What Happens Under the Mistletoe

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Just the mention of her and a bed threatened to overset his control. Determinedly, he glanced at her mother. “You, too, Mrs. Keane?”

  “Oh, I never rise before ten. But then, I don’t run the mills. Amanda insists upon being there as early as her workers.”

  The mills. Right. He should focus on that.

  Wait, she went in at the same time as her workers? How odd. Few mill owners did that. Of course, few were women, either. Amanda seemed to be extraordinary in many respects.

  Like the fact that she ate a robust breakfast more suitable to a farmer’s daughter. And that she—like her mother—was dressed soberly this morning. Like him, they wore no expensive linens, no rich silks, no lace, as if somehow they’d known that serviceable wool gowns and cheap cotton fichus would be more suitable for today’s foray into town.

  “So where exactly are we going this morning?” Mrs. Keane asked.

  Stephen glanced at Amanda. “Didn’t you tell her?”

  “Not the specifics. You didn’t mention them when we discussed it. You were too busy making bargains.” She cast him a secretive little smirk that tightened every muscle in his body. He could practically see the look on her face last night as she’d blown him that kiss.

  “Ah, yes.” Let her smirk. He’d have the last laugh. “You said you wanted to speak to my sources. I thought we’d start in town with Mrs. Chapel.”

  “And what does Mrs. Chapel do at the mill?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are we visiting her?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Last night he’d decided there was only one way to decipher the real Amanda Keane—put her in certain situations and watch her react. Because he had to know where she stood. He owed it to himself . . . and to the girl whose memory he honored. To all the children who deserved better than a wretched existence as pauper apprentices.

  After they finished breakfast, they headed into the foyer. Amanda donned a somber blue cloak and bonnet very different from her festive green yesterday, yet they didn’t keep him from itching to kiss her as she passed under the bough.

  He scowled. Why the hell must she do this to him? He’d kissed plenty of women in his day. While at Oxford, he’d even joined Warren on a few expeditions to the stews of London. Yet nothing had ever affected him as profoundly as the simple pleasure of having Amanda in his arms. Indeed, it was all he could do not to drag her back into them as he helped her into the carriage.

  While the women settled against the squabs, he leapt in to take his seat opposite them and ordered the driver to go on. Then he leaned back to fix Amanda with an even look. “You mentioned touring some English mills. Which ones?”

  “Henley in Manchester. Wright’s in Liverpool. And of course, the most important one and the one I primarily wished to see—New Lanark.”

  “Ah, yes,” he said cynically, “everyone’s favorite model cotton mill.”

  “We were very impressed,” Mrs. Keane gushed. “I’ve never seen a mill town built from the ground up, with decent lodgings for the workers and schools for their children.”

  But Amanda had caught Stephen’s sarcasm. “I take it you are not so impressed, my lord.”

  He sighed. “Don’t misunderstand me. I admire what Robert Owen has done. I merely wish he wasn’t the only forward-thinking fellow. It took him years to make enough profit to please his investors, and even then, he had to buy some of them out before he found men willing to see his vision. Sadly, no one else wants to follow his stellar example.”

  “I do,” Amanda said stoutly. “I hope to model my own factories after New Lanark.”

  “Hope to? So that’s a new endeavor?”

  She glanced out at the snowy fields they were passing. “For me, yes.”

  Mrs. Keane smiled thinly. “My late husband and daughter didn’t always see eye to eye on the running of our mills. Now that he’s gone, Amanda wants to make improvements.” Before he could remark that wanting and doing were very different things, Mrs. Keane added, “And speaking of family disagreements, is it true that you and your brother, the marquess, are at odds?”

  The abrupt change of subject, not to mention the highly personal nature of the question, threw him entirely off guard.

  “Mama,” Amanda chided, “that’s his lordship’s private business.”

  “It can’t be all that private,” her mother said with a sniff. “Everyone heard him and his brother arguing in the drawing room last night.”

  He burst into laughter. Mrs. Keane was apparently as forthright as her daughter. “Warren was merely trying to convince me in his usual autocratic fashion to move back home, where he can keep me under his thumb.” His brother hadn’t admitted that was his intention, but Stephen suspected it was.

  “You don’t live at home?” Amanda asked, bracing herself in a turn.

  “No. If I did, it would make it harder for me to convince the workers that I’m their champion. This may surprise you, but some of us ‘whose idea of hard work is writing an article’ have the courage of our convictions.”

  Amanda winced. “I . . . er . . . suppose I should apologize for that particular remark. I know that you do more than write—that you give speeches about reform and take great care with your research.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’m well aware of your reputation,” she said defensively. “And I laud your efforts. I just hate your assumption that all mill owners are alike, that the perfidy of the ones you haven’t destroyed with your pen merely hasn’t yet been revealed.”

  He resisted the impulse to squirm under that rather harsh assessment. He focused on the bad ones because he wanted to shut them down. That didn’t mean he hated all mill owners.

  “So if you don’t live at home, Lord Stephen,” Mrs. Keane said, clearly trying to steer the discussion into safer waters, “where do you live?”

  He tore his gaze from Amanda to smile genially at her mother. “I have modest lodgings in Chelsea, but I’m seldom there since I travel so much.”

  Mrs. Keane arched an eyebrow. “And how does your wife feel about that?”

  He stifled a smile. Apparently matchmaking mothers were the same the world over. “I’m not married, madam.”

  “Why not?” the woman pressed. “You seem old enough.”

  “Mama!” Amanda said with more force this time . . . and a decided blush.

  Absurdly, that blush pleased him. It reminded him that beneath her fierce mill-owner exterior was a warm woman with a penchant for hot, intimate kisses.

  He flashed Mrs. Keane his most ingratiating smile. “Few Englishwomen are interested in marrying a lord who eschews the trappings of his rank, especially a younger son.”

  That seemed to catch Amanda’s interest. “I thought younger sons in England usually became clergymen or barristers or soldiers.”

  “They do. Sadly, I’m not terribly religious, wigs make me itch, and by the time I was old enough to consider becoming a soldier, England had stopped fighting Boney.”

  It was a flip response. But telling the truth—that he was too wary of all such institutions to join them—would only rouse more questions. “So there you have it. Instead, I write. And no woman wants to marry a writer with only a bit of money left to him by his mother, and no land at all. Land is everything in England.”

  “Money is everything in America,” Mrs. Keane said.

  “So I hear. But my inheritance is hardly enough to tempt anyone, English or American.” It was the truth . . . and also a warning, if she wanted her daughter to set her cap for him. “And despite my brother’s wishes to bring me back into the fold, I’m not interested in giving up my ideals to return to a world where I’m neither comfortable nor welcome.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Keane smoothed her skirts. “In other words, you aren’t married because your wife would have to join you in being an outcast from society.”

  “Oh, heavens,” Amanda muttered.

  He chuckled. “You could put it that way.”

  “T
hen Englishwomen must be stupid indeed,” Mrs. Keane said.

  That stymied him. “Because they don’t wish to be outcasts?”

  “Because they force you to choose between two opposite spheres, when there are many gradations between.”

  “In America, perhaps,” he said dryly. “There aren’t many gradations in England.”

  Mrs. Keane sniffed. “I hardly believe that. I’ve met several respectable females who are neither outcasts nor ladies of high rank. Surely you could find a woman among them who’s willing to compromise for the sake of love.”

  “You don’t understand, Mama.” Amanda steadied her gaze on him. “It’s not the women who don’t want to compromise. It’s Lord Stephen.”

  He met her gaze evenly. “I suppose you consider my refusal to compromise a flaw in my character.”

  “That’s a flaw in anyone’s character, young man,” Mrs. Keane said. “Especially in a husband. Marriage is all about compromise.”

  “For the women,” Amanda said tartly. “Never for the men.”

  Her mother stared at her. “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?” The resentment festering in Amanda’s voice gave him pause. “Papa never compromised with you. Things were always his way.”

  Was that also true of the man’s treatment of his daughter? Was that why Amanda was so quick to take offense when a man with strong opinions started voicing them?

  Mrs. Keane sighed. “All right, I’ll grant you that.” She smiled sadly. “But that’s precisely why I know how important compromise is, my dear.”

  Stephen wanted to hear more about Amanda and her father. About her. But just then, they pulled up in front of a shop in the center of town.

  Amanda looked out and frowned. “We’re going shopping?”

  “No, but I want it to appear that way. I’d rather not call attention to Mrs. Chapel’s willingness to speak to us by driving right up to her cottage in your brother’s impressive carriage.”

  That sobered both Amanda and her mother, as well it should. Warren hadn’t been entirely wrong to worry about the danger of Stephen’s activities. But it wasn’t dangerous for Stephen; it was dangerous for the workers feeding him information.

  As soon as they’d disembarked, the coachman handed down the basket Yvette had sent along. Then Stephen ushered his companions through a series of alleys and streets until they were strolling on the outskirts of town.

  So far his companions had asked no questions and made no fuss. Had Mrs. Keane known what she was agreeing to when she came along? Or had Amanda pawned it off as some fun excursion? Whatever the case, Mrs. Keane didn’t look at all perturbed when he led them up to a tumbledown wattle-and-daub cottage.

  He knocked, and Mrs. Chapel answered the door with her babe on one hip. “Milord!” Pleasure wreathed her face in smiles until she spotted his companions. Then she turned wary. With a quick survey of the road behind them, she swung the door wide open. “Quick, come inside, if you please. Before anyone sees.”

  Neither of his companions questioned her caution, but Amanda did shoot him an odd look as they entered the single room that constituted the entire home.

  In the center was a rickety table with four mismatched chairs, and a kettle was on the hob. On one side sat a worn chest of drawers. The other side held a crudely built trundle bed, a basket that served as a crib, and a separate horsehair mattress lacking a bedstead. The beds were neatly made up, though a three-year-old wearing a threadbare cotton dress sat atop the trundle bed banging a pot enthusiastically with a wooden spoon.

  Mrs. Keane’s eyes lit up as she saw the child, but Amanda turned distant once more, her eyes regarding him with a suspicion that roused guilt in his chest.

  He tamped it down ruthlessly. “Mrs. Chapel, I’ve brought some friends from Walton Hall to visit. This is Mrs. Keane and her daughter Miss Amanda Keane. They own mills in America.”

  Mrs. Chapel’s wariness turned to confusion. “You mean, Mr. Keane owns the mills, don’t you?”

  Amanda smiled. “Actually, I own the mills. They were left to me and my brother by my father. My brother sold his share to me with my mother’s blessing.”

  Something like awe passed over Mrs. Chapel’s face. “A woman owner. Who’d have thought it? America must be very different.”

  “Not as different as we’d like,” Mrs. Keane said dryly, “but it’s so vast a land that both men and women are needed to run things.” She stepped forward. “May I hold the babe?”

  “Oh! Why, of course, ma’am. Though hand her right back if she turns cross. Wouldn’t want her to spit up on you.”

  As Mrs. Keane took the child and began to coo at it, Stephen handed Mrs. Chapel the basket. “The mistress of Walton Hall asked that I bring you these. Her guests went shooting yesterday and managed to kill more pheasants than anyone at the hall could eat. She said she was sure you could use them.”

  Mrs. Chapel blinked back tears as she took the birds. “Oh, yes, milord, thank you. Tell her it’s most kind of her. The lads will make short work of these.”

  “How many boys do you have?” Mrs. Keane asked as she jiggled the baby up and down.

  “Three, counting the baby, ma’am. And Mary there makes four children altogether.”

  Mrs. Keane glanced about the small room and frowned, but didn’t say anything. He sympathized. He’d long ago become accustomed to seeing whole families crammed into a room the size of a pantry at home, but that didn’t mean he liked it.

  “Tom and Jimmy are at the mill right now, along with Mr. Chapel,” Stephen said.

  “I would work there meself,” Mrs. Chapel said, “but someone has to tend the little ones.”

  Mrs. Keane blinked. “Surely you aren’t old enough to have lads of an age to work at the mill.”

  That caught him off guard. Mrs. Chapel looked every bit of her thirty years, even a little older. Mrs. Keane shouldn’t be surprised.

  Mrs. Chapel preened a bit. “Thank you kindly, ma’am, but my oldest is nearly eleven.”

  “Eleven is the oldest?” Amanda looked shocked, which gave him pause. “How old is the younger one?”

  “Seven,” Stephen said in a hard voice. “Tom is a mule scavenger.”

  Amanda fixed him with a horrified look. “Climbing about under the moving parts of the spinning mule for whatever bits of cotton fall,” she said, as if to clarify.

  “That is what a mule scavenger does, isn’t it?” he said coldly. “Don’t you use them in your own mills?”

  Mrs. Keane gaped at him. “Our mule scavengers are fourteen, my lord. My husband used to hire them as young as twelve, but Amanda refuses to hire anyone before the age of fourteen.”

  “Anyone?” He turned to Amanda. “That’s the youngest age of any of your workers?”

  “Yes. The piecers and tenters are generally older.”

  Astonishing. There wasn’t a mill in England that started their apprentices as old as fourteen. But neither her nor her mother’s shock had been feigned. Perhaps Amanda wasn’t as hard-nosed as he’d assumed.

  Then again, he’d been fooled by owners before.

  Mrs. Keane now had a martial light in her eyes. “How can they let a seven-year-old work in the mill?”

  Mrs. Chapel turned defensive. “We don’t have no choice, ma’am. They hired my husband as a mule spinner only because the two boys could work, too. I was agin’ it myself, but my husband—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure he saw no way out,” Mrs. Keane said. “I’m not talking about your and your husband’s choices, Mrs. Chapel. Sometimes we have to do difficult things to support our families.” She glanced at Stephen. “But I was told it was illegal in England for any mill to employ children under the age of nine.”

  At the word illegal, Mrs. Chapel whirled on Stephen in a panic. “You said you wouldn’t make trouble for me husband! He needs this post, milord. If they turn him off because you report Mr. Hanson—”

  “They won’t turn him off,” Stephen said. “No one will know who gave
me the information.”

  “Really?” Amanda said. “You can promise her that?”

  The hint of accusation in her voice made him bristle. “Why do you think I’m taking these precautions? When I write my article, I won’t use the Chapel name. I won’t give specifics anyone can tie to her or her husband. Trust me, plenty of other seven-year-olds work in that mill. And six-year-olds and five-year-olds and—”

  “Enough,” Amanda said, her voice soft with compassion. “I know that your intentions are good, but mill communities are small. You must be careful or you’ll endanger the very people you want to help.”

  “I suppose you think I should look the other way and never try to change things,” he snapped. “Let devils like Hanson bully their workers, paying them wages so low that they’re practically forced to sell their children in order to eat. Let them put the children in dangerous situations and punish them by—”

  “No, of course not,” she said, her cheeks now as pale as Mrs. Chapel’s.

  “I’ve been doing this awhile. I know how to keep the workers safe.” He turned to Mrs. Chapel. “I promise you, nothing will happen except that Hanson will be forced to follow the law of the land and not the law of profit.”

  “And if something does happen,” Amanda told her, “I’m sure my sister-in-law up at Walton Hall can find work for your husband.”

  He stifled a snort. And she thought he was making promises he couldn’t keep. Still, her words seemed to calm Mrs. Chapel’s fears where his own assertions hadn’t.

  “Thank you, miss,” she said gratefully. “It’s much appreciated.”

  Taking out his notepad and pencil, he licked the tip. “I’ve been asking everyone certain questions, Mrs. Chapel, so I can get my facts straight. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you the same ones.”

  When she glanced to Amanda for reassurance, it annoyed him. Amanda, not he, was supposed to be the person no one trusted. It was galling. It had taken him a week to gain Mrs. Chapel’s trust, and Amanda had gained it in minutes. He still wasn’t entirely sure she deserved it.

  Mrs. Chapel seemed to consider a moment longer, then steadied her shoulders. “Things has got bad, real bad, at Hanson Cotton Works of late. If you think you can make them better, milord, I’m willing to tell you what I can.”