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Mr. Barrett raises a brow, and I instantly hear the rudeness in my own words.
“Well then,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I’d ask you what’s brought you here, but of course I already know the answer.”
I let out my breath, surprised, but relieved that I won’t have to explain the particulars of Catherine’s errand. “You do?”
He gestures to the book in my hand. “I said I’d come by for a book, and I’ve been so busy that I’ve completely broken my word.”
“Oh, no. I—” I stop myself. My side is still sore from laughing. There’s something about Mr. Barrett’s house, something so different than Willow Hall. A lightness. At home I always feel on edge, as if I were holding my breath, waiting for something to happen, and that’s to say nothing of the torturous nights with their evil dreams and the footsteps and wailing. Here I can justbe, and with Mr. Barrett no less. I want to bask in his attention for a little while without the shadow of Catherine’s troubles looming over me.
“No,” I say again, this time with confidence. “You mustn’t apologize for not coming. Here.” I hand him the book and his eyes run over the title. He gives me a smile before placing the book gently on his desk.
“I wanted to come,” he says. “It’s just this...” He gestures to the modest pile of papers behind him. “This land deal has been taking much longer than I anticipated. We’ve been working late into the evenings, and Mr. Clarke has been stubborn as an ox about signing anything.”
“But Father says you’ve settled it now. You must be glad.”
A paper has caught his attention and he frowns. “Mmm,” he says without looking up. There it is again, his detachment that tears him away, as if he has more pressing matters on his mind. Then with a little “tch” of self-reproach he comes back to himself. “I’m sorry.” He puts the paper away.
“Will you buy more farms along the river now? For more mills?”
“No. Well, yes, maybe. It depends.”
I know he’s trying to spare me the tedious business details, but to my surprise, I’m actually interested. I want to know how he spends his days, what kind of documents he signs, where he goes and whom he meets.
“It depends on the banks, you mean?”
He leans back against his desk, head tilted slightly. He’s looking at me—or rather, through me—and I’m not sure he even heard my question. I’m about to try again when he suddenly asks, “Can I tell you something?”
“Oh, of course,” I say breathlessly, not in the least curious as to this new direction in the conversation. “You can tell me anything.”
He gives me an appraising look and nods. “Well, the thing is...” He trails off, rubbing his jaw and a small smile pulling at his lips as if he can’t quite believe what he’s about to admit.
I’m leaning in so far that I’m in danger of toppling over. I hold my breath, my mind forming scenario after scenario of what it could possibly be that he wants to tell me, and then dismissing them all just as quickly. He’s pulling out of his partnership with Father. He’s moving. He’s engaged. Or just maybe—and I know this one is ridiculous—he’s going to declare his feelings for me.
22
“WELL, THE FACTof the matter is that I find milling reprehensible.”
My breath comes out in a slow, deflated hiss. “Oh,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment. Then, seeing his earnest expression, his eyes seeking mine for some kind of reassurance, I say, “But you’ve such a good head for business, Father always says so. And you’ve been so successful.”
“To be good at something isn’t to necessarily enjoy it,” he says. A hint of color touches his face. Embarrassed, he forces a smile. “I shouldn’t complain. I don’t know what made me say that, I—”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine, really. What is it about milling that you don’t like? What would you rather do?”
He considers the question. “I don’t know,” he says, frowning out the window. “Farming, perhaps.” He hoists himself up on his desk, dangling his legs and bracing his elbows on his knees, like a little boy fishing on the edge of a stream.
“It’s not so much the product itself. After all, cloth needs to be manufactured and it needs to be done so in the North. And there’s no denying that the industry has made New Oldbury a prosperous outlier. It’s just...” His words trail off. “Have you ever been to a mill, Lydia?”
A little ball of warmth forms in my stomach when he says my name. “No. Well, only that day that we met you.”
He nods. “My father’s old mill. I’m talking about a working one though, with a wheel that churns up water, looms that pump so loud that you can’t hear yourself think. Shouts of men over the din and fiber choking the air. Mills are like hungry beasts, and they must be fed a constant diet of labor and wool or cotton or wood. And those in turn must be harvested from somewhere, which in America’s case is in the South by the forced labor of slaves.”
“It’s a violent sort of business, isn’t it?”
He had gotten up and was pacing around his desk, but now stops short, staring at me. “Yes,” he says softly. “That’s just it.”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment and then he clears his throat and starts pacing again. “There’s an ever increasing demand for goods, and as British products come back on the market people will expect a greater variety and at better prices. How many mills will there be in five years? Ten years? Will every river be clogged with competing wheels?”
I can’t help feel a little ashamed that I ever grudged Catherine for holding Mr. Barrett’s confidence. Surely he would never have spoken to her like this, like an equal. And if he had, she would have had to pretend that she was interested, politely nodding at the right times, demurring. I don’t have to pretend. “And yet, you still do it. Why?”