Page 33 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“A change to our workers’ hours.”
Horace took the paper, relieved that his eyes seemed able to focus very well today. He saw a contract with the Gladstone and Coates business name emblazoned across the top. The text detailed longer working hours for their factory employees. Time was allocated for lunch, but it was regimented and checked each day.
“Now we have introduced people to oversee when others take their breaks, we’ve seen a significant improvement in productivity. The longer hours have helped with that too. Here, look at this.” Walter passed over another document. This one was a productive versus income report. “Look at our profits.”
Horace could scarcely look at the profits, though. He set aside that paper back on the desk and looked at the contract again.
“Walter…” Horace grunted out his name, in surprise. “What happens to people who are late or who miss these hours?”
“They’re fined. They do not receive as much of their pay,” Walter said simply, reaching for another paper to show him.
“What if they’re ill?” Horace asked pointedly, gesturing to him.
“Some of them put it on, that’s all.” Walter waved away the matter. “They’re just trying to get free money out of us.”
“Hmm.” Horace clenched his fingers around the paper. If his illness had indeed been caused by their factories and the chemicals in those buildings, he would hardly be surprised if people were late to work or took longer lunches because they too were ill. Something swirled in his gut, an unpleasant feeling that made him place the paper on his lap, refusing to return it to the pile just yet.
“Here’s one of the businesses we’ve bought out.” Walter passed him another paper. “Look at the profits here.”
Horace took the paper but scanned quickly to find what he wanted. Further down the page, it specified that the employee’s salaries had been reduced.
“Walter, look at the pay.” Horace nodded at the paper. “You lowered it.”
“It’s what we’ve always done,” Walter said plainly, moving on fast. “It was your idea, remember? When we bought our first factory together. We promise more money, but in order for them to get it, they have to work longer hours.” He reached for more papers.
It happened again and again. Reports were shoved under Horace’s nose, which spoke of profits, but all the time, they were squeezing the workers in order to get those profits. Horace could remember the first time they had bought a factory and suggested they did the longer hours. He’d been a fool. He’d thought everyone must have had the energy that he had at that age; everyone had the good health he had.
That is not the way the world works.
“Come, shall we share a drink to celebrate our success? You had a mighty fine claret the other night at our dinner.”
“No, not today, I’m afraid. I’m trying to avoid wine at present.” It was the truth, though Horace had another reason he didn’t want to share the claret with Walter at this moment. The wish to celebrate when so many lives were being treated poorly was somewhat sickening. “Do we have a report on the welfare of our workers?”
“What do you mean? Welfare?” Walter frowned as he sat in the chair opposite the writing bureau, as if he had never heard the word before.
“I mean, have we asked about our workers’ health? What their home lives are like?”
“No. That doesn’t relate to our profits, does it? Why would we need to pry into their lives?”
Slowly, Horace put the papers back on the bureau.
“I’m afraid I’m tired.” Horace lied. For a change, he felt like he had some energy, but it served as a good excuse to get Walter out of the house. “Would you do me a favor and leave the papers here so I can look over them at leisure? You can return another time for us to discuss.”
“Of course.” Walter stood with a smile. “I think you’ll be happy at our profits, and I am so glad to see you are doing better.” As he left, he clapped Horace on the arm warmly. Horace even managed a smile, comforted by the presence of the friend he had known so long, and quite frankly, could not imagine his life without.
The moment the door closed behind Walter; he realized what the sickening feeling in his gut was. It had nothing to do with his illness.
“It’s guilt,” he murmured aloud.
***
Orla opened the door and strode into the room, carrying a tray for his tea.
Horace looked up from Walter’s papers. He’d spent the last three days getting to grips with the papers in great detail, as much as he possibly could. The only time he ever stopped reading seemed to be when she entered the room.
“Do I need to wrestle them off you?” she asked with a smile. “Last night, to persuade you to go to bed, I thought I might have to.” She placed the tray down on the table beside him.
“You might have to.” An image of Orla wrestling him for control of the papers entered his mind. He was tempted to flirt, to talk of the two of them wrestling in this room, perhaps falling onto this desk together. His length stirred beneath his trousers and he was glad he was sitting at the writing bureau, to hide it from straining against the material.
