Page 9 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)

M arcus sat at a desk the next morning, moodily stirring his tea.

“This was why I wanted a wife. To avoid this,” he reflected aloud, biting a piece of toast in half with savage energy.

He had not the faintest idea where and how to tell someone to install a Corliss engine. He would have to go to the mill in Manchester to learn about the business. He would have to know things. Once he knew things, he would begin to care about them, or his uncle would insist that he act as though he cared.

I’ll turn into Uncle Horace. Or Father.

Unless...

Amy’s face filled his mind.

It had filled his thoughts all night.

Of all the women he had ever kissed in his days of carousing, he had never found a woman who turned the tables on him so quickly and fiercely, a beautiful parry to his thrust—and somehow, he left her side feeling defeated and triumphant at once.

Is this what they mean when they say a woman rules your heart?

Amy. Amy is key to my survival. She can help me with these dratted improvements, which will in turn increase our profits—but she will also help me be the man I want to be—the man I ought to be.

Someone, I must grudgingly admit, that falls between workshy, idle Londoner and industrious to a fault.

He finished his tea and toast slowly, thinking more clearly than he had in many years.

Perhaps he was ready to do something with substance.

Immediately, fear consumed him. He’d begin with a toe in the water, and then he’d be swallowed up, business and work consuming him, just as idleness and luxury had done.

Why must it be all or nothing with you, Marcus, hm?

Silence answered for a long time, until a very small, distant voice usurped it, telling him the truth he already knew but would not admit.

You throw yourself wholeheartedly into everything, whether the thing is good or bad, because you can’t help it. If you ever tried to live normally, a simple day-to-day existence, you would feel the emptiness. No more Mother. No more Father. No Jane.

Nothing. Even Uncle Horace is gone more often than he’s here. He certainly did not come to hold your trembling hand in London.

You think you’re so brave and carefree, Marcus Holcomb.

What you really are is a coward. Afraid of difficulty and pain. Sadness.

“Well, dash it all, who wants to be miserable and in pain?” He stomped from the desk, pacing as he put one hand to his brow. “Only a madman!”

But you aren’t truly happy like this, either.

You have to live your life as you see fit, and that will mean carving out your own path, some blend of play and work, of grief and joy.

He crashed back down, seizing a pen and ink. He was not writing to the purveyors of the Corliss engine in England.

He was writing to his sister.

Darling Jane,

I have been a horrid brother. I beg you to forgive me and to tell me if you’re truly well and happy. I should have taken greater care of you—and I did not. I beg you not to think too badly of me, for I didn’t take care of myself, either.

Are you happy with your husband and your new home? If you are not, only tell me, and I will come to your aid. You can return to Holcomb House, and I will see to it that you’re looked after.

I miss you awfully, Janie.

With deepest affection and humblest apologies,

Marcus

“Gray!” he bellowed, folding the note in half. “Is there a telegraph office in Barrow-on-Wood?”

While waiting for the butler’s reply, he grabbed another sheet of paper. “I have two telegrams I wish you to send!”

“SISTER MINE. YOU HAVE received a telegram.” Steven walked into the library and tossed a folded piece of paper on the littered desk. “Father will be furious if he sees you’ve got all those tools out.”

“I’m forbidden from the mill, and Agnes nearly fainted when I got oil smudges on the bed linens. Winslow will frown and then polish the dining room table until his rheumatism flares up if I work in there. Needs must.” Amy took the telegram with a sigh. “I need access to a forge. Do you think Father would—no.”

“I think Marcus Holcomb would build you one.” Steven sat down and kicked his boots up on the table, narrowly avoiding her notes.

“Stop talking nonsense.”

“I don’t know if I like him... But I know he likes you, Amy.”

Amy paled, the telegram remaining unopened in her hand. Had Philip told? She’d made him promise not to say anything! “What gives you such an idea, Steven?”

“He listened to you. Word for word.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Corliss engine, Amy. You talked about it a few days ago. You have yards of correspondence about the infernal thing with all of its valves and cam gears—and two days after meeting you, Marcus is speaking of it almost exclusively, putting a flea in Father’s ear. The flea that you can’t.”

“Steven, I—”

“Oh, darling.” Steven laughed, head tipped back as if to study the ceiling. “He’s using you for your money, and you’re using him for his sex. A man can get done what you want. A man can get done what you can’t. ”

“It shouldn’t be that way!” Amy protested.

“But it is, always has been. They say a woman is usually the power behind the throne. I don’t mind if the pretty boy is your puppet as long as he’s good to you. It’s a perfect match.”

Amy couldn’t reply. Angry retorts, wobbly protestations, and guilty admissions were all vying to exit.

“Speechless? Good heavens.”

“I’m not speechless. I have a lot to say—too much. Steven, do you think it’s an ideal match, honestly?”

“That telegram is from him. Open it and read it out to me. Then I’ll give my verdict.”

“What if he’s only asking me ‘round to tea?”

“Then I’ll know he can’t wait to see you again. If he were courting you out of some sense of duty, he’d do the bare minimum to appease society’s demands. A daily call or letter... You may as well be engaged.”

Her cheeks suddenly hot with memories of last night's ragged breaths and whispered pleas, she tore the telegram open and stared at the typed words for several seconds.

“Is it so shocking that it would offend my not-so-lily-white ears?”

“It reads, ‘Will you give me a tour of the Winthrop mill soonest, please? Where should a Corliss engine be placed? Also, I must learn to ride if I am to live in the country. You handled Jericho like a cavalry officer. Could you assist me in choosing a suitable mount?’ Heavens, this must have cost a fortune to send, and he could easily have delivered—Steven, stop snorting! What is so funny?”

“Oh, dear me, Amy. Father has been going about this all wrong. For years, he hoped some graying old codger with a stern mustache and booming voice could tame you. He should have known better. No, what you need is some young, helpless whelp who needs you to tame him!”

“I do not!” Amy jumped up and walloped her brother’s ankles, sending him rocking perilously back in his chair. “I do not wish to tame Marcus, nor to have him tame me. I want us... I want to marry a man who helps me and who wants my help, too.” Her angry tone faded into something softer as she sat on the edge of the table and looked into Steven’s amused face. “Do you remember Mother and Father—together?”

Steven’s face sobered, and he nodded. “Yes. How she used to come and stay at the mill office with sandwiches.”

“And how he used to tell you boys to gather flowers for her by the riverbank on the way home?”

“The way she’d put us to bed and then go back downstairs to wait for him to come home?”

“The way he insisted on getting a maid and a cook long before a groom and a valet? He put her first.” Amy blinked back sudden tears. “And...”

“And you,” Steven took her hand, rubbing the back of her knuckles with his thumb. “I know, Amy. She was his sun, and you were the planet that circled it. When she left, you fell out of orbit, out of sight. He lost sight of you , pet.”

“Oh, Steven. That’s a kind way to put it, but—”

“I think Father let you grow up a bit wild, Amy, a bit like one of the lads. No, very like one of the lads. He was sure that you’d grow out of it, or if you didn’t, that Mother would know when to pull you back or push you in the right direction. He panicked without her. Floundered. Threw himself into the mill, then into making sure the Winthrops were seen as ‘prosperous’ and ‘refined.’ He was convinced that would give us all the ‘right’ foundation in society.” They shared a rolling of the eyes at that. “And when he came out of that fog... what were you? Twenty-three, twenty-four?”

“Oh, at least.”

“Then, he realized you ought to be married and that somehow or other you were no longer that young thing just entering your second season that you were when Mother died.”

“So what then? He wakes up to the world and decides I ought to be married because I’m inconvenient?”

“No. That you ought to be married so you can be happy . So that he hasn’t failed Mother.” Steven patted her cheek once, but that was all the sentiment her brother could manage. He pressed a kiss to her temple and stood with a groan. “Mother would want you to be married, Amy—but only if it brought you happiness. Does this Marcus fellow make you happy?”

I’m happy without a man, Amy thought, but aloud she replied, “Isn’t it too soon to tell?”

Steven gave her a thoughtful stare. “No. No, I don’t think it’s too soon to tell. But I’d wait a bit to make sure. Go and help the fellow learn to ride. Take him to the mill. Father can hardly bar you when your future groom requests it.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“You’re a clever one, Amy. You call him that. Use it to your advantage.” Steven tapped his head with a wink and left her alone, staring at the telegram.

I was happy before...Wasn’t I?

Hours of loneliness. A house that was empty all day, save for the servants. Struggling to get her father and her brothers to listen to her, to allow her equal say, equal footing...

Amy traced the words on the paper with hesitant fingers. Marcus, for all of his many faults, his brash ways, his debts—he treated her as his equal at once, listened instantly, and wanted to help her with her struggles.

I was happy. But I could be happier still.

“I HAVE TO MEET WITH Mr. Hopkins, Amy. I cannot go riding in the middle of the day!”

“Then ride with me as far as Holcomb House and then clear off,” Amy adjusted her long dark skirt and gave herself a cursory glance in the mirror.

Philip appeared behind her, sighing. “I have the pony trap!”

“Then follow me in the pony trap. I must have a chaperone to forestall any untoward rumors. Father won’t leave the mill. Mr. Holcomb is hardly likely to leave his business. This is Mother’s job, and she’s not here. Or the job of a responsible old aunt or married sister, but I haven’t got anyone to take the position but you, dear brother.”

“But I only came home to get the ledger I left here last night! Mr. Hopkins must have it to do the pay packets.”

“Well... Riding to the mill is still riding. We will join you and then ride in full sight of the workers. I will explain things to Mr. Holcomb about the waterwheel’s function, and the piecers, and treadles, and all the rest of it,” Amy concluded impatiently, tying her hat on with a wide gauzy blue ribbon.

“Father wouldn’t like that. He doesn’t like competitors snooping and spying.”

“Holcomb owns some of the largest mills in the business. When he passes—hopefully not for many years—Marcus will have the mills. Father wants me to marry into the family to get access to them, as much as to ensure that I’m ‘taking my place’ in womanhood. Marcus wants to learn. Let him.”

“Why didn’t his father bring him to the mill when he was a boy?” Philip asked, reluctantly gathering up his things and tucking them under his arm.

“I don’t know. I suppose I could ask—as we’re riding.”

“I’M TO RIDE THIS OLD nag?” Marcus surveyed the horse—hardly bigger than a pony, which was giving him a suspicious glance as it nibbled grass.

Amy looked down from where she was sitting on Jericho, a patient smile on her face. “Daisy is far from a nag, but she is older and, therefore, more used to being ridden. She’s slow and quiet. Just the thing for a beginning rider. I say, why didn’t you learn to ride once your family began to see some measure of success?”

“Well, I had a mother and a sister who couldn’t ride and didn’t fancy learning. My mother was sure that horses were all plotting to break our necks.” He returned the horse’s uneasy look and dared to pat her neck. It was warm and velvety, solid and comforting under his hand. If only he could just pat the beast instead of ride it...

Mustn’t show fear. Not after last night. He looked at Amy, sitting high above him. His heart sped up, not just at the thought of riding but because he remembered how he’d kissed her—and how she’d kissed him back.

“Well, Mother wasn’t much for rugged pursuits, especially once Jane came along.” He sauntered around the horse, slapping at its rump as he’d seen other men do. “She’ll do all right. Yes, a nice bit of horseflesh, I suppose.”

Amy chuckled softly and shook her head. “Horses never intend to harm you—but they can see right through a person. They’re a great comfort, and you don’t need to talk to them.” Her voice drifted for a moment as she continued, her hand weaving through Jericho’s black mane, “They know your innermost thoughts from the way we stand. Sit. They have fantastically good hearing. They can pick up a heartbeat, I imagine, or a hare in the hedge. They know us far better than we think.” Her eyes stared out at the blue sky behind Holcomb House for a moment and then locked back to his with a viselike grip. “You cannot bluff them, even if you are the best gambler on earth.”

“That’s not very sporting of you, Daisy,” Marcus gave a nervous laugh and returned to the side of the horse where he was to mount. “Now, look, girl. I’ve done this a few times, but not with any degree of skill or regularity. I should like a nice, gentle trot behind the pony trap. Please.”

“She’ll like that. She likes manners,” Amy smiled at him, a real encouraging smile that made him soar into the saddle—although he landed with a thump that caused his eyes to water and the horse to snort angrily. “Gently! Look, anyone can ride if they’re calm and steady. It’s the silly, wild things that get thrown.”

Marcus swallowed hard. He didn’t like the sound of that. “I shall be as quiet and sober as a judge. Now, in the past, I rode around a friend’s paddock. The horse simply walked round and round. How do I get her to follow the trap?”

“Amy! I must see Mr. Hopkins by two!” Philip yelled, sticking his head over the side of the pony trap.

“Go on ahead, Philip, we’ll follow directly!” Amy shouted back, clicking her tongue as Jericho started to shuffle ahead. “Marcus, Daisy knows her way to the mill and to Littlewood very well. She’ll go by rote, which will give me time to teach you the rudiments of riding.”

Marcus nodded and obeyed as Amy had him adjust his posture, his hold on the reins, the angle of his boots in the stirrups, and pretty much every other aspect that could be altered. At last, she sighed, smiled, and showed him the light way to dig one’s heel into the side of a horse. Jericho started off at once. Daisy followed and soon drew abreast so that they could walk side by side.

“Thank you,” Amy said after a few moments.

“Hm? For?” Marcus wasn’t sure what he was being thanked for, as he’d spent the last few moments trying to radiate calm, collected, pure thoughts toward the horse.

“For asking me to help you. And take you on a tour of the mill. Most men dislike asking a woman for help.”

Marcus shrugged, careful not to jerk the reins. “I wouldn’t ask most women. But you’re capable and fairly expert.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t want to turn into my father, but I suppose I shall have to learn the business and inner workings of the textile industry after all.”

Amy knew why he didn’t wish to become his father—that much he had shared with her. He didn’t expect her to ask what she did on the heels of his statement.

“Why do you know so little about the business of operating factories and mills? You were your father’s only son and your uncle’s only successor. Surely they ensured you would learn the trade.”

“No, they insisted—well, my mother insisted that I go to Eton so I could qualify to go to a university. My father and uncle thought it was quite a silly idea to learn from books instead of through experience, but she persisted and won them over eventually. I was to be the one with a head for figures and finances—and I would have been, I suspect, had I not lost my parents. I barely scraped out with Classics.”

Amy’s eyes lit up. “You know Latin and Greek?”

“Yes, but I never use such things. What businessman or young lady do you know who goes about speaking in Greek—aside from the Greeks, I suppose. I can recite a full complement of rude songs and poems.”

“That’ll endear you enormously to Steven,” she laughed, her body rocking in time with the long strides of her steed.

“You sit so gracefully, so at ease—I feel like one of those straw men they put on the rocking horses. Any moment I shall wave my paper lance and charge at my equally lumpy, combustible opponent.”

“You do have a beautiful way to describe things. So, you’re not so much for figures, but you do so well with words. Was your father in charge of sales and making trade agreements, things like that?”

“Yes.” Marcus suddenly bit off the word, and his body tensed. His mount sensed it and picked up speed, snorting and straining her head as if she could shrug off the bit.

“Easy, Daisy. Marcus, she thinks you want to get away from something. She’s speeding up,” Amy cautioned. “Sit back in the saddle. Don’t lean forward over her neck.”

Marcus obeyed, startled that the horse and the woman riding beside him could see so plainly what he wished to hide. “I suppose I’d like to get away from things I’ve only just figured out. I am like my father, with his glib tongue and his ability to persuade.”

“That can be most useful in business.”

“I know. It’s only that I saw him use it in his private life, too—and I say!” An ugly realization struck him. “I think that’s one reason my father changed his tune and pushed me to not only attend Eton, but to take a grand tour with some fellows from my class, then to enter Cambridge straightaway, even though Mother wanted me to come home and Uncle Horace said perhaps I should work with him at the Manchester mill for a few months.”

“Oh?”

Unconsciously, he was leaning forward again, escaping, his sturdy little mare beginning to canter. Amy easily kept up with him, reminding him to sit back, but he couldn’t.

“He had a mistress, Miss Winthrop. Probably more than one. He was making advances to the pretty maids in our employ, perhaps nothing more than... Well, any impropriety is an impropriety.” Marcus shook his head, but it didn’t clear.

Things stacked up in an ugly pile.

His uncle’s larger fortune and greater success despite seemingly equal hours in their endeavors.

His mother’s increasing discontent and final insistence on traveling with his father.

His father’s complaints of long hours and overwork—partnered with his reticence to bring Marcus into the business rather than sending him to university, even though Horace Holcomb advised it.

“Marcus!” Amy’s voice and use of his name finally “woke” him—just as he realized he’d veered from the road and was fast heading toward a tree.

“Whoa!”

“Pull back on the reins, hard!” Amy shouted.

He obeyed, and Daisy rocked to an uneasy stop, throwing her head and seeming to dance under him.

Amy came galloping to his side, concern on her face. “What happened?” she demanded breathlessly, reaching for him.

The touch of her gloved hand on his cheek felt like a balm to the searing burn. “He wasn’t a man obsessed with work, Miss Winthrop. It was just an excellent excuse. I’m sure my father was a partial martyr to his love of success and money, but I’m afraid he was also using it to cover up his dalliances.”

“Oh, Mr. Holcomb. I’m so sorry. That’s an awful thing to think, but you cannot be sure.”

“Perhaps not, but I’m saddened by the thought and by what I saw... and by the increasing number of ‘coincidences’ that would bear out my fears.”

Amy helped him guide the horse back to the road. The pony trap was many yards ahead and stopped, but it began to move again when they returned to their place behind it.

For several moments, Marcus tried to sort out his thoughts and decided that he would have to save past heartaches for later. He could ask Uncle Horace, or even Jane, but he would be loathe to tarnish his sister’s memory of their father.

The future is what matters at this moment, with Amy Winthrop looking on.

“I assure you—I would be a faithful husband. I might prefer late nights over the card table to early mornings over machinery, but I would not make the mistakes my father made.” He groaned and bowed his head over the horse’s neck. “I have made so many of my own, Amy. I’m not even properly ashamed of them.”

“You would hardly be the man I’ve come to enjoy spending time with if you were. I’m glad to hear that you’d be a faithful husband to your wife, whoever she may be.”

Does that mean that she is still firm in her denial, even after such a torrid exchange last night?

I don’t suppose I have any right to press her.

There are other women of property about.

He looked at Amy, sitting high in the saddle, sunlight catching the ivory highlights in her dress and the pink glow in her cheeks.

I don’t think I want any other woman but her.