Page 36 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“That it does,” he agreed. “It’s the mills at work.” He noticed as she leaned back in her seat, their arms brushed together. He chose not to move away, and to his shock, she didn’t move either. “It’s your home, this town, isn’t it?”
“I’m fortunate to have two homes. I’m lucky enough to be born Irish,” she reminded him, looking up at him as he smiled, “but this is my second home. With all its faults, aye, Manchester it still home.”
He longed to ask her more, to know everything he could about Orla, but the carriage had come to a stop and Adam was opening the carriage door. Adam led the way and Horace stepped down.
He had one bout of dizziness as he looked about the grey streets, but Adam held onto his arm, steadying him just as Orla stepped down too.
“This way,” Adam pleaded.
Horace followed close behind his friend. He felt disoriented, for it had been so long since he had been in this part of town. Everywhere he looked, it was indeed grey. People sat in the streets were in rags. There was a newspaper boy, who was using his papers for a bed, and a cobbler passing by, who smiled at them all with no teeth in his gums.
As they reached the door of the mill, Adam didn’t take them straight onto the factory floor, but through an office instead.
“Sir, my lord,” a supervisor jumped up from his seat. Judging by the bottle he’d hidden hastily in the drawer of his desk, he’d notbeen keeping a good eye on the mill, but preferred to look at his whisky bottle instead. “My lord, it has been so many years. Many years indeed.”
Yet Horace was no longer listening. He’d moved to the vast open window attached to the office that looked out over the factory. Wisps of cotton hung in the air, like a strange sort of snow. It smelled dank with an odd chemical element attached to the scent. Men and women worked, heads bent forward, some with bodies bent double. One man in particular seemed to be coughing his own lungs up, waving his hand in the air as he tried to bat the cotton away.
Something is wrong with him.
“He’s got cotton on his lungs,” one man cried to another. “He needs some fresh air.”
Yet the man was not given fresh air. The supervisor nearest to the spluttering man simply warned him that if he didn’t work, he wouldn’t get paid.
Horace felt sick as he reached forward with one hand, planting his palm against the window frame, staring at how his wealth was being produced. Beside him, he felt a touch in his own palm. He looked down, with difficulty tearing his gaze away from the factory, as Orla slipped her fingers into his own.
Chapter 11
“My lord,” Orla whispered to the baron. She had started herself. Her heart was pounding against her ribcage. The clatter of the machinery, the shouts and calls for people to work faster, were something she hadn’t expected. Even when Thomas had tried to describe this place to her, it wasn’t enough to prepare her for what was before her eyes.
The cotton hovered in the air in the most unnatural way. Some bits flew away, like dandelion seeds on the wind, others hung on machinery, great clumps that would not be moved. The man who had spluttered before, having breathed too much cotton in, did so again, buckled with the sheer strength of such a cough.
Baron’s hand flinched in her grasp at the sound of the cough. She turned her chin toward him, taking in the sight of his expression. There was horror lingering there, his eyes darting around the space, yet her sympathies tightened in her chest even as she clutched to him, trying to offer silent comfort.
He did this. This is his factory. Is he to blame for all of this? This… state?
Then something awful happened, making them both stumble closer to the window. A child moved between the factory machines, coughing, the sound much more feeble than the bracing barks of the other man. The boy wiped cotton from hisface and hair, though it did little good. It followed behind him, some sort of eerie white shadow. An arm of the mill machinery came down behind the boy, barely missing his head, though he didn’t seem to notice it.
“Boy,” one of the elder men barked at the child. “Something’s jamming this machine. I need you to get under and pull the cotton out.” He had to yell above the clatters of the other machines to be heard. The boy nodded and laid on his stomach, reaching into the darkness. If any part of the machine moved now, it would come down upon him.
“No,” Orla whispered in terror, her fear making her body tremble. She could feel all the more now how the baron’s hand was shaking, too.
“This… this is not what it should be,” he muttered. As the boy managed to scramble out again, just before the machinery moved again, she looked up at the baron.
It’s his responsibility, this place. How it’s run is all down to his choice.
“If I may offer some advice to you both,” Adam’s voice came from behind the two of them. He clearly had stepped away from the supervisor’s rather eager conversation. “Release hands, before you are seen.”
Orla snapped her hand away, just as the baron did. She avoided looking him in the eye and had no idea what his response was to the two of them being seen to give such an outward show of affection for one another. She focused back on the cotton mill, searching for one face in particular.
Where are you, Thomas?
“My Lord? I am the floor manager here,” the supervisor said, stepping forward again. “Would you like a tour? I can discuss the running of this place with you if you are eager to know more? We had Mr. Gladstone here just this last week. He was most pleased with the place.”
“Was he?” The baron’s voice was plainly scathing, though the man didn’t appear to notice.
“Oh, yes, shall I show you? But…” He hesitated, glancing toward Orla. “I fear this is not a place for a fine young lady to take a tour.”
“Fine?” Orla spluttered. “Aye, grand,” she chuckled with a scoff. “Am I thought too good to be amongst these people? I wonder why they are not thought too good for this place, either.” The man frowned, clearly not understanding her, but the baron did. He looked sick and pale. She nearly reached for his arm.
