Page 47 of A Bonny Pretender
“Aye, right,” he said with a grunt and a smile. “Ye just want me to behave myself.”
*
Frank had takena hackney earlier in the afternoon and now stood outside the MacNaughton Textile Company. He was to meet the ladies for a tour of the mill and the city. The weather was chilly and gray, and he squinted up at the stone monstrosity that matched the day. A dreary building of smooth sandstone and lime tinged with smoke and age; it resembled a prison more than a factory. For some, he supposed, they could be one in the same. Large, opaque windows lined each of the three stories, allowing light to enter but discouraging any outside eyes. A loud humming floated from the huge double-doors.
The noise from inside competed with the traffic behind him. The street was busy with carriages, carts, and horses. Drivers called to a friend or cursed a conveyance that cut them off. Peddlers shouted out their wares. Pedestrians passed him by, some with a smile, nod, or tip of a hat; others with their head down and an urgency to their step. A carriage stopped in front of the textile company. Frank recognized the dour driver MacGregor that he’d met the previous day. The older man had helped unload luggage when he’d delivered Lady Brecken to her grandmother’s home. That same lady, her sister, and Brigid were both being escorted from the vehicle.
“Lord Raines,” called Mrs. MacNaughton. “It is lovely to see you again.”
Frank startled a moment, taking in this tall, willowy blonde. The first time he’d met her, when she was still a Franklin, he hadn’t known of his real parentage. She was a female version of himself. Did no one else notice the resemblance? Had Lady Brecken shared his secret with her sister?
He bowed to the ladies, and Brigid took his arm. “Did ye sleep well? Is yer hotel to yer liking?”
Frank smiled at her concern. Or was it a selfish hope that he’d have to move in with her Aunt Maeve? This Scottish beauty had no idea of societal rules. Regardless, her presence calmed his nerves. This was the introduction he’d been dreading. “It’s suitable. Comfortable bed, edible food, and Barker has seen to my every need.”
“Grandmama sent a tin of shortbread,” announced Lady Brecken. “It’s singlehandedly responsible for Fenella’s marriage to Lachlan.”
“Shortbread?” Had he heard her right?
“Yes, but it’s a long story,” answered Lady Brecken. “I promise to tell you later.”
“I’d wager there’ll be much to talk about,” added Mrs. MacNaughton, studying him with a keen eye.
She knows,he thought, not sure if he should be dismayed or relieved.
“I dinna ken what to expect after the fire. Fenella and Lachlan said the main damage was in the store rooms.” Brigid propelled him up the steps. He pulled on the heavy oak doors, and the noise assaulted them.
Inside it was a hectic production. Rows of power looms filled the huge ground floor with mostly men manning the machines. Older children scurried in the aisles, carrying buckets or baskets of bobbins. Frank had only seen weaving done by hand as a child. Now, he marveled at the speed of the looms. The compact steel frames glinted in the sunlight pouring in from the large dusty windows, their deafening mechanicalclickety-clackdrowning out any conversation by the employees.
“Welcome to MacNaughton Textile,” boomed a voice over the machinery. Even from a distance, Frank gauged the man to the biggest he’d ever met. He considered himself tall and had rarely come across a man that surpassed him. The Scot wore a kilt of the same pattern Brigid always wore, with white socks and a linen shirt. His thick arms and broad chest left little room inside the material. Bloody hell, was this her brother? Silver threaded the man’s sideburns, and the same blue eyes peered down at him.
“This is Colin, my cousin,” yelled Brigid over the din. “This is Lord Raines.”
The man smiled down at him, and Frank had the impression it was forced. They were prepared to dislike him, then. Because he was English or because they were protective over the youngest MacNaughton?
Blast!It might be both. Frank straightened to his full height and held out his hand. Colin took it in a firm shake, but not the squeeze Frank had expected. That was a step in the right direction, he supposed.
Mrs. MacNaughton bid them farewell, and Colin led the group down the aisles. After describing how the looms worked, Colin held out his arms and shooed them down the aisle. Frank noted the still-strong odor of smoke. “This side of the factory is the wool shed, with two other sections for cotton and flax.”
Frank noticed several very young boys fetching items for the adults or standing by the shuttles, ready to replace the wefts with more thread. “They can’t be more than six or seven years old,” he said in Brigid’s ear as they entered a hallway. “Is this where Boy-O will work?”
Colin shut a thick oak door, muffling the clamor of the workroom. Brigid began her reply in a yell, then adjusted her voice. “Families need the income, my lord. Contrary to other factories, we make sure they’re in positions that willna cause them harm. There are enough accidents in the workplace without adding a child’s death to anyone’s conscience.”
They proceeded up a flight of stairs and into another large room. Here, rows of handlooms filled the space, and all the workers were women. “They used to do the weaving at home, but it’s cheaper to have them here,” explained Colin. “We get a solid day’s work and higher productivity, and they receive a steadier income.”
The back of the warehouse was once again filled with bolts of cloth and sacks of wool and flax. A background of charred walls and replaced beams were evidence of the recent fire, along with a powerful odor of burned flax and wool. “How much did we lose?” asked Brigid.
“No’ that there’s a silver lining to any of this, but we were in between shipments. We’d just sent out our finished goods, and most of the raw materials were due the following day.” Colin’s face hardened as he looked out toward the activity on the dock. A barge was being unloaded, and men lumbered past them with canvas sacks on their shoulders. “Thank God, the looms were unharmed. That would have put us under.”
Another revelation. The MacNaughton men discussed business—finances—with the women. Frank realized meeting the men might shed more light on the woman he was determined to marry. He sensed there were things she wasn’t telling him, yet was hesitant to push her.
He had secrets of his own.
Brigid pulled him away from the conversation and over to a dusty window. She wiped at it with the side of her fist, and they both peered out. Below to their left, a second ship bobbed in the choppy waves of the Clyde. Workers loaded crates and bags onto carts and wheeled them off the dock. To her right, he could see part of the giant water wheel, churning the river to produce the energy needed for production. It was fascinating to see the entire process.
They ended the tour in the office. Frank expected to find Lachlan there, but instead Mrs. MacNaughton sat working the ledgers. The large room held a chipped walnut desk and several mismatched chairs. One wall held shelves lined with books on textiles, weaving, and dyes. There were texts filled with illustrations of different types of machinery and others with various cloth samples.
“I’m afraid my husband had to meet a client, Lord Raines,” she announced, pinning him with his own clear, gray eyes. “He and Colin will meet you at the Black Bull for a pint at seven tonight.”
