Page 42 of The Dravenhearst Brides
“I’m not a child,” he snapped, finally losing his composure. He jabbed two fingers toward the distillery behind them. “I’m aman. A man trying desperately to preserve a family business that hasn’t turned a profit in over a decade. I’m a man busting his ass from sunup to sundown to do the work of twenty,alone. A man who has been on his own—managing an entire estate—since he was sixteen goddamn years old. Half my miserable life. So forgive me if I haven’t paid you enough attention,darling, but the world does not,cannot, stop turning every time a debutante bride comes to Dravenhearst Manor.” He finished in a wild huff, his eyes alight with fire and something Margot, with her own grief-seasoned gaze, recognized as pain.
She didn’t have experience with raging men, but Margot did know what it was like to feel all alone in the world.
Half my miserable life,he’d said.Alone.
She took a deep breath. “I only asked about the barrels.” Her voice was soft. “Will you tell me about them?”
“What?”His tone was still quite fierce. Unwilling to back down.
“I’d like to know about them. How you make them, why you make them, everything about them. They’re magnificent.”
They were outside the manor, on the portico before the front door.
“I…” His voice cracked. “I make them to remember. Bourbon spends years in the barrel, the distillate diffusing in and out of the wood’s pores. We call it the devil’s cut, the portion the barrel absorbs during maturation. But what remains, whatsurvives, is stronger for it, sharpened and aged. Loss turned transformative.”
“Transformative,” she repeated softly. She’d never thought of loss in such a manner. “Who taught you how to make them?”
“No one taught me.” His brows dipped, frown lines appearing. “I taught myself.”
“Not your father?”
“He bought his barrels. I bought ’em too, before Prohibition. But then the money dried up, and I had to find another way.”
“Well, there’s plenty of money now.”It’s why you married me.“If you still need more barrels—though I can’t imagine why—we can place an order for a shipment.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe in paying another man for a job I can do myself.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. She tilted her head.
“The tide is turning against Prohibition, Margot. Mark my words, I’ll be making and selling bourbon by the new year. Which means I need to start filling barrels as soon as possible. That’s what Alastair was doing here, trying to shake me down.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the papers, handing the top copy to her.
“What’s this?” She skimmed the document, her head twinging at numbers and sums running up and down the page. She thrust it toward him, immediately disinterested.
“It’s a bill. For a grain shipment from Alastair’s farm,” he explained. He pushed the paper back into her hands. “I need it to make mash. That’s your copy.”
“Why do I need a copy?” she asked, confused.And what the hell is mash?
Merrick stuck his hands back in his pockets and looked skyward, avoiding eye contact. “For your records. Because I’m going to repay you. Every cent.”
Margot narrowed her eyes. “Repay me?”
“It’s technically your money, not mine—which Alastair made damn sure I knew.” His jaw ticked. “I don’t have enough scratch left in my own accounts to kickstart the distillery into working order, but once we start selling bourbon again, the cashflow will follow. Consider this a start-up loan. One I intend to repay in full, soon as I’m able.”
“Your accounts…my accounts…” Margot shook her head. “We’re married. What’s mine is yours.Ours.You don’t have to ask for a loan.”
“I want to.” His eyes snapped to hers. “I’m not proud I have to, but I sacrificed my pride a long time ago to keep the distillery afloat.”
He offered nothing else. No excuses, no pleas. Margot found she admired him for it. She could tell this was important to him, even if she didn’t fully understand why. Slowly, she nodded. “Okay then. A loan.”
“Thank you.” He pulled the creaky door open for her. They walked up the stairs in silence, past the portrait of Babette and Richard.
It wasn’t until they were standing outside their separate doors that Merrick spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Margot? Do you know how many jobs Prohibition cost in this state?”
“I…what?” The question caught her off-guard. “I’ve no clue how many distilleries were shut down, but I’m sure hundreds of good men—”
“Hundreds?” He shook his head. “Trythousands. The distilleries are but the tip of the iceberg. What about the barrel cooperages? Bottle manufacturers? Farmers who supplied the grain for bourbon mash? Do youknow how much money Kentucky lost in taxable revenue? How many state programs went underfunded before being cut?”
“I…I’ve never thought of it,” she murmured, lowering her lashes.
