Page 15 of Deception and Desire
“I thought we decided to call her your companion? A maid would not be sharing our meals and joining us on our outings.”
“I forgot.” Fenella giggled. “Mother would have an apoplectic fit if she knew, but Rose is enjoying herself. And it makes me happy to see it.”
“She’s been a good friend to ye over the years,” agreed her grandmother. “But she’s an equal in my eyes and welcome wherever we go. Where is she, by the way?”
“Next door at the modiste’s. She’s having one of my dresses refitted.” Fenella picked up the latest broadsheet and laughed at a caricature by the popular George Cruikshank, browsed the announcements of upcoming theater productions, and skimmed the advertisements. Her eyes stopped at the bottom of the page. “That’s it!”
“What’sit?” her grandmother asked, not looking up from her embroidery.
“An advertisement for a bookkeeper. The MacNaughton Textile Mill. It says to apply within, during working hours.” Fenella’s mind was already whirling. Managing ledgers for a company. She was familiar with the types of goods the mill would buy and sell. It was like a gift from heaven. “I must apply.”
“Hold on, lassie. What will ye tell this employer? Ye’re here visiting your grandmother for the summer and would like to work for a bit because ye need something to occupy yer time?” Aileen’s lips pursed. “And ye’re afemale. That’s typically an educated man’s position.”
“I’m educated,” she argued but her heart sank. Grandmama was right. She tossed her head against the brocade chair and pushed at the russet wool carpet with her toes. “I don’t know what is worse—having nothing to do or putting up with those horrid people in London.”
“Let’s talk this through before ye start yer scheming.”
Fenella leapt up and threw her arms around the plump woman. “Grandmama, I know you’ll help me find a way.”
“I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t solve.” Aileen kissed her cheek. “What if ye stick with the truth but leave some facts out.”
“So, Ishouldbe visiting from England?”
Her grandmother tapped a finger against her mouth. “What if we just say ye’re living with me and not go into any detail about the length of yer stay. But ye’d have to be sure and give them plenty of notice before ye return home.”
Fenella stood, her brows coming together in her concentration. “What if they ask about my circumstances? I’m unmarried. Surely they’ll want to know about my present situation.”
“Och, Scots are a wee more private than those blethering Londoners, so he should be easily satisfied.” Aileen tapped her mouth as she thought. “Yer grandmother’s getting older and ye’ve come to help. It’s no’ a lie. Ye thought ye’d be working in the book store. In fact, mention my name. Yer grandfather and our business were highly respected.”
With a nod, Fenella began planning and pacing. “What if I’m asked about my parents?”
“Tell them the truth. Ye’re mother is half Scot, and yer father is English and gone back home. Ye’ve spent every summer here since a child, and now ye’ve come to stay with me.”
“What shall I wear?”
“Something plain, no’ too showy. Ye need to appear as a working girl, no’ gentry. We’ll pull that lovely hair back into a tidy chignon and give ye a high collar.” Aileen’s eyes darted up and down Fenella’s long frame. “It will be hard to hide yer good looks, but we’ll do our best. Send a note, request an appointment, and give them yer address here. On Monday, we’ll shop for proper working clothes, and ye’ll be ready by Wednesday.”
MacNaughton Textile Mill.Her stomach knotted with anticipation as she sat down at the desk to write the letter. Poking the nub in the inkwell, she paused. What if she enjoyed being a modern lady, working and making her own way?
Evie’s letters hadn’t mentioned Lord Brecken, the earl they’d met. If her sister didn’t marry a title, er, titledgentleman, then it would still be up to Fenella to make her mother’s dream come true. If Eviedidmarry, Fenella would be set up with a nice, tidy life here in Glasgow. She could refuse to leave her grandmother. With engaging work to occupy her mind and a pleasant set of friends, she could be happy here. A husband of thetoncould never provide her with either of those things. Was her father giving her an escape of sorts? A choice?
She ended the inquiry with the signatureF. Franklin, keeping her cards close to her chest. Why take the chance of immediate rejection because she was female? At least she’d have an opportunity to prove herself in person.
*
Lachlan looked upat the archaic structure, tinged with smoke and age. He’d always liked the building, especially the sign above the towering entrance: MacNaughton Textile. He was proud of the family business. His grandfather had gone into partnership with his English son-in-law, Earl of Stanfeld. The earl, not able to dirty his hands with trade, had financed the venture. Calum had furnished the manual labor and knowledge. The MacNaughtons’ sheep had provided the wool, and their clansmen had run the original eighteen looms. Of course, the mill had grown over the years, the earl had died, and their cousin Gideon had recently taken over for his father. The next generation, full of new ideas and ambition, were making a splash in the ocean of industrialization.
He pulled open one of the great oak doors and entered the huge warehouse. The clamor of the power looms that dominated the weaving shed vibrated within him. He always felt so… alive in this place. Compact steel frames glinted silver in the early afternoon rays slanting through dusty floor-to-ceiling windows. The hectic pace of the wooden shafts created an ear-splittingclickety clackas the bars moved up and down, holding thewarp, or vertical threads. The spindle-shaped shuttle flew back and forth behind the warp, pulling thread in the opposite direction to create a weave. All this chaotic motion produced the exceptional cloth the MacNaughtons were known for across Scotland and England.
A small boy darted in front of him, lugging a basket of bobbins ready for reloading into shuttles, another taller boy behind him hauling water. They both wore unbleached cotton shirts with rough dark wool vests and knee breeches. The older boy wore a battered cap, which he doffed in Lachlan’s direction, conversation not possible over the din of the machinery. He nodded back, then saw Colin, his second cousin, approach from the back of the long aisle, wiping his hands on a black-stained cloth. His dark hair was speckled with dust that matched the silver at his temples. A smile widened his face, adding to the laugh lines around the MacNaughton blue eyes. He held out a still-dirty hand with no apologies.
“Lachlan! Good to see ye, mon. I’ve been greasing up the new loom Ian brought back. She’s a bonnie piece of equipment.” He dropped the rag onto the shoulder of the young boy passing by again, his basket now full of empty bobbins. “Yer brother’s upstairs in the office. He’s been expecting ye.”
They climbed the steps, talking easily about family. Colin was a second cousin, close to ten years older, who helped oversee the workers and keep the machines running. He had a gift for fixing anything broken. Except hearts, according to several Highland lasses. They found Ian behind a chipped walnut desk, a finger running down a column of figures and his other hand gripping a handful of his dark brown hair.
“Blast these numbers. It’ll take me hours to go back through these figures and find the mistake.” Ian blew out a long breath and looked up. “Och, I thought ye were only Colin.” He walked around and gave Lachlan a rough hug.
“OnlyColin? I’d like to hear ye say that the next time ye need a repair done. It would cost us a small fortune to hire a mon just to stand around and wait for a shaft to crack or a weddle to snap.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, glowering at Ian. “And ye still owe me a drink. I’ve no’ forgotten.”
