Page 11 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

“I’m afraid I do not dance.

“You don’tdance?”

“No, I can’t.”

“You can’t? Not even aquadrille?”

A slight flush crept over Freeman’s face. “I’m afraid not. I never learned.”

“Buthow? How can you have learned to fence and not dance?” In a way, they were similar accomplishments. Genteel skills that set one apart from the common horde.

“My father had some singular ideas. He saw purpose in fencing—a man can defend himself with a blade after all—but none in dancing.”

Lysander frowned in puzzlement. “Why should the purpose of the thing matter?”

“My father was a man of strong principles. He described himself as a practical utilitarian. Philosophically, he was a follower of Mr. Bentham—he believed the right way forward in any situation is the one that benefits the most people.”

“That not the sort of view I’d expect a man like your father to hold,” Lysander replied. “It sounds rather radical—wasn’t your father, well, awfully wealthy?” Too late he realised how rude that comment was, and his cheeks flushed with heat. “I’m sorry, that was—”

“Don’t apologise. My father was a blunt man and he’d’ve appreciated your directness.” Freeman smiled. “To answer your question, in a different life I think he may well have been a radical. He was a man of strong principles, but he was pragmatic too. His beginnings were humble, and his first priority was to make a success of himself, which he did. And he was able to do a great deal of good with his wealth, in his later years.”

“How did he make a success of himself?” Lysander asked, his curiosity sparked by the expression on Freeman’s face, the affectionate smile and the slight wistfulness there.

“Well, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith at fourteen, and then he became a journeyman mechanic in a mill, maintaining and installing machines. He was fascinated by machines and began to work on his own inventions.” Adam gave another of those wistful smiles. “Right to the end of his life, he was happiest tinkering in his workshop. And his fascination served him well—at twenty-four he invented a particular sort of valve that improved the workings of the engines on a variety of the machines at the mill. He obtained a patent for it and began to make good money. More inventions followed, and a few years later he started his own engineering firm. Then he set up a machine works, making precision parts. It was only much later that he bought his first mill.”

“I had no idea about any of that,” Lysander admitted.

“I’m not surprised,” Freeman said. “He was always spoken of as a ‘mill-owner’ but the truth is, he only bought the first mill to save it—it was the one he’d worked in when he was a young man. When he heard it was to close, he decided to buy it. Once he became involved in the industry, though, he became enthused by it—that was how he was.”

“So he bought more?”

“A few, and built his own. The last was the one at New Ryesdale. He built the mill and a whole town around it for the workers. Houses for six hundred families—good, clean houses—a church and two schools with day and evening classes, open to all.” Freeman met Lysander’s gaze. “Other mill owners told him the workers would turn it to ruins in a twelvemonth, that they were not capable of appreciating such luxuries. They were wrong.”

Lysander felt a sudden flush of shame. His own father had workers—labourers who toiled in the fields of the home farm. The last time Lysander had been back at the family estate, he’d noticed how dilapidated their cottages were. He’d raised it with the earl repeatedly, but his father had brushed his comments aside, over and over. And yesterday he’d made it plain that it was none of Lysander’s business.

“My father put the greatest value onusefulthings,” Freeman said. “And he did not consider dancing to be particularly useful.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “He wouldn’t have stayed more than five minutes at any of those houses you took me to this afternoon. He’d have disapproved of everyone—me included—and told them so right to their faces.” He smiled at Lysander. “And they’d’ve thought him exceedingly coarse, I’m sure.”

“He wouldn’t have disapproved ofyou,” Lysander said.

“Yes, he would. He’d have thought me a toad-eater.”

Lysander let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, you were no toad-eater, Mr. Freeman. The reason they were so vile to you was precisely because of that.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so. I certainly felt like one as I listened to opinions that disgusted me and said nothing to oppose them.”

“For Simon.”

Freeman sighed. “Yes, despite my better judgment.” He drank again, then refilled both of their glasses.

The footman arrived with their food then. He set down their plates, piled high with roast beef, and a silver jug of gravy. Side dishes of braised dumplings and celery. A pot of mustard and another of horseradish. Hearty food for manly appetites.

“This looks good,” Freeman said, reaching for the horseradish.

They tucked in, both hungry, and for a few minutes, silence reigned. When Lysander finally came up for air—once fully half his plate was gone—he returned to the conversation they’d abandoned. “So, you never learned to dance.”

Freeman smiled cheerfully. “No, I never did.”

“But Simon did. I’ve seen him dance at balls with Althea.”