Page 3 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

A my woke up the next morning and stared at the ceiling. Last night, her father hadn’t come home from the mill until late, and she’d heard that a man had been gravely injured on the line. Philip told her his skull was split by a falling pulley, and the whole day’s production had come to a standstill.

He may have children. A wife.

Someone who loves him dearly.

What if he’s never the same? What if he should die? Widows and fatherless children... The blood would be on our hands. Well, not mine, because I tried to make Father listen.

She turned over, frowning hard. Would God consider her an accomplice in manslaughter for her failure to make her father see sense? Or her brothers, for that matter?

With a determined flounce, she bolted from her bed and marched to the door—only to find it locked.

“What in the world?” Amy jiggled the lock and then slammed the flat of her hand against the door. It had indeed been locked from the outside.

“Father!” she roared. “Agnes!”

There was a startled noise from below, and Amy allowed herself one satisfied smile as rushing footsteps told her that her bellow had reached the designated ears of her maid. Agnes’ footsteps were very distinctive, always a hurried shuffle, as if the plump, short maid hadn’t figured out how to take long strides. “Agnes! Let me out of here at once!”

“The master says you’re to stay put until half-ten, Miss Amy,” Agnes informed her in a sorrowful, trembling voice. “I daren’t argue, miss, but I’ll put some toast in a cloth and—”

“You will do no such thing,” Amy snapped, and yanked open the top drawer of her dressing table. Other women might find perfume and jewel cases, fine combs and soft-bristled brushes.

Amy found her carefully scavenged tinsnips, a tinman’s horse, different sorts of stakes, a hammer, nails, bolts, and more.

“I think it’s dreadful. You must be parched. I can’t figure out how to get tea in under the door, Miss Amy, but it’s nearly nine, now. You’ve been long abed!”

“Why has Father said I mustn’t come down to breakfast? Is he attempting to punish me for having brains in my head and a pen in my hand?” Her voice was a grunt as she hauled the chair from the dressing table to the door and looked up at the brass hinge. The house was in good repair and only built shortly before her birth. It had been refined and expanded upon, but a hinge is a hinge.

“No, no, miss. I’m sure it’s not that. It’s that he’s got an important meeting. A Mr. Holcomb.”

“Horace Holcomb?”

“I think so, miss.”

“Industrialist. Owns three of the largest factories in Manchester, two in Liverpool, and a few smaller ones in Bolton. Hates cities and has retired to the countryside after the death of his business partner and brother several years ago. Considering standing in the next by-election. Conservative party.”

“Goodness me! How d’you know all that?” Agnes said admiringly.

“I read the papers, Agnes, and I listen when men talk instead of staring into space and thinking about my needlework.” Amy stared at the gudgeon of the hinge and wondered if the work was worth the irritation it would cause her father. She would have to get Agnes to move away from the door lest the poor girl start shrieking when she saw the door swaying and tipping from its frame. “Why can’t I see Mr. Holcomb?”

“I suppose it’s because you’ll try to talk business with him. It’s not proper for a lady.”

“It’s proper for anyone who enjoys eating and having a roof above one’s head. Money is a necessary evil in this world, and if Father goes on running the factory like it's 1774 instead of 1874, we’ll soon be out of this house and living with you and your mother, Agnes.”

Agnes gasped and squeaked. “There’s not room, miss! Not for your brothers an’ all!”

“Agnes, I do want toast. With marmalade. Will you run and fetch some—and mind you don’t let the marmalade touch the door or the cloth.”

“Yes, miss!”

The running shuffle told Amy that Agnes had gone.

“That was very cruel,” she told her reflection with a stern scowl. “The poor girl will spend an hour trying to figure out how to get toast with marmalade under the door without letting anything touch it.” With a deep breath, Amy grabbed a turnscrew and climbed up onto the seat of the chair. If her father knew she intended to march down to breakfast in nothing but a rather worn nightgown, he would burst the vein that twitched above his eye.

At the moment, she didn’t care.

Working with a soft touch, Amy braced one hand on the upper part of the door, then worked out each screw in the upper hinge. It was surprisingly awkward work to balance on the soft seat of the low chair, stretching her arms above her head. Her hair started to work its way from the long single plait down her back, and perspiration beaded on her forehead and trickled down her throat.

I should have seen if I could pick the lock. Or taken the knob from the door.

Worrying thoughts that her father would find a way to trap her more securely flitted through her mind, but she dismissed them. Her father was not a calm man, but he was not a beast. As the last screw dropped to the floor below, Amy chewed her lower lip.

Maybe her father was going mad with all the pressures of running the mill and the accidents that seemed to befall the workers through haste and carelessness.

Or maybe there was something that he didn’t want her to know about. Something to do with Horace Holcomb.

The mill. He’s selling the mill!

Urgency made her hasty and careless. The bottom hinge was practically torn off, the last screw still halfway in, when Amy caught the heavy door and let it fall on the floor of her bedroom with a thud.

The upstairs hall was deserted. Knowing her brothers, they were either asleep (Steven), riding (Thomas), or already at the mill, trying to ensure things operated smoothly (Philip). They would blindly agree with her father on any matter concerning the mill, having been taught never to question him in matters of business. She was the one who irritated him by questioning his decisions and offering suggestions for improvement. To him, that was an affront that he could not abide.

Well, he will simply have to abide it!

Amy passed one of the large windows that overlooked the winding carriage drive just in time to see her father stride out to greet a corpulent and well-dressed man with bushy white mutton chop whiskers.

“No! He can’t sell the factory!”

Little did Amy know that her father was about to strike a bargain on something much more personal—her hand in marriage.

“MR. HOLCOMB! I WAS surprised to find your man at my door before the cock crowed.”

“Greetings, Mr. Winthrop. It is kind of you to see me so early. I know it is quite an unforgivable hour.”

Horace Holcomb’s tones had gentled in recent years—unless he was dealing with upstart factory workers or wayward wards—to be specific, Marcus. His younger brother’s son had all of his fine looks but none of his temperance. Jane, his little niece, hadn’t been so unruly. In fact, her grief had seemed to render the youngster docile and easily managed. He’d handily married her off to the son of a shipping magnate in Southampton.

But Marcus... Ever since his father and mother perished abroad, he’d been hellbent on spending every dime of his inheritance and dragging the good name of Holcomb through the mud. The Holcomb name was typically found on the lips of capitalists, industrialists, importers, and, of course, flowing through the Stock Exchange.

Thanks to Marcus, it was beginning to crop up in every gambling den in the city. The boy had barely scraped through his final term at school, and he was living off his annuity like a spoiled, workshy sultan.

Thank heavens there wasn’t a breath of scandal about him this far from London, or Mr. Winthrop, the red-faced little bantam of a man, would be unlikely to listen to his pleas.

“You and I, Holcomb, we may have risen in the world, but we weren’t always the type to be woken with a breakfast tray, were we?” Mr. Winthrop made some attempt at heartiness, but Horace felt it rather flat. “Won’t you come in?”

“Yes, if only for a few moments. Again, shameful behavior, to ask for so early an appointment and then to cry off so soon after. I hope to meet my nephew’s train. My nephew—my nephew and heir—is coming to the ancestral home—such as it is. Get him out of the city for a bit.” Holcomb forced a smile and hoped his eyes belied his nervousness at the mere mention of “the city.”

“Ah, time to learn the ways of business? I never had much time for schooling, and you can see it did me no ill. A wealthy man, some would say. Prosperous. A worthy associate.”

Holcomb found Mr. Winthrop’s unsubtle boasting irksome, but as he walked through the well-furnished house that bore no signs of ostentatious overspending, he also reflected that Winthrop had earned the right to boast. Unlike himself, he had made his fortune alone without a charming brother, encumbered by a wife and children.

“I hope I haven’t woken the rest of the house?”

“It is the custom of my sons to take an early morning ride or head straight to the factory as soon as they’ve had their breakfast. Fine boys, all three, and all well-informed about the running of the mill.”

“Riding? I thought that more in line with the country set.”

They have little time for leisure, but what’s the point of having horses broken to the saddle if they stand about all day and provide no man any exercise?” Winthrop laughed. “All young men of good character should know their way about a horse. Doesn’t speak to anything but common sense, in my opinion.”

Curse Marcus. He was terrible at hunting, horrid at croquet, and useless at all things business. It was as if he'd made a deliberate effort to fail at everything useful that might endear him to a future father-in-law of any quality.

But he was handsome, charming, and at least slightly penitent, according to his telegram.

And if the young Miss Winthrop is as heedless and hopeless as the finest families hereabouts say, then perhaps all Marcus needs to be is determined enough to woo her—and for the pretty penny that’s sure to be her dowry, I’m certain his determination will not waver.

Especially once I tell him I’ll not pay out another pound after next year, annuity be damned.

Horace Holcomb followed his host to a rather dark dining room where heavy drapes were only half open and only one place was set. He turned and locked the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Holcomb, and tell me about the business that concerns you. Business it must be, and I’m not wealthy enough to take my time in idle chatter. Your factories run without your watchful eye upon them every day God sends, but I still have to take my place at the helm each day,” Winthrop sat and snapped his fingers at the maid who had just entered bearing a silver tea service upon a tray. She put it down and scurried out a second door at the front of the room, one that presumably connected to the kitchen via a back passage.

“It is a matter of business—of a sort. My nephew is a young fellow, twenty-two, twenty-three... with his prospects, it’s high time he found a wife of similar means and property. It’s commonly said in the district that your daughter is in need of a husband. A strong, spirited suitor is the thing.”

Winthrop made a strangled sound into his teacup and shoved a platter of bacon at his guest. “Suitor, you say?” he managed to choke out.

Holcomb deflected it with a gentle push and shake of his head. “I won’t, thank you. One hears tales that the young Miss Winthrop has made herself unattractive to suitors—not in her face and figure but her manners.”

Winthrop made another noise that wasn’t quite a word.

“I mean no insult. Perhaps rumors have been—” At that moment, Holcomb broke off with a gasp. “Winthrop! There is some lunatic outside your windows!”

HER FATHER AND HIS guest were not in his study, and Winslow, the butler who had a face made of a stone slab, was giving instructions to the housemaid and footman in the hall. Voices could be heard faintly in the dining room, but Amy saw the faintest flicker in Winslow’s eyelid and knew he was aware she had been locked in her room.

“Miss Winthrop. Agnes will bring your tray shortly, as soon as your father has instructed—”

She didn’t wait to hear any more, but darted back the way she had come and out the front door of the house.

Her father would not welcome distraction. Winslow would be torn between pursuit of the young lady of the house in her night attire (shocking) or interrupting his volatile employer after he’d closeted himself with his guest to discuss some private matter (most unacceptable).

When Amy didn’t hear footsteps giving chase, she cut through the drawing room and out the French windows, capering down the outside of the house on the walk that was lined with pale blue hydrangeas, feet wet with dew and prickling at the sensation of grass between her toes as she ran.

She stopped abruptly in front of the dining room’s large windows, mouth gaping open when she saw her father and Horace Holcomb deep in conversation. Her father was waving one hand about—never a good sign. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking of selling the mill.

Then, as she watched, her father’s posture changed, seemed to soften, and he leaned in, more attentive. It was the smug look on Mr. Holcomb’s face that caused her to suddenly throw herself against the glass panes and beat on them with her fists.

“Winthrop! There is some lunatic outside your windows!”

“What?” Amy hastily stepped back and checked behind her.

Oh, he means me, I suspect.

Her father turned, and his face mirrored hers, shocked and open-jawed for a moment. Then, he was striding forward, face red as beetroot, and fists curled as he flung open the window. “What in the world are you playing at, Amy?” he hissed, hauling her inside the house.

Amy shook off his arm, smoothed down her nightdress, and tried not to think about how her damp feet must be tracking mud and grass all over the expensive rugs Mother had insisted on buying so long ago. “Good morning, Father. Mr. Holcomb.” She drew her back up straight and stiff and gave each man an unsmiling nod.

“Good morning, Miss Winthrop,” Mr. Holcomb replied quietly, reaching into his breast pocket and retrieving a pair of perching spectacles.

Amy fought down the blush in her cheeks. “I’m sorry to intrude, Father, but if it is the mill that you’re discussing—”

“We weren’t. But what business is it of yours if we were?”

“I—”

“You needn’t concern yourself with such things when you’ve a father and three brothers to look after such things.”

“Concern myself I do! My brothers simply follow along, and you are so unwilling—”

“Silence! Your concerns ought to be more to the house, my girl!”

“And how will this house fare if you continue to ignore all—”

“Go and dress, and I’ll speak to you after I’m done with Mr. Holcomb.” Her father seized her elbow and marched her across the room, pushing her through the door of the dining room and almost sending her colliding into a perplexed-looking Agnes and Winslow.

“Father!” Amy turned and clung to his sleeve, relieved to see the fiery anger in his eyes dim slightly. “Please listen, just for a moment! I know that the profits are not as they should be, and the other mills are outproducing ours, but listening to overtures from Holcomb won’t help you in the long run! Think of my brothers and all the work they’ve put in!”

“The work they’ve put in? What a cheek! Your brothers are drooling infants in this business!”

Amy rolled her eyes and dug in her heels. “Fine, then, they’ll learn—if you will! Don’t sell the mill! I know there are ways we can make it run more smoothly and with much higher profits. There are new methods—”

“Sell the mill? I never thought you were daft, Amy. Difficult, but not simple! Now I’m not so sure. Running about half-undressed in your bare feet? Crashing into the window like that? Go back to your room and stay until I send for you. And Winslow—see that she doesn't leave her room for any reason, or you’ll both be out on your ears! Sell the mill? What lunacy! Most valuable thing I have after your brothers! My life’s blood is in that mill! Go on, now. Upstairs and make yourself decent.”

Amy trotted off, hurt and relieved at once. She knew she ranked below her brothers in her father’s esteem, but to come below the mill...

No, that’s not actually so shocking.

“No need for an escort, Winslow. But perhaps you can send up several footmen to hold up the door while I put it back in place?”

Winslow’s voice held a faint sigh. “Of course, Miss Amy.”

HORACE HOLCOMB ROSE from his chair and tried to look as though the mediocre still life above the sideboard was commanding all of his attention. Instead, he was listening to hissing and shouting by turns.

Winthrop was far from cultured—and his daughter was proof of that. She might be fairly pretty when properly attired, but now she looked like some poor soul that ought to be bundled away into a seaside rest home for hysterical women. Shouting and badgering her father, running barefoot outside in her night clothes—no, no. Marcus didn’t need a wife like that. His nephew could do better—provided no one found out about how he’d spent his heedless youth in London.

“I’ll see myself out, Mr. Winthrop. I’m sorry to have troubled you at such an early hour and with little purpose.”

“Oh, come, you mustn’t let a little feminine outburst deter you! You’re unmarried, Holcomb, long a bachelor! Women are always having these bouts of hysteria. A firm hand, that’s what’s needed. A firm hand.” Winthrop’s face seemed to grow tighter, as if someone were pulling on the sides of his florid face.

Holcomb hesitated. “My niece was far more manageable. I had her married off at eighteen.”

“Well... Amy is more high-strung. Your niece presumably had a mother to mold her for longer than my Amy did.”

“Be that as it may—my nephew is a young man and little established in this area.”

Winthrop’s taut face seemed to slide into something shrewd. “And how has he established himself in London? How has he used his share of his inheritance? He has reached the age of majority and was his father’s only son if I remember rightly. I’m sure the match-making matrons of the district will wish to know.”

Holcomb slowly made his way back to the table. “I’m sure they would.”

“And the doting fathers, also. The landed sort, the ones with capital and coffers that they’ve never earned with a hard day’s labor or shrewd speculation, and no head for business. They’re not so forward and practical as you and I. I imagine they will want to see the boy excel in local matters before they’ll consider letting their dear daughters hear his overtures. Yes, my eldest, Philip, has had to oil his way carefully through the local political scene and all of society, as well.”

The message was not simply thinly veiled, it was running about naked. Holcomb cleared his throat as he played for time. Winthrop had three sons to carry on his name and business. He didn’t need a wayward, workshy lad from London for any purpose other than securing a husband for his spinster daughter. Local matrons would doubtless prefer the three eligible Winthrop boys for their daughters as well, especially once word reached the right ears about Marcus’ gambling debts and how he’d run through every bit of the inheritance left at his disposal. The only thing making him palatable to a lady of any standing would be his family name and connections and the fact that the majority of his money had so far been held in trust.

“My daughter isn’t mad, Holcomb. Far from it. The opposite, you might say. She’s spent too long in a man’s world and has it in her head that she’s an equal in matters where the fairer sex has no right to meddle. A firm hand from a handsome young man who could put her in the position where she ought to be—as wife and mother—that’s all that’s wanting to make her suitable.”

“I can see that,” Holcomb said in a low voice, hoping his nod was taken as mollifying and not condescending.

“Now, any man that would win her would have a sizeable amount coming to her—and for a man connected to the honorable Holcomb family...” Nelson Winthrop spread his hands with a slow smile, dark brows lifting. “I’d be inclined to offer him a share of the business. Not an equal share, mind you, and less than my three sons, but something worth considering.”

Holcomb nodded again. He could see why Winthrop was on the fringes of their local county set. Wealth earned through hard work was not the only reason some saw him as one of the commoners. He was too direct by half, and his mannerisms never gave the impression that he was at ease in polite society. He was always working at some problem, whether it be in textiles or other threads he wished to weave.

“A bridge between the Holcombs and the Winthrops would be beneficial—and not only to our families, Nelson, but to our companies.”

“Only a fool would argue it,” Winthrop practically crowed.

Holcomb warmed to the subject, “A bridge is a fine thing, but one of blood would be even better than a matter of contracts, pennies, and pounds. Far harder to break in court.” Holcomb extended his hand and chortled to himself. Marcus would be far too busy taming the heiress to get into trouble—and what better way to prove that the boy had turned over a new leaf than by letting the society matrons and conservative peers see Marcus as the young husband in control of a tempestuous firebrand like Amy Winthrop?

“And the lad arrives today?”

“He may have arrived at Holcomb House already. If he hasn’t, I expect him within the day.”

“Excellent. When he arrives, send him straight to Littlewood and let him meet his future bride.”

“That may be a little precipitous, Mr. Winthrop!” Holcomb gave an uneasy laugh.

Winthrop shook his guest’s hand firmly and smirked. “Not once he hears what I’ll settle on her once she’s finally wed and out of this house—and out of the ruddy mill!”