

“Please do join me,” Mr. Salt said with a slight bow of his head, his voice low but earnest.

After engaging in niceties and introductions, they were convinced that he meant his invitation sincerely, and Helena was pleased to find him a straightforward and engaging dining companion, especially when their talk turned to factories. As they compared London's and Bradford's situations, she was both excited and horrified by the similarities.

“I'm not surprised,” she said, when he described the cramped and deplorable conditions for workers in Bradford. “The Ten Hours Bill marked important progress in fair treatment of mill workers, especially children, but it wasn't a panacea, at least not in London. And those are the tragedies that have been reported. I know of one instance when almost an entire family was lost in a factory fire. The parents and their children all worked in different parts of the building, and only one of the children survived. The poor orphan was taken in by the manager so as not to lose an employee to an orphanage.”

“Aye, I've heard similar tales. Deplorable,” he said with fervor. “That's why I'm determined to start fresh. I've done my all to keep my mills clean and safe, to pay my workers decent wages, to set reasonable hours, but it's difficult to maintain what seem like reasonable conditions when unscrupulous mill owners will woo them away with the promise of more pay for more work. I believe there is much more to an efficient and effective workforce than constant production. So many workers earn just enough to pay for their cramped, overcrowded tenements and have barely enough to eat, stretching every morsel and going hungry so that the children can be fed. I have in mind a miniature utopia in which to test an entire society constructed to foster happy, knowledgeable, productive workers. I believe focusing on the well-being of the workers, physically but also spiritually and emotionally, will result in the greatest and most dependable output of quality goods. Clean, affordable homes, schools for all, shops and markets offering fair prices—all of these work in concert to foster good, diligent workers. Just as a stallion performs best when well-fed, well-treated, and properly trained, so too I hypothesize mill workers shall thrive under the proper conditions.”

“That's a massive and quite intensive project,” she replied, awed by his vision. The sour look on Daniel's face distracted her momentarily, but Salt's ambitious idea fascinated her. “You're practically building your own village. You must have a vast network of contacts based on your political career here in order to build all those sectors of society in such accord. I shall keep a close watch on your vision as it becomes real. I know many people in London who would be thrilled to see your utopia succeed. Indeed, it would be wonderful to alleviate the suffering of so many, but it seems we need more proof of how the use of compassionate business practices can benefit revenue more than long hours and intimidation tactics. Factory work must not be so dehumanizing.”

“How is it that you know such detailed information and have formed such particular ideas about industrial practices, Mrs. Martin?” Before she could reply, Mr. Salt turned to Daniel, as if just noticing him for the first time. “Sir, are you an industrialist? Your . . . companion. . . seems extremely well informed.”

She tensed at the way he referred to her and felt, rather than saw, Daniel recoil from the word
companion
. Really, no word seemed truly fitting for whatever their interaction was now.

“Mr. Lanfield is a neighbor of my family,” she explained. “As I am from London, I needed a guide to take me around Bradford for various and sundry items to care for my grandmother.”

“Of course, of course. How very good of you to come all the way from London to look after her, ma'am. Perhaps when this new mill town is constructed, you might visit it and see the progress for yourself, assuming that it works as well as I hope. In fact, if you have the time, Mrs. Martin, I would be pleased to give you a tour of the land, idyllic for my purposes.”

In her periphery, she glimpsed Daniel's shoulders stiffening at that. She turned to find his expression had grown dark and suspicious as he stared at Mr. Salt. What on earth could possibly make him so dislike the man based on such brief acquaintance?

“Given her grandmother's condition, I doubt Mrs. Martin has time to go traipsing about the countryside,” he said. Did she imagine the deep growl in his voice?

“Forgive me,” Mr. Salt replied immediately. “I didn't mean to presume. You're both welcome at any time. Send me a note if you wish to see the place, and I'll arrange everything. Now, if you'll excuse me, I do hope you have a safe trip back to your village.” He took his leave of them politely, but that didn't relieve her concerns about Daniel's standoffish behavior.

“Mr. Lanfield, that was unconscionably rude!”

“No more rude than his undermining of English wool trade. No ruder than his behavior toward you,” he insisted.