Page 35 of The Time for Love
Martin neared as Ben replied, “I believe he is, miss. In the office still, I think.”
“Thank you!” She waved at Martin. “Mr. Cynster is with me.”
With that, she hurried across the open yard in front of the huge works.
With his longer legs, Martin quickly caught up. He peered at her face. “The old man?”
“John Brown, the owner of Atlas.” She spared a quick glance at Martin’s face, along with a very swift grin. “He’s my godfather.”
“Ah.” Martin nodded. “You really are a child of this town.”
That, Sophy thought, was a gross understatement. She reached the main office, hauled open the door, and rushed in.
Following at Sophy’s heels, over her head, Martin scanned the office. His gaze landed on a female secretary who kept guard behind a raised counter.
The woman’s stern expression softened at the sight of Sophy. “Miss Carmichael. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
“Good morning, Agnes. Is Mr. Brown available? It’s a matter of some urgency.” Sophy halted before the counter. “Actually, regarding that, you might be able to help me. Apparently, there’s been some sort of mix-up, and Atlas might be under the impression that I’ve canceled Carmichael’s standing order for pig iron.”
Agnes’s expression grew serious. “I understood—”
“Sophy, my girl!” a jovial voice called through the open doorway of an adjoining office. “Just the person I most wanted to see.”
A second later, a large middle-aged man with a presence to match his voice loomed in the doorway. He beamed at Sophy as she turned to him with obvious relief. He strode up, holding out his hands to take hers. “I was just wondering if I should come down and see you, my dear, and instead, here you are.”
“Uncle John.” Sophy gripped his hands and looked into his face, her expression one of worry and concern. “First, let me say how sorry I am about that dray.”
Brown’s smile didn’t waver. “That was hardly your fault, my dear.” A hard gleam appeared in Brown’s eyes. “However, it did prompt me to increase our nighttime patrols. I’m not convinced that was an accident, and if so”—he squeezed Sophy’s fingers—“I can only be glad we had nothing worse to deal with than a shaken driver and his mate.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately, that’s not the only accident that’s been occurring around and about Carmichael’s.”
Surprised, Brown eased his grip, and Sophy retrieved her fingers.
“Indeed, it’s another of those happenings that’s brought us here.” She stared into Brown’s face. “I heard that Atlas might be laboring under the misapprehension that I’ve canceled our order.”
Brown’s expression sobered. “I did wonder why, after all these years, you’d decided to stop ordering from us. That was what I was wanting to see you about.”
“But I haven’t canceled anything!” Sophy all but wailed.
“Actually…”
Along with Sophy and Brown, Martin glanced at Agnes; it was she who had spoken.
She held up a sheet of paper. “I have the letter canceling the order here, Miss Carmichael.”
Lips setting, Sophy hurried to the counter. “Let me see that.” She brushed past Martin, then paused and looked at Brown. “My apologies. I should have introduced you. This is Mr. Martin Cynster. He’s been helping me with all the accidents we’ve been having.”
She glanced briefly at Martin, and the line of her lips softened. “And this”—she waved at Brown—“is, indeed, John Brown, commonly known as the Father of the Sheffield Iron and Steel Trade and owner of the Atlas Works.” To Brown, she added, “As you’ll hear if you come to Carmichael’s, Martin saved my life—mine and several of our workmen’s—last Saturday. And as you’ll no doubt discover, he’s also interested in your favorite subject, steel.”
With that brief but effective introduction, she turned to Agnes.
Brown had been eyeing Martin curiously from the first. Now, he thrust out his hand. “Anyone who saves Sophy’s life is always welcome at Atlas.”
Valiantly trying to conceal his eagerness, Martin shook hands. “I’m thrilled to meet you, sir.” He glanced at Sophy. “I’m only just discovering how much a part of the Sheffield iron and steel trade Sophy is.”
“Indeed, she’s very much one of us, as the saying goes. But speaking of belonging”—Brown narrowed his eyes on Martin’s face—“unless I miss my guess, you’re the Cynster who’s taken over the old foundry at Rotherham.”
Martin admitted he was.
