Page 7 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

“ T hank God! Thomas was about to fetch Father from his study. He’s dozed off and is snoring away.”

Amy alighted from the carriage and found herself pulled into Steven’s arms, then passed to Thomas, who was white and shaking, and then into Philip’s, who looked absolutely haggard. “What in the world happened?” she asked as Philip finally released her and collapsed against a shrub.

“What happened? You rode off alone in the dark of night! I sent Brabbage and Hurly out after you, and Philip was about to set off next!” Steven shook her by the shoulders and barked words into her face. “You could have fallen into a ditch and died, you idiot!”

“Ah, brotherly love.” She laughed and let herself rest against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“How in the world could you think we’d be anything but worried? Philip has been wearing a hole in the rug, contemplating breaking off his engagement to Constance.”

“I love her with all of my heart, but you’re my sister, and this your home. You should never be put out of it,” Philip ran a hand down his face.

“Not unless it is on her own terms.”

Her three brothers jumped as a second figure emerged from the carriage.

“You must thank Mr. Holcomb for returning me safely. I found myself riding aimlessly—well, no. I found myself riding angrily. I ended up at Holcomb House and...” Amy trailed off. How could she explain what happened next?

Two people in need of a confidant suddenly discovered one.

A man who preferred to drink and gamble asked her endless questions about textile mills and steam engines. He was a very handsome man, a very young man—and a man with enthusiasm for her and curiosity about her passions.

Her internal cries of “It’s an act, it’s an act” grew fainter and fainter as one game turned into two, then three.

“Your sister fascinated me with her wit and beauty. I am afraid it is my fault that she is so late in returning. She was already on her way homeward when I saw her passing the windows of the library. I couldn’t resist going out to see what beauty should ride so fearlessly on such a massive horse. What is the name of this beast?”

“Jericho. He is rather a mighty wall, isn’t he?” Amy put an affectionate hand on her steed’s neck and avoided looking at Marcus as he shook hands with her brothers.

One other thing had happened during their stolen hours together.

She felt beautiful. Desirable.

It’s an act, it’s an act.

I’m not pretty. I’m not young.

But he called me fearless and beautiful. He liked my conversation and my wit, not my gown and my hair.

Her heart twisted suddenly, sick with wishing.

Why couldn’t this be real? Why couldn’t we have met on my terms, not forced together for lack of funds or the need to be married off to build some business alliance like two kingdoms signing a treaty?

“It’s very late. Can we put you and your driver up for the night? We’ve plenty of room.” Philip shook Marcus’ hand heartily.

“No, no. The moon is bright and full, and the road is fairly smooth. We’ll be home in a quarter of an hour if we go off at a good clip. We’ve plenty of light from the lanterns, haven’t we, Percy?” Marcus addressed the driver of the carriage.

“We do, sir.”

“And I shall see all of you tomorrow evening for supper. Thank you again, Miss Winthrop.” Marcus bowed to her and took her hand. This time, she felt his lips connect with the skin of her wrist for a mere fraction of time, but her temples began to pulse as her heart picked up speed.

Not just from the tiny brush of lips to skin. From the way his eyes smile up at you, like he knows your darkest secrets—and rather enjoys sharing them with you.

Like when Mother and Father would sit up and talk late, late into the night, or when she would go to see him at the mill and take me along. He’d stop and look at her, and for a second—everything else around him would disappear.

I want a man who sees me like that.

“Good night,” she whispered, throat narrowed to a tiny crevice that barely let air or sound escape.

“Good night.”

MARCUS WOKE UP TO brEAKFAST on a tray and Mr. Gray standing at the foot of his bed.

“Good morning, Gray. How are you on this fine day?”

“Extremely well, sir. And you?”

“Oddly refreshed. Ooh, bacon and sausages.”

“Mr. Holcomb is fond of a large breakfast, sir.”

“I suppose he needs it. It’s got to be tiring taking the train to all and sundry each week.”

“He rotates, sir. To Bolton one week of the month, to Liverpool for the second, to Manchester for the third, and then home for the last. Naturally, now that you are here, you can help ease the burden of either managing the estate or the Bolton mill.”

“Yes, naturally. My uncle will be home in time for supper, will he not?”

“He will be home before lunch, unless there is some great difficulty with the trains, sir.”

Marcus flexed his fingers impatiently, motioning for Gray to set the wooden tray with its sturdy legs across his lap. He tore into his toast and tea like a starving man, not speaking until several rashers of bacon had found their way home. Gray was still there, going around the room and opening the drapes, laying out a fresh suit of clothes, and paused when he picked up the clothes he had worn yesterday, thrown in a heap on the corner chair after his late return. The purloined pieces of post fell out of the pocket where he’d hastily shoved them yesterday.

Marcus swallowed half a sausage and coughed until he was purple in the face.

“These seem to have lost their way, sir.” Gray’s voice was frigid. He handled the clothing and the letters as if both carried the bubonic plague.

“They’re in regards to my accounts, Mr. Gray. No need to trouble Uncle Horace with them,” Marcus half-laughed, half-coughed as he rose from the bed, setting the tray and partially eaten breakfast aside.

“Yes, sir, but they are not addressed to you, but to Mr. Horace Holcomb. You are his ward.”

“I’m a citizen of Her Majesty the Queen and well past the age of majority. Those accounts should be settled by me, Gray—and I’ll settle them. I swear it.”

“Please don’t, sir. I don’t hold with such things.”

“On my honor, I’ll raise the capital in a few months or less. Direct any such letters my way, and Uncle Horace never need know,” Marcus pleaded.

“I’m afraid he already knows to some extent, sir. This is not the first time such a letter has arrived. Each time pains him deeply, though it is not my place to say so.”

“No, it isn’t—and it isn’t his place to feel so, either. My father’s money should be mine by now, all of it. Then I wouldn’t need Uncle Horace and his interference.” Marcus’ eyes snapped, dark, ugly fury boiling just below the surface.

Gray pursed his lips. A good servant should say nothing. Apparently, he was torn between his wish to excel in service and his dislike for rake-like interlopers who spoiled his quiet country home with late-night games of billiards.

“Perhaps, sir, if you reflect upon the years immediately following the tragic deaths of your parents, you will recall that you had a large sum as you continued at university.”

Marcus smiled. Indeed he had—and how he’d reveled in it. The finest dinners, the best wines, the most lavish flat and furnishings... All the things from his family home had been packed and sent to Uncle Horace’s country monstrosity, only then to be packed off with Jane as if her husband’s family had nothing. Now Jane was settled in a new home with their old family things.

It wasn’t meant to be a slight, and yet, at the time, it had seemed the grossest of insults. Marcus recalled being angry at his father, so blindingly angry that he struck out in the only way he could—cloaking everything from his past in a haze of distraction. There was a sort of perverse pleasure in extravagance, even some sort of vengeance.

Here, Father, his habits seemed to say. This is what was worth leaving your children for, the almighty pound! Might as well use the fortune worth living and dying for!

Marcus couldn’t recall most of that first year in London, but friends and money were plentiful. He seldom went home to Holcomb House or thought of Jane.

Angry.

Not just angry.

Vengeful.

And tell me, who killed your parents, Marcus?

Disease. Some foe that you can’t thrash.

All this anger and all this desire to make something pay—and no one to take it out on.

Adrift. The word rang in his mind, and he tried to drown it out.

Just like I tried to drown out so many things that first dreadful year.

“Surely that was a good sum to be going on with, sir?” Gray brought him back to the present with an unpleasant jerk, even though the butler’s voice was as quiet and precise as always.

Marcus swallowed several times, trying to clear his head from the dark, bubbling miasma that had suddenly enveloped him. He could never show such a temper in polite society. He forced himself to sound calm as he replied, “I know what you’re getting at, Gray. I frittered the money away, yes. After a few thousand were spent on bad investments and setting myself up lavishly in London society, my means dwindled. I need to live on the continued annuity, and Uncle Horace still has control of all of the business and the money that goes with it.”

“And with such control comes the responsibility to pay just debts. If you could pay them, I imagine these letters would not have arrived to trouble Mr. Holcomb.” Gray’s eyes flashed, and he added as an afterthought, “Sir.”

“Things are different now—not that I owe anyone but Uncle Horace an explanation, and I’ve provided him with one. I’m here to learn the business, to help in all things familial, financial, and fair.” Marcus smiled at his alliteration. He’d always put his smooth tongue to good use. “I’m in the process of courting a wealthy woman to be my wife, a woman with excellent connections that the Holcomb name would be lucky to have. Give me a month to secure an engagement, Gray, and then you’ll see. All just debts will be settled.”

“I will not deceive my employer, sir. However... As you have these items in your possession, it is not my place to take them from you. I wish you all the best with your courtship, sir. Miss Winthrop is well known in our part of the world.”

As Gray left with a slight bow, pulling the heavy door closed after him, Marcus let out a groan.

What an encounter.

What thoughts.

No, no, don’t give in, Marcus. Don’t dwell.

Focus instead on Miss Winthrop. Amy.

He rather liked the way her name rolled from his tongue easily, two short sounds, unfussy and uncomplicated, unlike the names of some society debs he’d been thrust at in the past.

Amy. Amy and her fine work with a cue. Amy, who was an ace in his sleeve when it came to manipulating Uncle Horace into believing he gave a toss for the betterment of the family business or the betterment of his life.

And yet...

Oddly enough, she is a distraction that I enjoy. Other women, other games, other... things —they fade and don’t hold my attention. Then it’s off to the next gamble, the next race, the next hand.

Hmm. Probably straining the old purse a bit.

Marcus finished his breakfast quickly, shunning the leisurely pace he had intended. Amy Winthrop was more than a quick infusion of cash. She was a good investment in the long term.

Marriage is supposed to be until death, you clod. Can you really content yourself with one woman, one face to look upon, one voice to hear about your home?

Amy’s face was not stunningly pretty, but it was captivating, always showing her thoughts, no studied reserve and gentility in her!

Her voice? Well, it was simply a voice, but the words spoken by the voice were useful and provoked him to mirth or anger.

Something. Anything.

It was odd, after years of pointed idleness and frippery.

I could do far worse.

She could do vastly better.

That was worrying. If Amy Winthrop were in London, she’d have a line of wealthy older men seeking her as a comparatively young bride to join them at the helm, amassing greater fortunes and cutting through the nonsense of the ‘Ton—what was left of its grandeur as people like his father and uncle began to topple aristocrats and nobles from their pretty perches.

Nelson Winthrop is a fool to think that his daughter is a thing to be shunted off and gotten out of his house. She is simply misplaced. A hidden gem. The right sort of man would know that.

As he drained his cup of tea, a horrible thought assailed him. Uncle Horace would surely see Amy’s true value in time, too. His uncle claimed to prefer the bachelor life, but an heir, a legacy, and a wealthy and well-connected wife would tempt even a hardened bachelor into matrimony.

What if Uncle Horace determines that Amy is the perfect bride for him? Nelson Winthrop would force the girl into it.

This courtship must conclude far faster than I’d at first planned. I cannot string it out for months. I must have the money to pay off my creditors before Gray tells all and before Uncle Horace realizes what a fine woman is hiding just under his bushy mustache.

“UNCLE HORACE. THERE you are. How was Bolton?” Marcus ran a hand over his perfectly smooth chin and put his pen on the blotting paper, hoping he looked as studious and helpful as he contrived.

“A bad storm earlier in the week. One waterwheel has sustained some damage due to debris washing downstream. There is a leak in the roof. The workers cry out for eleven-hour days and better ventilation in their quarters.” Uncle Horace frowned as he sat and spread several important-looking documents in front of him. “Have you been making yourself useful, nephew?”

“Indeed, I have. Uncle—you maintain townhouses in three cities aside from your country estate in Barrow-on-Wood, including retaining several servants at each. Would it not be wiser to place trusted managers and foremen there who could let the home from you and who would gladly give you accommodations several nights a month as part of the agreement?”

“I don’t have a trusted manager or foreman. That was your father’s problem, Marcus. He made too free with his socializing and delegating his duties.”

Marcus felt his fingers curl into a fist without his consent. “He handled so much personally, uncle. How can you say otherwise when he even died traveling to Prussia on behalf of Holcomb Industries?”

“Perhaps. Well. I shall think on it. If that is your only advice on the subject of household economy—”

“It isn’t. Well, that is to say, both of my suggestions relate more to business than home. I believe you should move away from waterwheels and onto a—a steam engine,” Marcus said as he rose, tugging down his jacket and keeping his fingers clenched on his lapels. He hoped he looked commanding and knowledgeable.

Uncle Horace snorted. “Marcus, the waterwheels power the water frames and the steam engines, and the steam engines, in turn, pump the water to a higher level more quickly, ensuring the maximum speed is utilized by the mules. What drivel are you spouting?”

Marcus tried to hide his confusion. What did mules have to do with any of this? Had they mules? My mules and not horses? “It is not drivel, uncle. I merely misspoke. I meant to say that perhaps the installation of the new Corliss engine would increase the speed and efficiency of our mills.”

“The Corliss engine? What is that? I’ve not heard of it.”

“Why... Why it’s the very latest thing! From an American inventor, Uncle Horace, a Mr. Corliss.” Marcus smiled brightly and stalled for time. What had Miss Winthrop said about its unique merits?

“Americans are years behind us in terms of industry and efficient factories, Marcus.”

“Well, in this one thing, they’re not.” Marcus relied on his gambler’s instincts and his abilities to bluff—and to distract. “I believe Mr. Winthrop will be purchasing one soon. Speaking of the Winthrops, we are to dine there tonight. Is it convenient for you?”

“Ah, dining with Miss Winthrop and her family? They must be keen to have you make more calls upon her. Of course it is convenient.”

“I will tell Miss Winthrop personally. At once. I wish to give her ample time to prepare.”

His uncle gave him a knowing smirk. “And to give yourself another opportunity to woo. Well, fine! That’s exactly the sort of industrious and persistent nature a man needs to make something of himself and increase his fortunes!”

“Ah, but I have not forgotten our discussion of this marvelous new steam engine. I merely wish to give Miss Winthrop ample time to prepare and prove her skills as a hostess.”

“Hm. Giving the girl every advantage, are you? That shows a kind spirit. Your mother would be proud. She was a very kind woman, your mother. Ever so patient.” Uncle Horace’s voice softened and drifted away.

Something in his uncle’s tone made Marcus look twice—and then shake his head. “Yes, she was. She deserved better than my father.”

Like a bolting horse, his words had escaped, and he could not catch them and put them back now.

To his great surprise, his uncle merely nodded. “But she loved him. She loved him for all his flaws, my dear— my dear sister-in-law. Now, then. Go. If tonight is the success I hope it is, we shall have to have Winthrop and his brood over to return their hospitality.”

“Yes, of course.” Marcus sped off, hoping his uncle would not discover that he’d already sent word last night that they would attend.

“MISS AMY. A CALLER for you.”

Amy was stunned to see the dour Winslow smiling broadly in the doorway of the kitchen as she cut flowers for the evening’s table. “Who is it?”

“Young Mr. Holcomb, Miss Amy.”

“Oh! Show him into the drawing room, and I will be there presently.” For the first time in many years, her hands immediately went to her hair. It was up in a simple coil. She was wearing a dress that would never do for company. It was old, faded, and long out of style. It had no bustle and a high waist. The neckline drooped in the front, treading dangerously near immodest.

Even though Agnes had chided her repeatedly about putting on all her “underpinnings,” Amy had resisted her guidance, refusing to put on her corset or extra layers of petticoats to add fullness to her dress. She had told her faithful maid that she would have to dress and have her hair done more elaborately before Horace and Marcus Holcomb arrived that evening.

“Agnes! Agnes!” she began to hiss in a panicked whisper—and then stopped.

Mr. Holcomb is back again so soon? I made such a fool of myself last night, riding off alone in the dark! Allowing myself to spend an hour or two unchaperoned in his company. Funny, my brothers didn’t fear for my virtue or reputation... No man in Lancashire would want me, that is the opinion of everyone—save perhaps Agnes, who believes in fairy stories.

And let us not forget that Marcus Holcomb has every reason to make himself agreeable to you, to flatter and fawn.

Dear me, I did start to believe it.

Moonlight must lend some magic and muddlement to the senses. In the bright sunlight, I won’t let him charm me.

She swallowed and smoothed her simple hairstyle and faded dress. There was a small, persistent voice in her mind that no longer felt complete distaste at the idea of marrying one of the local men, or for that matter, any man. The little voice now held a haughty note and insisted, “I will not be married off so some man can lay hands on my father’s money. If I am to marry, it will be for love—and no man would love me as I am.

Her slow, almost wary promenade to the drawing room ended, and she pushed open the door.

“Ah, Miss Winthrop!” Mr. Holcomb greeted her with an eager smile, both hands outstretched to take hers. “My uncle has returned from Bolton and is eager to be your guest this evening, as am I.”

“How lovely.” Amy frowned in puzzlement. Had he not said as much in his reply yesterday?

“But I didn’t come simply to tell you that. I need your assistance.” Marcus finally let go of her hands, but his smile was still spread across his handsome, youthful features.

“My assistance? Well... Mr. Winslow, will you bring us some refreshments, please?” Amy sent the butler away and scanned Marcus’ face, waiting to see his disapproval register once he took in her dress and hair.

The smile dropped as the butler left, and so did his voice. “Miss Winthrop! I am in most urgent need of your help. I am suddenly awash in ignorance. What are mules doing in a cotton mill? Why does a waterwheel make steam? Why is the Corliss engine so superior, and why, if America is many years behind England in the growth of industry and far more limited in factories, does it have this revolutionary new device and English manufacturers do not?”

Amy fell to the small settee, heart pumping wildly. Marcus fell beside her, reclaiming her hands with an urgent grasp. “You want... You want us to speak of steam engines and America’s great push to modernize her cities with gas and arc lighting, and her sprawling factories?”

“Yes! Please. Indulge me, and I will be your devoted slave, yours to command.” He smiled and dared to wink, pressing a kiss to one of the hands he grasped.

“I—I’m not wearing the right sort of dress!” she blurted—and promptly wished for a thunderbolt to strike her down. Here was a man eagerly wishing to converse on subjects that her father and brothers discouraged, and instead of letting her knowledge burst forth, she was calling attention to the most vain and superficial attributes.

Marcus pulled back and surveyed her with a critical eye. “What is the matter with it?”

“Tea, Miss Amy.” Winslow had returned. He entered the room and set down a tray that held a plate of shortbread and the tea service.

“Thank you, Mr. Winslow. Mr. Holcomb will not be staying long. We may stroll in the garden.”

“Erm. Yes, Miss Amy. Shall I send Agnes to you?”

“I will ring for her in a moment, thank you.”

Amy waited while the family’s faithful butler sidled from the room with a confused expression. “I believe he is worried lest word travels that I have been receiving a gentleman caller without a chaperone.”

“Tempted to ruin again. I shall be a gentleman beyond reproach.” Marcus picked up a buttery yellow biscuit and popped it into his mouth.

“Thank you. Naturally.” Amy tried to pull her thoughts together, but they were bumping and colliding. Her “suitor” was here to talk of her passions and seemed elated to see her. He had made no comment about her old dress or her hair that was pulled back in too severe a style.

“Unless you’d like me to loudly declare my love and press you into the door? We could fall through it while making the most awful row. Then I’d have to marry you, preferably within the month.” Marcus brushed crumbs from his fingers and gave her a mischievous smile. “Shall we try it? I’ve no objection, and I’m in fine voice.” Marcus cleared his voice and said loudly, “Oh, fair Amy! Speak, bright angel!”

“Do be quiet!” Amy snapped. Her cheeks flushed as she realized she’d been wrong. His flirtation wasn’t flirtation at all. It was jesting. Mockery.

What else could it be? “You er—you had questions about something, Mr. Holcomb?” she said in a soft voice, knees pressed together as she pushed herself as far from him as she could without actually rising and stalking off to another chair like a sulking cat.

“Yes! And I want to sound impressive when I talk to Uncle Horace, so I need to know more than I do—as much as I ought and then some. First... Mules?”

He looked so confused that Amy had to laugh in spite of herself. “A mule is not only an animal. Your uncle has dozens of mules. No, hundreds, I imagine. A spinning mule is a machine, not an animal. Look, first one must have wool or cotton fiber bundles, and these must be wound onto a spindle. Old spinning jennies had eight spindles, and they all turned together. A wheel would turn and a frame would push back and forth, twisting the bundles into yarn and collecting it on the spindles.”

“He didn’t say jennies. He may have mentioned a water frame?” Marcus looked lost, and she began to relax, sliding into the role of teacher.

“The old jennies typically didn’t make very strong thread or fabric. A water frame pulls the bundles of fiber through a set of attenuating rollers that spin at different speeds and pull the threads continuously onto much heavier spindles. It stretches the fabric, too. The thread is much stronger—”

“But with all those spindles turning and all the stretching bits, one needs more power?”

“Like a waterwheel, harnessing the force of a river.” Amy nodded.

Marcus’ eyes lit up. “And that’s why Father and Uncle Horace invested in a dam that was built in Manchester—to control the water so they could control the power to the waterwheel!”

“Most likely. That’s why there's a dam built at the Barrowby River. Now, the early water frames only had one spindle. Jennies had many. A spinning mule takes the best offerings of both devices. A spinning mule has thousands of spindles on it, all working at once, stretching like the frame, spinning like the jenny.”

“My Lord. You explained that as well as any man—and far more simply.”

Amy shrugged, but she was pleased with the compliment.

“But uncle said we already have steam engines. We have water wheels. How can we have both?”

“Innovation. You don’t throw out a pony trap just because someone invented a phaeton. Water is slow and dependent on weather. Even damming the river can only control so much. Greater demand means greater power, power that can be controlled with a substance you can purchase.”

“Like coal?” Marcus snapped his fingers.

“Precisely. Water wheels may power some machines, and steam engines supplement.” Amy gave him a smile, unable to resist rewarding him as if he were a clever pupil who had grasped a particularly challenging concept. “You weren’t... you weren’t taught this before?”

“Not in any memorable terms. My father went to the mill. I stayed home or went to school. He always told me he would explain more later. When it was time. And then he died. And whatever the right time was... Well. I suppose I missed it.”

Amy took her cup, sipped her tea for several silent moments, and then leaned forward to place it back on the silver tray. “How old were you?”

“Just turning nineteen. Four years ago.”

“Me, too!”

“Hm?”

“My mother. She died when I was nineteen—although for me, it has been ten years.” She gave her guest a small smile. “I understand what you mean. The time never came. She intended to help me with the things that would make me a good wife. A better one. Things that would make me attractive to a husband and not so off-putting.”

Marcus rose and held out his hand as if to help her rise. “You are not in the least off-putting to me.”

AMY TOOK HIS HAND AND stood. Her arm moved naturally through his as he transferred her fingers to the inside of his bent elbow.

“My mother died with him. The same disease. Same return voyage from Prussia I’m sure she would have made sure that I was... That I was a better man.” Marcus’ face clouded. “No, that’s a lie. She raised my sister and I with all tenderness and care. She taught us right from wrong, to be kind, to be courteous.” He had been walking toward the door into the hall, intent on taking her for that aforementioned stroll in the garden, but his footsteps stilled. “In all my sins—I’ve betrayed the good work that she did. The fine education she insisted I receive.”

His throat felt as though the shortbread were lodged inside. His sense of self-preservation begged him to stop, but he didn’t, words flowing like the water in a burst dam. “I was so very, very angry when they died. At my father, mostly, Miss Winthrop. I did not want to be the man he was. I still do not.”

Amy looked up at him, lips parting to form a question. He supposed most polite women would make some general statement of sympathy or understanding.

Amy wasn’t most women. “Why ever not?”

“He would have been an excellent husband—if he were married to the business. I strongly suspect that he was not such a faithful husband to his wife. He put the company first, his own pleasures second, and I suppose my sister and I came third. From some things I saw when I entered my adolescent years, I do not know where his wife fell in his priorities or his affections.”

There was a long silence. Amy was leading him, her fingers like soft-tipped hooks in his arm, guiding him without seeming to until they were outside.

“Then I am glad you do not wish to be like your father. I admire a man who wants to treat his wife well. My father... My father used to lavish love and attention on both my mother and me. He positively doted on her. He built this house for her and wanted her to have every luxury his new wealth could buy. It was as if this was her payment for all her hard work, and for bolstering him in all of his tireless efforts—sixteen-hour days, three sons, a daughter. A daughter that looks so much like her.”

Amy’s hand went to the simple chain around her neck. Marcus hadn’t noticed it before. It wasn’t ostentatious or even eye-catching. When she held it out, he could see the small oval locket at its middle. Amy flicked it open with her thumb and revealed a portrait of herself.

But it isn’t.

“Your mother?” Marcus murmured as he understood what he was seeing.

“To him, she was a great beauty. A great treasure. And when she died... It was as if he had to bury us both. He could not seem to love me as he used to, not without her.” She laughed and quickly closed the locket and slid it back under the fabric of her dress. “Thomas says it is that I look so very like her. Philip says that he allowed himself to be so tender towards her, and when he acts the same towards me, it brings up all he’s lost, all of his pain.” Another laugh, this one accompanied by a hasty swipe of her hand across her eyes. “Steven says Father is simply a fathead.”

“Oh!” His exclamation burst out before he could stop it.

She laughed back at him, hand over her mouth and tears trickling from the outer edges of her eyes.

Her very beautiful, expressive eyes.

“She was very beautiful,” Marcus said at once, even though to some, the woman in the portrait was perhaps somewhat plain, with her hair too thin and her mouth a shade too wide.

I can see her through Winthrop’s eyes. Amy’s eyes.

To be loved like that, to be loved so well, and to mourn her so terribly that it turns him into something like a monster...

“You don’t have to spare my feelings, Mr. Holcomb, I know—”

“I know that she was truly a great beauty—especially to those who loved her,” he interrupted firmly, suddenly catching Amy under the chin as she tried to move ahead once more. “And I do think you look very like her—but even more lovely.”

“Thank you.” Amy nodded up at him, not straining or backing away.

She is a different sort of lovely. Like the loveliness of a tree in all its green, staunch beauty, not in the beauty of a delicate flower.

At that moment, he would have liked to kiss Amy Winthrop, just to claim that he had been brave enough to try it and that she had thought him a good enough man to allow it.

“Miss Amy!” A rather plump little maid that couldn’t seem to walk properly, but rather tumbled and waddled like an excited chicken, came trotting out of the house with her apron bunched up in her hands and her lower lip between her teeth. “You were supposed to be in the drawing room!” she said accusingly.

Amy stepped back—but she gave him a smile that made his head spin. “Agnes, go and fetch all of my correspondence regarding the Corliss engine. You know where I hide it.”

“But... You said I’m not supposed to show anyone those letters, miss.” Agnes protested.

“Yes, I know. I trust Mr. Holcomb.” Amy looked up at him again, the smile flickering between happiness and something wistful. “He is my friend.”