Page 5 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

A my stared at the clock on her narrow mantelpiece. Her father had apparently ridden off to the mill without “freeing” her. Although her door was rehung and unlocked, Agnes was sitting firmly in front of it, red-eyed and pale-faced. She’d been placed there by Winslow, sat in the chair as if she were an inanimate object. Once “put” in place, she’d sat there, sniffling and wringing her hands, tremulous voice entreating, “Please, miss. Your father says if you should get out, he’ll give me the sack! And Mr. Winslow, too!”

So Amy had remained, fuming in her room, re-reading the old issues of the Blackburn Standard and the Bolton Evening News . She would have to ask Philip for issues of the Liverpool papers her father sometimes received and kept in his study.

“Miss, your father would be ever so cross if he saw you with those papers. Men’s papers, they are,” Agnes half-whimpered. Amy’s eyes were scanning hungrily for news of Holcomb, whom she now distrusted. Her father’s mill was bigger, perhaps, but not so successful. Holcomb had far more mills and far more money.

But Father has a location Holcomb likely desires. What other reason could there be for Holcomb to seek an audience with him, so urgently and at so early an hour?

“Mr. Winthrop came home a while ago.”

“I know, Agnes.”

Agnes bit her bottom lip as Amy smoothed out another paper, wincing when she saw the inky smudges from the newsprint all over her hands. “It’s getting near to supper, Miss. If you were to get caught with them, Mr. Winthrop would be ever so angry. You ought to wash your hands and put on that green dress he likes.”

“I shall do no such thing. Let him rage. It’s nothing compared to what I shall give him.”

A gentle tap at the door preceded Winslow’s voice. “Your father is home, Miss Amy. If you’d present yourself in the dining room—”

“At last!” Amy tore from her room, fire blazing in her eyes. She rushed past Agnes, who narrowly jumped out of the way, and soared down the stairs without waiting to hear the rest of Winslow’s sentence.

Whatever words she intended to hurl at her father for his neglectful treatment died when she saw his pleased, downright smug look as he sat at the head of the table. Her brothers were all there as well, a sight becoming more and more unusual as they were beginning to take their places in the world of business as well as local society.

All three of them looked at her as if they fully expected her to pick up her plate and hurl it. She noticed Thomas bring his hands to his own plate and hold the edges as if expecting her to seize it.

“Sit down, Amy, and stop panting like a bull.” Her father picked up a potato on the tines of his fork and stuffed half of it in his mouth.

“Panting like a bull? You’re a fine one to talk about behaving like an animal! Keeping me confined all day? Beastly. And far more beastly that you look so smug about it!”

Her father’s cheeks bulged, and his smile widened crookedly, hampered by his full mouth.

“Amy, you made a most embarrassing scene with Mr. Holcomb. Father was only trying to keep you out of further trouble,” Philip soothed, a half-apologetic smile on his face. “Outbursts like that in front of important men in the district can harm the business.”

“ And our prospects. Philip would a-wooing go,” Steven laughed, and Philip gave him a poisonous glare.

“Quiet, both of you. I shudder to think how you’d treat your own wives and daughters!”

“Ah, yes. Back to that.” Mr. Winthrop beamed, mouth now empty. “A taste of freedom, my girl, that’s what you’re after. Not content to be mistress of this estate. You want to be master of the business, and that can never be.”

“Father, I don’t want to be master over anything! I only want you to listen to some of my ideas about the mill and how to improve it. If Philip put them to you, you’d listen!”

“I wouldn’t presume,” Philip said hastily. “Father has said time and again to leave the decisions of running the mill to him and for us to tend to our assigned tasks until we’re older and more experienced.

“Hush, all of you. It’s time that Amy had a position of more authority.”

Amy sat down at the table, moving slowly and carefully as if she expected her chair to give way under her. “It is?”

“I’ve long said that you ought to be married. You’re a deliberate failure at balls and parties.”

Well, that she could not argue with. The men her father shoved at her were all younger versions of himself. They boasted and bragged about their success while expecting her to listen and fawn. She had no patience for that and frequently ignored their attempts at conversation, walked away in the middle of their staid and uninspired dancing, or was so blatantly outspoken that they fled at the earliest opportunity.

“Married? Ha! To whom?” There are no new men in the district. I’ve done well in warding off the rest.

“Horace Holcomb’s nephew is returning from London to aid his uncle in managing the estate. It’s the perfect match. Holcomb doesn’t care for your eccentricities, but he’s shrewd enough to know that joining our families together will make us near unstoppable in the face of competitors.”

Steven caught her eye. Her loudmouthed brother may have been the most thoughtless, and yet he always had some special way of aiding her when she was in need—like saving her letters from the fire yesterday. “Oh, Father! What a terrible thing to do to this young Holcomb! Surely it would be better not to subject him to the beautiful terror of our Amy?”

“Beautiful?” Thomas queried, dropping a piece of roast pork back to his plate. “Terror, perhaps, Steven, but beautiful?”

“Be quiet, Thomas,” Amy snapped. “Don’t worry on my account, Steven. I’m sure one encounter with Mr. Holcomb’s nephew will be enough to derail his thoughts of marriage.”

“No. It’s arranged. I’ll not have you in this house and up at the mill any longer, Amy. It’s high time you were some other man’s problem—and you’d like it better as well! Managing a home of your own, the servants, children—it’s wonderfully busy. It’s what you’re meant to do. It’ll quiet and content ye.”

Amy swallowed a hot lump in her throat. Her father’s face and tone had gentled. It had been so long since she’d heard or seen a glimpse of the man he used to be—a man who had time for her and her mother. They’d been a set, his “ladies,” his beauties, his reason to bring luxury into their lives and try to better their social status as well as their finances.

When he lost Mother—I lost him.

Perhaps I lost a bit of myself, as well. Where is that bit that used to giggle with Mama about dresses and sit for hours talking about things of no consequence?

But no. No, I cannot be foisted off onto some other man, some man I don’t know only because it is advantageous! How dare he think of me like that, as means to an end, to get ahead?

And yet, he truly believes it’ll make me happy. I can tell by the way his eyes entreat me. A proud man, he never entreats anyone for anything...

“You said you wanted to improve things at the mill, Amy. An injection of Holcomb’s capital and an association with his good name should do it!” Timid Thomas dared to encourage.

It was tempting to give in. To be the daughter and sister they wanted.

Who they want. Not who I am .

“I will meet this man, Father, but please don’t get your hopes up. He may not take to me. It seems men who have known me far longer do not entirely enjoy my company and wish me far from their lives. A total stranger will have even less reason to tolerate me. If you’ll excuse me,” Amy gave a frosty curtsy, every movement full of mockery, “I will take my leave. I have a sudden headache and have lost my appetite.”

MARCUS HOLCOMB CLUTCHED the bouquet of flowers his uncle had instructed him to take, a selection of pink and white blooms from the increasingly impressive garden at Holcomb House. A first cursory look at the large leather-bound ledgers and accounts (tackled before breakfast to show an industrious spirit and a disdain for late rising—both untrue) showed Marcus that the family business was healthy. Beyond healthy, it was even prolific! His uncle had no reason in the world to begrudge him a few hundred pounds a year, maybe even a few thousand! It also showed that the household budget had steadily increased in the last four years despite his uncle’s tendency to work all hours and shun all but the required entertaining.

Gardens expanded.

Fine furnishings bought.

Cigars and expensive pipe tobacco. Quantities of wine. Every manner of fish and fowl, enough variety to tempt an invalid instead of a hale and hearty financier.

Why not spend a little of this on me? Marcus thought petulantly, tugging down his curling forelock and admiring himself in the mirror. He wore a light blue jacket and dark trousers that his uncle had insisted on presenting him with.

“Why must I go begging a bride just to live the life to which I am accustomed?” Petulant thoughts turned to words, although hushed ones. Servants were the best sources of gossip—but they would tell tales on anyone, not just the guests.

“Because you don’t deserve to have such luxuries,” he harrumphed in an imitation of his uncle’s gruff voice. “You haven’t worked yourself to death. You haven’t wasted twenty years of your life on a stinking mill floor. You can ravish the housemaids and eat until you’re perfectly round after you’ve wasted your youth.”

Ha!

A resentful idea began to fester. A wife and money, yes, those items were essential. But no one said he had to stay by her side or even in Lancashire. Once he married this Amy Winthrop, her money and property would be his to do with as he liked. He might not be able to touch his uncle’s vast wealth, but Miss Winthrop’s little packet would be enough to raise a share and gamble his way to even greater fortunes! He could easily take her back to London, or even abroad for months at a time, leave her in some snug little nest, and then go back to his old ways. He’d pay off all his debts at the clubs and be welcomed back like a prodigal son. He’d buy a carriage that would make Barty Entwhistle bite the brass topper off his cane.

Another long survey of his reflection ended with a debonair grin, a grin that never failed to make the pretty things in gambling halls blush and tremble while they poured his drinks.

Amy Winthrop had been pursued by country squires with no success. They were all too staid, too uninspired.

“Not I. How could any woman resist?” He tapped his hat on his head, a high silk affair in the latest cut, and clicked one heel on the polished marble as he made his way to the long, elegant staircase.

That money would be his in a matter of weeks!

“WHAT IS HE LIKE, AGNES ? What did Holcomb’s man tell Winslow? Or the maid? Or anyone?” Amy wasn’t used to feeling nervous at the prospect of encountering yet another ineffectual suitor.

This time should be no different—but it was. This time, the intruder was coming to her house. Her father had done the unthinkable and actually taken the morning off from his work and was pacing outside, swatting the defenseless hydrangeas with his unneeded walking stick. She felt trapped. Her father was in deadly earnest, and Holcomb’s nephew was probably after nothing more than her share of the Winthrop fortune—such as it was.

“I don’t know, miss. He was a young scamp in London, they do say.”

“Who is they ?”

“The footman what drove Mr. Holcomb’s carriage told our footman, Bert.”

Amy tugged fretfully at her dress. “Loosen this, Agnes.”

“I can’t, miss, not when you’re already buttoned in it.”

“Then put out that fire. I’m roasting. Why in the world they should lay the fires today of all days...”

“If you’d sit, you’d stop sweating.” Agnes delivered one of her not wholly expected pearls of wisdom.

“A scamp? What kind of scamp?” Amy switched back to the enemy, as she perceived him to be, in order to take her mind off her troubles.

“Well! Mr. Holcomb—who they do say may be Sir Horace before too long—”

Amy bit her lip to stop herself from screeching at Agnes to come to the point.

“—was awful cross at his nephew, Mr. Marcus Holcomb, that is, because he’s running through his money over in London, and some creditors sent their agents to Mr. Holcolmb’s townhouse in Manchester, looking for repayment.”

“Agnes, you’re a wealth of knowledge, and I’m sorry I threatened to stick you with a pin this morning.” Amy turned and seized her maid’s hands, eyes shining. “He’s only after me for my money, of course. Father imagines this is a ‘political’ marriage between two textile kingdoms, but surely he will not give his consent to some lout who will be a spendthrift with my dowry! If there is one thing Father cares for, it is money.”

Her mind and body inexplicably cooler now that she’d given herself this comfort, Amy sat down in the parlor and sighed. “Agnes, fetch me the papers from Father’s study.”

“No, miss, I daren’t!”

“Very well then.” Amy cracked her knuckles, and Agnes shuddered at the mannish display. “Bring my lap desk into the parlor. I saw last night that coal prices were on the rise. Did you know that the Duke of Bridgewater built a canal that reduced the cost of his shipping by half, Agnes?”

“I don’t think any woman ought to know that, miss.”

Amy clucked her tongue in annoyance. “That is an area where we suffer, our mill being in Barrow-on-Wood, and not in Manchester, Bolton, Liverpool, or the like. I must see if there are any savings to be made by changing our shipping methods...”

MARCUS HAD BARELY ALIGHTED from the carriage when a strong, crushing hand took his and wrung it in a vise-like grip. “Mr. Winthrop, it is my pleasure,” he nearly yelped.

“Aye, and so it is—for you. Listen, I’ve spent half my day waiting on you to arrive and meet my daughter—your future wife. I’ve got no time to go all ‘round the houses before we come to a suitable arrangement.”

Although Marcus had hoped he would get the plum for the picking that was Miss Winthrop, he didn’t expect her father to be so forceful and direct in his manner. “Really, sir, aren’t we being just a bit precipitous?” Marcus argued, still smiling in a most ingratiating fashion.

“No! She’s my daughter, and I say she’ll be married to you or put out of the house. That’ll end any argument, and by God, she’ll argue.” Mr. Winthrop looked heavenward.

Marcus swallowed. “That seems harsh, Mr. Winthrop.”

“Spare the rod and spoil the child. Of course, I never had the need to punish her when she was a young thing. It was only after her mother died that she took on this stubborn streak,” Mr. Winthrop’s loud voice dropped to a mumble for a moment.

She lost her mother. And then she changed.

The unexpected pang in his heart was enough to turn his palms wet and his mouth to sawdust.

“I’m going to give you—” Mr. Winthrop took a deep breath and then rushed it out with his words, “one thousand pounds when the vicar is all done and the parish roll is signed. In sterling, if you like. But you must wed her by summer’s end, or the deal is off.”

“A thousand pounds? Total?”

“That’s not even the settlement she’ll have, Mr. Holcomb. She’ll have ten thousand pounds of her own money, and I’ll leave a share of my business to her. The pick of the horses in the stable. A carriage. It’s high time she was married, and the local fellows don’t know how to get things done. It’s your uncle and me that know how to keep things moving in this district. I employ most of the men in Barrow-on-Wood, and your uncle employs a third of Lancashire! I’m hiring you, lad. Be a husband to my daughter, and I’ll pay you handsomely.”

“But... But what about a certain tenderness of feeling, or—”

“Oh, that’ll come along quick enough. She’s a beauty, and she’s clever. What more could you want?” Mr. Winthrop suddenly placed one hand in the small of his back and shoved him forward. “She talks overmuch, but you’ll be out and about on the estate or the mills. You won’t notice it after a while.”

Marcus knew the man was lying, but as he went careening into the main foyer and nearly fell to his knees in front of the butler, he didn’t press the issue. It wasn’t necessarily that he was lying as in speaking falsehoods—but there was something his prospective father-in-law had neglected to mention. Marcus could feel it in his bones.

“I have here a letter of introduction, sir,” Marcus juggled the bouquet, his balance, and a letter pulled from his pocket.

“No need. I know what you are.” Cold, shrewd eyes pierced him.

Not who you are, but what you are, hm? A gambler. A layabout. A man who is only after money.

Well, he’s given me a path to that, I must say!

Although Marcus wondered who had told Mr. Winthrop about his sordid departure from London, he decided to press on with his most charming face.

“My. What a peculiar way to put it,” Marcus said with a forced laugh.

“A young lad, educated at university, plenty of money—or at least he ought to have.” Mr. Winthrop cocked his head. “Seems odd that you’ve never had a wish to learn about the business you inherited a share of until just now.”

“Many young men finish their education first. It was my mother’s wish,” Marcus said haughtily. “And it will make me a valuable asset to my uncle—or any other businessman.”

“Could be, could be...” Mr. Winthrop’s tone was unconvinced. “Or, it could be that you’ve little interest in anything but finding a suitable bride with a suitable purse.”

Marcus drew himself up haughtily, “Mr. Winthrop—”

“And if that’s the case, you’ve come to the right place. You’ve heard my terms, Mr. Holcomb. Wed to you—or by the next man that’ll come along. The money could go to him if not you, but it’ll be with a pang in my heart to lose the chance to get into Holcomb’s good books.” Mr. Winthrop pushed open the door to the front of the house. “How’s that for tenderness of feeling, Mr. Holcomb?”

With a hard swallow and the thought of an easy thousand pounds dancing in his head, Marcus allowed himself to be led. “Very tender, Mr. Winthrop.”

“Excellent. Daughter! A caller for you!”

AMY STARTED AS HER father flung open the parlor door and shoved a young man through it. He was admittedly one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, with dark hair brushed to a gloss and curled in the latest fashion, a forelock hanging to one side as if it had carelessly fallen out of place.

He cut a fine, masculine figure and smiled warmly as he bowed and held out a bouquet of sweet-smelling blossoms. “Miss Winthrop? I am Mr. Marcus Holcomb. My uncle spoke most highly of you. Forgive my boldness, but I was so eager to make your acquaintance that I came directly instead of waiting for a more natural introduction at some spring or summer function.”

For a moment, Amy was taken aback. She was nearly thirty, and as much as she liked to pretend that she hated all of the male sex and looked down upon matrimony, Amy’s heart gave a wayward thump at the sentiment.

It would be nice, wouldn’t it? It would be lovely to have someone infatuated with you, someone stirring and burning and yearning with passion.

But the words don’t mean anything to him. He might as well write words of love to my father’s purse, for that is what he’s after.

“Good day, Mr. Holcomb.” Amy took the flowers and nodded with scant politeness. “I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time. I was just going over some canal routes to expedite shipping.”

Marcus Holcomb faltered for a moment, and her father, lurking in the background, suddenly sprang as if to seize her papers.

Amy slammed her hands down on top of them, not caring if ink slopped across the small portable writing desk in her lap. “Father, no!”

“Amy! Mind your manners, dear child. These matters are more suited for your brothers,” Mr. Winthrop said through clenched teeth.

“And yet I’ve never heard one of you mention it!” Amy retorted, tossing her hair.

“Canals? To expedite the shipping of textiles?” Holcomb raised one eyebrow. “I’ve only ever heard my uncle speak trains. Canals must be an outdated mode of transportation, surely?”

Her father threw him a poisonous look. She gave him a confused one.

Did a man just ask me a question as if I were capable of answering it? “Older, perhaps. Outdated? Isn’t that up to the size of the savings to decide?” she challenged.

The division of her attention was enough for her father to yank her newspaper and calculations from under her palm, leaving smears of ink and a torn bit of paper under her hand. The rest went into the fire.

Marcus looked shocked.

Good. Let him see that there is a beastliness in all of this business of suppressing women’s brains.

Or is his shock directed toward me, that I should behave so argumentatively in front of my father and his guest?

“Wash your hands, Amy. Agnes, see to it.”

Stunned and stung into a momentary silence, she suffered herself to be led away by a dithering Agnes.

“But come straight back!”

MARCUS WINCED AT MR . Winthrop’s sudden bombastic display. He could not imagine anyone treating Jane or his mother with such roughness. Thoughts of his father’s potential philandering and his own shoddy treatment of serving girls marred any true superiority, but he contented himself with a rather haughty,

Well! At least I never saw Father yank anything from Mother and toss it on the fire!

“A firm hand, Mr. Holcomb. I’ve cossetted her and coddled her far too long—let her get the idea in her head that she could play about in the workroom or even look at tools and engines, same as her brothers. No. She needs to be reminded she’s a woman and meant to be gentle. Womanly. Motherly. Now then.” Mr. Winthrop tugged at his collar, forehead sweating. “It’s a grand warm day. Too hot for a fire. Why don’t you and Amy walk the path around the house?”

“Alone?”

“I’ll be in my study—I can see you from the window.”

Marcus wanted to point out that the study was one room on one side of the house, and the path around the house would leave them out of sight for most of the time.

Mr. Winthrop truly doesn’t care.

He cares so little for his daughter? Or is he so confident that no one would dare try to steal a kiss or anything else?

Thoughts fled as Mr. Winthrop led him outside. “A firm hand!” he admonished once more, then fled inside, presumably back to his study.

AMY FOUND MR. HOLCOMB waiting for her outside on the little gravel path. “Mr. Holcomb. I am afraid you are wasting your time. I am not one to be courted with flowers and sweet words,” Amy said, chin high and voice tightly braced for an argument.

“No? What would you have your suitor bring, then?” Holcomb asked with a careless grace, coming up beside her. He stood a few lengths apart, as was proper, but his smile was so invasive that it felt as though he was pressed against her, a roguish smirk passing secretively between them.

“I would have him bring nothing at all!” she hissed, striding ahead.

He fell easily in step with her. “You wish him to come empty-handed? You prefer a poor man, Miss Winthrop, or one so austere that his thoughts don’t run to presents for his beloved?”

“No! I am not your beloved,” she spat.

“True, but I come with thoughts and flowers, standing ready to woo.”

The amusement in his tone was faint, but still too much. She could imagine him laughing away at her protests, and that threatened to destroy whatever was left of her manners.

“But if you seek a poor man—well, a man could never be poor married to you.”

She whirled her head around to glare over her shoulder as he caught up to her. “Because you know my father, as uncouth as he may be at times, still intends to marry me off with a generous settlement.”

“That helps, but I refer to your clever mind. Your father should listen to you if he cares at all about his profits.”

Amy stayed her steps, mouth popping open in shock. “I— I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Holcomb nodded gravely. “It’s obvious that you actually know a fair bit about business. That’s an asset to any man, not a detraction. Doesn’t he realize that most women are flitting about with no idea how much things cost?”

“That’s not their fault! They are kept ignorant of income and outgo. Father would wish me to be ignorant, but then he will leave the accounts and ledgers out for my brothers—and I simply have a look as well.” The anger was inexplicably fading from her insides. Too late, she realized she’d revealed a secret that her suitor could easily use against her.

The man beside her winked and tapped the side of his nose. “See? Cleverness. And as for those other women—what you say is true in many cases, but not all. My mother was not ignorant of my father’s finances, and she irked him fiercely with her overspending.”

A shadow passed over his face. “Such a little thing to begrudge her, now that I think about it. She was his bride when he and my uncle had their first mill and both lived together in one little brick house in Manchester. They say the Holcombs scaled the rungs quickly. Well, my mother climbed with them. They expanded hard and fast in the fifties, and even faster in the sixties.”

“The same could be said of my father, except that he and mother always lived near Barrow-on-Wood. They built the mill from scratch, pooling both of their inheritances and selling some land and property. I don’t remember most of that, of course.”

“Then you have an appreciation for hard work that many women do not, and what’s more, you wish to see to the business’ success in a practical way that goes beyond wearing the right gown and flirting with the right investor.”

She laughed, bitterness in her tone. “I have no charms and graces, Mr. Holcomb. Any husband who wished to use me as some ornament to lure in capital would be sorely disappointed.”

“Then the man who wins you had better count his blessings that you are shrewd and not content to let him run to needless expenses. What man would turn down two pounds in favor of one?” His eyes twinkled at her, the shadow that had descended while he spoke of his parents fully fleeing from his face. “I would like to increase my capital, Miss Winthrop. You could help me—in several ways.”

Do not let yourself be beguiled, Amy!

But...

But he is the first suitor who has spoken to you like this, without constantly trying to whittle you down to simple, mindless conversations.

Because he wants your money.

Her heart dared not hope that a man could want her, as well.

“Perhaps you are mistaken, sir,” Amy whispered. “You said shrewd. The people of the district say ‘shrew.’ If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return inside.”

MARCUS WATCHED THE woman walk off. Charms and graces, I have none, that’s what Amy Winthrop had said.

Watching with a critical eye that had studied many women, Marcus decided she at least had one—a beautifully kept figure.

Her face was perhaps on the plainer side, but he had never seen a real smile emanate from it, either. As a charmer knows, a woman looks vastly different when she directs her smile at you.

With a few springing steps, he caught up to her and boldly grabbed her arm, sliding his through it and locking it to his side.

“Mr. Holcomb!”

“Miss Winthrop,” he countered, lugging her along, steering her farther from the house as she attempted to return inside. “Perhaps you are both a shrew and shrewd. I don’t much care. I’m quite sure shrews are nice little animals when left to their own devices and kept out of the farmer’s grain or the wife’s pantry. What is your natural home, little shrew?”

Miss Winthrop jerked her hand back, and he could hear her let out a seething breath. “You, sir, are not the suitable gentleman my father thinks you to be!”

“Aren’t I?” Marcus shrugged. “Yes, I took a liberty. Would you like me to apologize?”

The cold look did not leave her face. “I dislike hollow apologies as much as the next person.”

“Exactly! You are like any other person.”

“And just another dress and fair face to be courted, I see.” She set off again, fairly stomping, hair falling askew as she marched away.

Marcus didn’t grab her again, but neither did he let her put any distance between them. “Far from it! Do others think you are unladylike, even mannish?”

“You know they do. Don’t waste your breath with mockery, sir.”

“There’s no mockery. Simple truth. I see no reason to treat you as some jelly-brained female. You clearly are not.”

Her steps slowed, and she turned a wary face to him, anger still glinting in her eyes.

“I’m bold and direct, Miss Winthrop. Why do you shun the advances of a man of means who actually respects that you could double his fortunes—not just with your dowry but by your wise counsel?”

The object of his attentions stopped her fierce glare and fell in step with him, this time deviating from the gravel path and heading to the simple herbaceous border at the rear of the house.

“I shun the advances because I’m not a ‘jelly-brained female,’ as you so eloquently put it,” Miss Winthrop sighed. “I know you would not make such advances if I were a poor woman.”

“No, honestly, I would not. I would not have been bundled over here practically the moment I set foot off the train, grabbed by my uncle and your father, and told to woo you as if I were training a stubborn dog.”

“They told you to do what !?”

“A firm hand.” Marcus found that talking to Miss Winthrop was unexpectedly refreshing. He didn’t have to lie about his means and motives. It was also rather nice to dump Uncle Horace in it—even if he was dumping himself in it as well. “As if steering a foundering ship.”

“ Father is the one who is foundering! If he goes on as he is with his old methods, refusing change, I imagine the mill will close—or at least be operating at a fraction of the profit—within five years.”

That was concerning to Marcus for multiple reasons. He didn’t want to be saddled with a worthless share of a business, nor tie Uncle Horace to one. If his uncle was unhappy with him now, to saddle him with relations who were failing in business would only enrage him.

And Uncle Horace would never admit it had been all his idea.

Amy continued, “Does your uncle use the new Corliss engine?”

“I haven’t heard him mention it,” Marcus said truthfully. Of course, even if he had heard him mention it, he wouldn’t have paid much attention.

But there’s truth, and then there’s foolishness. Let the girl think I’m attentive to that side of things. Perhaps I can even convince her that I’ll be attentive to her.

“Well, if he doesn’t, he should. It will cut costs and reduce damages to materials and machinery. I have it on excellent authority. I can produce correspondence from others who’ve made the transition—and they are our competition, Mr. Holcomb. Your family operates on a grand scale. It will take them longer to feel the pinch, but if they don’t modernize, it will come eventually.”

Marcus felt a cold, sickening sensation in his middle. All that lovely money—gone. “I will speak to Uncle Horace about it at once—and your father, too, if he’ll listen.”

Miss Winthrop turned so sharply that she fell against him. “You will speak to them?” She righted herself awkwardly, patting her hair in place as it fell over one eye.

“Of course! If modernizing with this Corliss engine will save the business—and the cash flow—naturally I will!”

For a moment, the woman was silent. He’d been thinking of her as a girl, but when she was still, staring at him in the spring light, he could see she lacked the smooth, guileless cheeks and curious eyes of the young debs his mother and father had introduced him to years ago. She also lacked the hardness of the world-weary performers at his favorite disreputable haunts.

Innocent in some ways, but not in others.

Interesting.

“Tell your uncle and my father, if you will, Mr. Holcomb. I would be most grateful.”

“Grateful enough to consider a proposal of marriage?” Marcus pressed, batting his eyelashes.

Her smile breached the hard foundations of her set chin and cheeks. “So hasty, Mr. Holcomb.”

Not hasty enough, for otherwise your father will withdraw his offer, my creditors will come searching, and Uncle Horace will put me to work—or put me from the house.

“I see no reason to wait. You are an admirably suitable candidate for a wife, Miss Winthrop. Beautiful, wealthy, and intelligent. You wouldn’t find me a bad husband.”

For a second, there was a startled light in her eyes, but it faded quickly. “I wouldn’t find you at all , Mr. Holcomb. But... But if you get my father to listen to you, perhaps I’ll allow myself to look around a bit.”

“Thank you. I will take my leave, Miss Winthrop.” Marcus gave her a little bow, backing away in as chivalrous a manner as possible. A little voice inside told him it would be far more chivalrous to stay with her and escort her back to the house, but she had planted herself firmly on a stone bench in the garden and appeared to have no intention of leaving it.

“Good day to you, Mr. Holcomb,” his quarry said, then turned her face resolutely from him.

Well. Marcus thought to himself as he strode back into the house, that was certainly the most unusual interaction I've ever had with a woman... in fact, it wasn't much like any interaction with a woman at all.

He was pondering whether or not the difference lay in Miss Winthrop or in himself. He had never broached the subject of marriage or business with a woman. In fact, a furrow appeared between his brows as he thought on the matter, he had always been encouraged not to speak with women on any subject that would strain their weaker minds and to let them lead the conversation to nice, easy topics. Of course, one saw talented women musicians and even heard of them writing books and poetry—but of course, their writing was for women, not men, and dealt with domestic matters.

His pondering went no further, for Mr. Winthrop was suddenly in front of him, his face a mixture of anger and anxiety.

“What? Leaving the field of battle so quickly?” The older man sounded aggrieved, and a vein in his temple seemed to tick angrily as if it could barely prevent the blood from bursting forth. He looked past Marcus, scanning the grounds behind him. “Where is Amy?”

“In the garden. We’ve had a very pleasant, forthright conversation, Mr. Winthrop. I’d like to call again tomorrow if I may?”

“Grand! That’ll be grand. Very soon, we must have you and your uncle over for supper. Amy’s a grand little manager. Do any household proud.”

“She seems very efficient. Very useful.” Very useful indeed.