Page 8 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

“ Y ou have been studying, Marcus!” Horace Holcomb crowed with pride and thumped his nephew on the back.

Marcus, who had just been about to raise his glass to his lips, ended up splashing his wine into his roast potatoes. “I do like it when the cook is liberal with the spirits,” Marcus chuckled easily. He reclaimed his grip on his glass and raised it in Amy’s direction, eyes sparkling. “To a wonderful hostess. The food and company are the finest in Lancashire.”

“Hear, hear!”

Amy smiled as her guests toasted her. Her brothers joined in with laughter and applause. Her father merely smiled, but that was enough to be going on with.

Marcus had indeed been impressing her father and his uncle with his discussion of dams, droughts, waterwheels, and steam engines. He hadn’t mentioned that his tutor on all these matters was Amy or that he had spent over an hour in the garden reading and jotting down key facts and figures on a small memorandum pad she’d provided.

He’s gearing up to discuss the Corliss engine, she thought. Perhaps then he’ll reveal where he learned all of this. Still, even if he does not at the moment, that may be for the best. It would be a shame for our families to finally be in a receptive mood and for it all to be ruined merely because they don’t believe a woman can understand such things.

“Mr. Holcomb, what innovations do you think mills must make now if they want to remain competitive with the American markets?” Amy asked.

Mr. Holcomb blinked at her, ruddy face slackening in surprise. “What a very intelligent question for a woman.”

The remnants of her roasted potato suddenly turned acrid in her mouth, bitterness filling her. “Women are just as intelligent as men. They are merely prevented from studying certain subjects and barred from certain fields.”

“Do you disagree with such things, Miss Winthrop? Would you like to see women in Parliament, or perhaps leading troops into battle?” Mr. Holcomb goaded, his flushed face jiggling with laughter as he took another gulp of wine.

“Now, Uncle Horace, there were women at Girton College at Cambridge when I was there. They couldn’t obtain a degree, but they were there,” Marcus soothed, his eyes shifting between his uncle and her.

Amy smiled. “Fascinating. Do answer my question, Mr. Holcomb—intelligent or otherwise.”

“Ah, yes, but I think the young man ought to do that later, daughter, some other time. Now is when the men retire to the drawing room with a postprandial brandy. Next year this time, you and Constance can take your sewing to the library. Won’t that be nice?”

For the sake of her brother, Amy smiled and nodded. Philip’s shoulders relaxed, and he tossed her a grateful look.

“I’ll expound upon it further, gentlemen, but it would be churlish of me not to answer a lady’s question. Miss Winthrop, I feel certain you are baiting me, for I know you are an accomplished scholar of all things textile and matters economic—”

“A passing interest!” her father barked.

Marcus continued unperturbed. “Surely, the next big innovation to enter Britain’s textile market will be the Corliss engine. All mills will have them by 1880, I predict, or they’ll soon be left behind.”

It was gratifying to see her father’s face pale, and he threw her a brief, desperate look. “What makes you say that, young man?”

Please, please, please let him remember, Amy prayed silently.

Marcus appeared to contemplate, and then the words rolled off brilliantly, with perfect cadence and conviction. “Well, to begin with, the engine is rumored to use thirty percent less coal, and that’s quite the savings over time! What’s more, it will handle a light or heavy load without slowing down, and we all know that’s crucial. The predictability and control are another thing that’ll be key for the English markets, don’t you think, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Er. Yes.”

“The inventor, Mr. Corliss, created his own system that uses a wrist plate to control multiple valves, and each valve opens and closes at a precise, predictable rate no matter how high of a burden placed upon it.”

“How does it do that?” Horace Holcomb demanded. “Heavier loads must cause a reduction in speed, Marcus. It’s common sense.”

“Ah, one would think so, but the engine uses a series of cam gears to adjust the valve timing, meaning the speed will adjust automatically.”

“Slowing down?”

“No! Increasing to keep up with the demands placed upon it.”

Amy felt like cheering. Or kissing him.

Her father and brothers were beginning to pepper him with questions as they rose from the table.

I hope he can keep up. He certainly seemed able and informed just now.

With a twist of worry in her middle, she began to make her way to her room, only to pause on the stairs as another thought struck her.

Marcus sounded like a consummate scholar of the field. He might as well have memorized her letters and her explanations. His delivery was perfect...

But none of it is truly his knowledge or expertise. It’s all mine. Even if he does tell them I taught him—and he probably won’t do so tonight after Father’s reaction—he could easily claim otherwise, and everyone would believe him.

He’s a liar. An actor. A gambler who can bluff.

The twist in her middle turned into a sharp bite, a gnawing pain.

What if every moment we’ve had has been nothing but a lie? I said I trusted him.

Was that a mistake?

“I’LL LEAVE YOU TO IMPLEMENT the installation and purchase of the bally thing. Some mills on this side of the pond already have them?” Horace Holcomb thumped his fist in triumph on the arm of the richly upholstered chair.

“Yes, recently. In the last ten years, they’ve been becoming more common.” Marcus rose while his uncle reclined with a snifter of brandy balanced on his bulging midsection, his waistcoat buttons straining and threatening to fly off and go rolling across the rug.

“And there is a most exciting idea of using electric energy. I believe we’ll see that replace steam in the near future,” Thomas piped up.

Marcus slid away while jeers and laughter surrounded the youngest Winthrop sibling.

Once in the empty hall, he heaved a deep, thankful sigh.

His ruse had worked. Finally, his run of luck was changing.

Don’t be foolish this time. Winning one hand needs to be enough for now. This is no time to think you've got a hot streak and push your luck until it snaps!

Amy is my lucky charm. Uncle Horace has entrusted me with a task—which is unlucky, I suppose, for work is the very thing I hope to avoid—but Amy will see that I’ve held up my end of the bargain.

His thoughts, lubricated by several glasses of wine and one small snifter of brandy, were a bit muddled. What was her end of the bargain?

She helped you, you ignoramus.

Of course, his uncle and Mr. Winthrop didn’t know that. Steven, the dark-haired cove who had a thick, heavy-lipped, heavy-lidded face might know. He’d stared at him a good deal but said nothing.

His feet and fast, fuddled thoughts had led him to the end of the hall. The library lay to one side and a closed door to the other.

Amy sat in the library, head bent over a book, several bits of metal beside her. As he watched, one hand left its resting place on the pages and began to scribble on a sheet of paper beside it.

“Making notes?” he asked softly.

The girl didn’t even jump. She turned her head slightly, still writing. “Making a hinge. Well, I intend to make a hinge that’s easier to mount and unscrew.”

“You can do such a thing?”

“I can try.”

“No, I mean... You can make things out of metal? Are those your tools?” Marcus hurried to her side and sat at the desk without waiting to be asked.

“Yes, although I would be obliged if you wouldn’t say that I possess them. Father wouldn’t like it. He used to let me play in his workroom and even in the machine shop in the mill. No longer.” Her head bent back over her book, small smile gone, and her voice bordering on cold.

Marcus looked at the small leather box beside her. A crude sort of locomotive, more like a barrel with a chimney resting on two runners, sat in the box alongside a variety of tools. “What is this?”

“One of the first things I ever made for Thomas.” Amy seemed to hesitate, navigating some internal struggle. At last, she sighed and took it out of the box. “It’s not exactly an engine, but you fill this bit here with water,” she pointed to a small door on the barrel.

Marcus opened it and saw that a small metal cylinder lay inside. “Water, right. What then?”

“A wick runs through here, in the outer chamber,” she explained, her tone a bit warmer. “When you light it, it heats the water, and that produces steam. The steam will push these pistons,” she showed him where the legs of the “rockers” entered the cylinder. “It was supposed to make it ‘walk’ across the table, but I’m afraid it only judders back and forth. Still, it will go a small distance.”

The way Amy explained her creation so easily made him feel like a simpleton. “It is very rudimentary, isn’t it?” he murmured.

The frost was back in her voice. “I was fifteen when I made it, and Thomas about eight. He was pleased with it.”

“You misunderstand me, Miss Winthrop. Amy.” Marcus pushed his luck, as a gambler does. He reached for her hand as she began to hurriedly stuff the little metal toy back in her box of tools. “The things you describe, the way you explain them... It seems so effortless and easy to you. I don’t have the faintest idea of how to build such a contraption. I believe you could build an engine to rival Mr. Corliss’ if someone would simply let you.”

“Yes. Yes, I’d like that.” Amy pulled her fingers away.

“I would let you.” Alcohol warmed his brain—and his heart. His quick wit that charmed and the ready patter that had led many ladies to indiscretions and many men to loan him substantial sums of money was trickling from him freely. “Holcomb House is huge. Sprawling, one might say. There are plenty of rooms for you to build in, and far more space to put your tools than in this little box. One room for tools. One for building things. What do you say?”

“I say that’s very impractical, and I believe you’re intoxicated, Mr. Holcomb.”

“Marcus,” he said, genuinely put out that she wouldn’t use his Christian name when he was looking at a pretty—if rather blurry—future together. “Why impractical?” he demanded as she rose and closed the book.

“The tools should be in the room where one builds. Where a man builds. A man won’t let his wife have such a room,” she hissed, marching to the bookshelf and sliding the heavy tome into an empty space.

“I will!” He followed her, brazenly close.

“You will not, Mr. Holcomb. I said I trusted you, but you... You take on too many roles too easily. I’ll not take part in your pretty charade, even though I’m very much obliged to you for making my father listen to reason about the engine. He did, didn’t he?”

“Hesitantly. My uncle? Enthusiastically. I am to procure one of these Corliss contraptions and have it installed in the Manchester mill.”

“Then I have done you a good turn.”

“And I will do the same for you.” His arm shot out and connected with the wooden shelf, his other arm braced against the wall, effectively pinning Amy into the corner. “When I marry you, I will build you a room, Amy. A massive workroom, with all the tools and things you desire. You’ll make the best bloody engine the world has ever seen.”

“You’re drunk,” her voice held a tiny tremble, but her chin was set and her eyes were hard.

“I’m not. I’m simply warm. Or perhaps that’s you. You make me feel warm, Amy. Did you know that?”

“Miss Winthrop to you. We are not engaged.”

“Yet. But we will be. And married. And you’ll have your room, and you will build an engine for the mill, and tiny little locomotives, and juddering barrels, and toy soldiers that march... Our children will be the luckiest little ones in the world with such a clever mother.”

Her mouth dropped open, horror, shock, and then... Was there a glint of hope and happiness in her eyes? “Who knows if that's true? You say anything you please, and people believe you, Mr. Holcomb,” she finally whispered.

“Then make an honest man of me,” he grunted, fell forward, and planted his mouth right on hers.

AMY’S HEAD CRASHED back, and she swallowed a screech when Marcus kissed her. She expected to feel a sharp pain in her head as it collided with the wall by the bookshelves, but instead, a strong hand cradled it, keeping her mouth pressed to his.

She knew she should be angry. She should scream. Have Marcus Holcomb thrown from the house and maybe set Steven on him. Steven didn’t seem too keen on him.

But after her initial muffled cry of surprise, her lips found that they could not resist a challenge. Marcus’ mouth tried to own hers, and she fought back in kind—and oh.

Nothing this wrong should feel so simply divine. Nothing that was so unwanted should immediately make her want to keep doing it.

Marcus tore his lips from hers and she gasped for air—and in disappointment. I wasn’t done! I don’t know who won. She wanted to protest, but Marcus’ mouth pressed to the side of her cheek, then her throat, just where her neck met her face.

A ragged whisper reached her ear even though his lips were against her skin. “An honest man, Amy. For you, in all the ways that matter. Don’t you want someone who wants you as you are?”

“Yes.” Her confession popped out, too sweet and too long unspoken to resist.

“Do you want me as I am? A horrible mess, but not horrible to you?”

He didn’t give her time to answer. His mouth roved and captured hers again, and this time, she was ready.

Amy’s fingers dug into his shoulders and pushed his arms down, whirling hard and fast to put him in the corner. She had to stand on her tiptoes and pull him down by one ear to keep his mouth on hers, biting his lower lip a little to show him—

What exactly?

That she hated him? She didn’t.

That she loved him?

No, not that either.

That she wanted what he offered, and maybe it was enough?

“Yes,” she answered aloud, belatedly realizing that Marcus would think her reply was in answer to his last question.

Do I want him as he is?

“Ahem.”

Amy leapt back as if thrown by unseen hands.

Horace Holcomb stood in the doorway, blinking and nodding in approval. “I knew it was the perfect match. I told my nephew you would be a most amiable wife, my dear. I told your father, too, and he was only too glad to agree.

“Uncle, Miss Winthrop and I were only—”

“I have eyes, Marcus. I can see that you were ‘only’ bidding her good night. You two have seen a great deal of each other in the past two days. I believe it is our turn to host.”

“Please, Mr. Holcomb, I would not put you to any trouble,” Amy rushed forward, hoping she still looked somewhat composed, even though she no longer felt like a decent, God-fearing woman, but more like some sort of savage she-cat in a too-tight dress. Why couldn’t her lungs expand all the way? Was she perspiring?

She was probably going to faint.

Well, if that wouldn’t convince her father that she was a frail, weakling of a woman who should never be allowed near the mill again, nothing would. Swallowing, she tried to compose herself.

The elder Holcomb shook his head at her protest. “It is no trouble! I’ve long felt my nephew was like the prodigal son, and now that he’s returned, I shall kill the fatted calf and welcome him back with a ball. A grand ball. A week from Saturday? Will that give you enough time to finalize details of your betrothal and secure a gown for the evening, my dear?” Before she could answer, he turned to Marcus. “Of course, I suppose that is up to Winthrop and you to decide. Matters of a dowry, all that. I’ll leave it entirely in your hands, my boy, unless you need my counsel. Speaking of counsel—perhaps Miss Winthrop would like to come to Holcomb House to assist with the preparations for the ball, hm? Give her an idea of what it will be like to manage the staff—not that it is a large one. No, no. Nor should the preparations run to an exorbitant sum.” Horace talked himself in circles, literally and figuratively, wobbling around the room, voice affectionate and arms outstretched, touching upon one point and then another. At last, he stopped, broad hands landing on Amy’s shoulders as he nodded down upon her. “You are not so mannish as they say—and yet I can see you are not frivolous in your dress or furnishings in the house. Excellent! Excellent! An excellent thing to find in a wife, my dear child!”

Amy blushed as he kissed her firmly on the cheek. “Thank you, Mr. Holcomb,” she stammered.

“Not at all!” He staggered backward, arms flung wide.

Marcus caught him and righted his uncle, steering him toward the door. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Miss Winthrop.” His eyes burned into her as he backed away, still smiling.

When they had gone, Amy hastily collected her things from the library and fled to the back staircase and then up to her room.

Agnes was in there, turning back the bedcovers. “Miss Amy! You’re pink as a peony. What happened?”

“Nothing, Agnes.”

“Tsk. It’s a sin to lie and no mistake.” Agnes gave this ominous warning while coming to stand behind Amy, soft fingers searching out pins in the more elaborate style Amy had chosen for the evening.

“He kissed me.”

I’ll begin with that much.

I won’t mention that I liked it. Or that I kissed him back.

That I loved his whispers against my skin and there are new feelings inside of me, feelings I know women shouldn’t have.

Amy let out a little moan and motioned for her maid to bring the water carafe and tumbler that always sat beside her bed.

“Miss Amy! That’s not right. Is it? Should I have Brabbage stop him before he gets in his carriage, miss?” Agnes ran between the window and dressing table, peering out into the night with a gasping mouth.

“No, goodness no, let him go. He shouldn't have done it, but Father would only have encouraged it. He thinks that’s what I need, someone masterful to bring me to heel.”

“You’re not a dog, Miss Amy! No matter what my mum says.”

“Agnes! What on earth?”

“Oh, she don’t say you’re a dog, miss, she just says you’ve been ruined with books and sums, and that your head is full like a man’s, and there ain’t no cure for it but to live like a woman ought for a few years. She says after you have a few babies, you’ll forget all of those things. But I told her I don’t suppose you will. You’re just cleverer than most of us, and you can have a nurse for the babies.”

“No babies! There will be no babies and no mothering,” Amy burst out.

“Oh, yes, there will. My mum says that once you let a man kiss you, babies are soon to follow.”

Amy turned and squinted at Agnes. “Your mother may have skipped a few steps, Agnes.”

“Don’t you have to marry him now that he’s kissed you? Doesn’t that mean he wants to marry you? It must. He wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise.” Agnes finally left the window and retrieved the pitcher, setting it down beside her mistress.

With a shaking hand, Amy poured herself a glass of water. Did that mean Marcus truly wanted to marry her? He spoke as if he did. His body, pressed up against hers, made her believe that he wasn’t simply bluffing. Could men kiss so heatedly without any truth to fuel their actions?

“Go get Philip, Agnes,” she finally choked out. “But not a word to anyone as to why—and wait until you see the Holcombs leave.”

PHILIP APPEARED IN her room with a concerned face and shirt studs undone. As he spoke, he took off his tie and undid his waistcoat buttons. “Sister, dear. It is quite late. Holcomb and Father should not be left unchecked, especially if alcohol has been served.”

“So, only in sober daylight must they meet?” Amy managed a laugh. She motioned her brother to come inside her rooms, shutting the door after him.

“What’s all this? Why the need for secrecy at half-past ten?”

“I need you to answer something for me, as a man who is engaged and in love. You are in love with Constance, aren’t you?”

“Entirely.” Philip blinked at her.

“And you must not tell Father. You must promise.”

“Oh no.” Philip hurried over and took her shoulders, a frantic expression on her face. “What has happened? That bloody Marcus Holcomb!” His hands cupped her face, and his breathing quickened. “What did he do, Amy?”

Amy put a calming hand on his shoulder. Her eldest brother was never given to temper, but his worry had turned to fury almost instantly. She could see the gears in his mind twirling down a dark path, and she must halt their action. “Marcus didn’t harm me in the slightest. But he did... he did say he wants to build a workroom for me at Holcomb House. That I’m clever. That I could build a better engine than Corliss if I was given my head.”

Philip stepped back, head cocked in puzzlement. “What? How does he know that?”

“I... I don’t hide what I can do. In fact, you know I flaunt it in hopes of driving away the petty men who want me to be nothing more than a pretty smile and a drain on the household accounts.”

Her brother let out a weary chuckle, “By heaven, yes, you do do that. Holcomb is an excellent match for you—at least in Father’s estimation. I don’t believe he’d mind you tinkering away if your husband gave his approval.”

Amy groaned. “Well, he is not my husband! Not yet. That is why I sent for you. You are to be married. I know you’ve kissed Constance.”

Philip’s cheeks colored instantly. “Well, only a few times. A man doesn't kiss a woman until they’re engaged.”

“Can a man kiss a girl with a passion that makes her feel quite faint—if he feels nothing for her?”

“He kissed you? That little—”

“I kissed him back. And oh.” Amy put her face in her hands, half-giddy, half-ashamed, “It was glorious. Wonderful.”

“Dear Lord. Really?” Philip, who had risen from his seat, now sank back down, a cautious expression on his face. “You returned the gesture?”

“I did.”

“Amy, that’s serious. He could claim that you’ve been intimate with him. My heavens, Amy!” Philip bolted up, voice a hiss. “This is three black marks against you! You called upon him alone, unchaperoned!”

“I was only riding past, and he invited me in!”

“You went! And then he called upon you when we were all at the mill!”

“Agnes was near—some of the time.”

“You rode alone with him in a closed carriage.” Philip began to pace.

“My virtue is intact—save for that kiss.”

“And if anyone ever finds out about these instances of impropriety, your reputation will be even less than it is now. You must marry that man!”

“I don’t... I don’t want to marry a man who feels nothing for me, and that is why you must answer my question. Can a man kiss you in such a way—a way where you feel hot and dizzy and that the earth is reeling too fast—if he doesn’t care for you?”

Philip took a little time to consider his answer, still pacing. “I could not. Could Marcus Holcomb? I don’t know. I think the real question is how he seemed to act, Amy.”

She closed her eyes and thought back. Desperate. Desperate to touch her and hold onto her.

Because he’s lost so much, perhaps. He wants something to keep. He’s had so much grief.

As have I. We are so different—yet oddly alike.

“Amy? Perhaps you couldn’t tell. I know we’re rather isolated out here and you’ve shunned what little society there is with your—ahem—independent ways.”

“Like he would do anything to keep me. Desperate,” she finally answered, looking down at her hands as they began to twist in her lap.

Philip came to stand beside her. “I would say, speaking the plainest truth, that a man who wants to yield to carnal impulses can indeed kiss like that without true feeling behind it.”

“Oh.” Amy felt her giddiness melt, cold embarrassment replacing it instantly.

Nearly thirty, and taken in so blindly?

They call you too clever, but perhaps all you really are is a fool .

“But I don’t think that’s the case with you,” he added.

Her head shot up, hope in her eyes. “No?”

“A man might embrace a woman like that in a lustful heat—but there are dozens of women in Barrow-on-Wood that Marcus Holcomb could persuade to surrender with his good looks, money, and charm. He didn’t kiss you in our library, with his uncle and your entire family just down the hall, because he hoped to persuade you to—well. You know.”

“I do know. Agnes, on the other hand... I’m not sure about.” Amy rubbed her temples.

“If it were merely a matter of carnality, then I would say such kisses could be a ruse or fueled in a haze of lust. Given the woman, the time, and the place—I think Marcus Holcomb is fast falling in love with you, Amy. And by George, if he says he will build you a workroom at Holcomb House and he wants you just as you are—old and argumentative—”

“Philip!” Amy hurled a cushion at him.

He caught it easily and laughed, “Take him, Amy. At least give him a chance.” Philip’s chuckle faded. “He may be your last one.”