“I can’t let some woman summon me as though I was her servant.”
“You’re losing thousands of dollars every day the mill is idle, sir. She says the strike will continue until you come up to Pawtucket to meet with her. In my opinion, that would be the fastest way to resolve the situation.”
“Hmph.” It would be a long, hot, dusty trip up to Pawtucket. On the other hand, this imperious ‘activist’ sounded a good deal less boring than the Misses Linton, Larimer and their companions.
“I must beg your pardon, ladies. Business calls, and I must obey. You’ll have to continue without me.”
“But Andy, you promised…” His sister Ann was a pretty girl, when she was not sulking.
“I did no such thing. In any case, who is the head of this family?” He put steel in his voice, and Annie’s petulance evaporated.
“You are, of course. Head of the family and head of the company.”
“Exactly. I am the boss. I don’t want to hear your complaints, is that clear?”
His siblings both nodded, obviously chastened. The women resumed their game, albeit in a desultory manner, as he followed Gannet to the garage.
Hopefully, the wench holding his factory hostage would be equally compliant.
Chapter Two
“We’d rather starve quick than starve slow. A living wage or we just say no.”
Olivia Alcott chanted along with the mill girls as they marched in a circle in front of the rambling brick factory buildings. A semicircle of police and spectators fanned out in front of the strikers, but no one made a move to hinder them. Behind her, the normally clattering machinery lay quiet. When the workers paused for breath, Olivia heard the muted rush of the falls.
Itchy sweat gathered under her arms and at the base of her neck, where random strands of her hair had come loose from the pins that secured it. It was several hours past noon, and the summer sun battered them all. Like the women with whom she marched, Olivia wore a drab, ankle-length shirtwaist and heavy, laced boots, though her clothing was of finer fabric and in better repair. A red scarf knotted at her throat added a spark of colour—and soaked up some of her perspiration. She was desperately thirsty, but they’d agreed not to take a break until three o’clock. She certainly wasn’t going to be the one who gave up early.
She glanced around at her companions. They ranged in age from fourteen to fifty-five, though most were younger than her twenty-six years. Their lean, wiry bodies showed the effects of their twelve hours of back-breaking labour per day, six days a week. Even the young women had lined faces and streaks of grey in their hair, and the older ones looked frail, almost skeletal.
In the cool of the morning, when they’d started the strike, there’d been a holiday atmosphere. Liberated from work, they’d laughed, joked with one another and sung old Québécois songs. Now each woman’s face was a grim, dusty mask. Each was determined not to surrender to fatigue or discomfort. They had made a commitment to one another. No one was willing to betray that commitment—certainly not Olivia.
Doubts assailed her, though, as her back ached and the blisters on her feet stung. Had she done the right thing, coming here and stirring up these women’s aspirations? Would it do any good? Greed ruled the modern world. Profit was all that mattered. Human beings were expendable, just cogs in the great industrial machine that was America. If one component failed, it could be replaced. Meanwhile, the masters of the new century grew ever richer.
She could have been at home, reading in her father’s shady garden with a glass of iced lemon at her side, or walking with her sister under the spreading elms of the Common. Indeed, if the strike failed, she could return to her safe and comfortable life in Amherst—become a teacher like her parents, or an author like her brother Will.
These women around her, though, didn’t have those options. For them, this was a matter of survival.
“Mademoiselle Olivia!” A skinny girl raced up the street that led to the riverside mill, stirring clouds of dust. “Il vient! He is coming!”
The sputtering racket of an internal combustion engine drowned out the girl’s excited voice. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for a boxy vehicle of shiny black, with silvery headlamps like extruded eyes. The noisy Studebaker rolled to a stop in front of the strikers, who stopped in their tracks like everyone else to stare at it.
The door creaked open. A tall man unfolded himself from the somewhat cramped interior, snatched off his hat and goggles and tossed them into the vehicle. He strode towards the massed strikers, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Where is she? Where’s your damned leader?”
The newspapers generally described Andrew MacIntyre as handsome. The epithet did not do him justice. As he stormed towards her, Olivia was struck with a sense of physical power and keen intelligence. He had wavy red-gold hair, a high forehead, a square chin, a determined mouth. His eyes were hazel, deep set under brows darker than his hair. Those eyes drilled into her, fierce and compelling. The women around her shrank backwards in alarm. Olivia steeled herself, holding her ground and fighting the urge to grovel at his feet. Instead of retreating, she took a step forward, holding out her hand.
“Mr Andrew MacIntyre, I presume?” She marvelled at the steadiness of her voice, the cool neutral tone.
“Damned right. And you are…?”
“Olivia Alcott.” She pulled herself up to her full height and forced herself to meet his gaze. She saw anger simmering there, but behind his irritation there was something else, something that intrigued and thrilled her. Something that she might be able to use to further her goals. Olivia Alcott recognised lust when she saw it.
He towered over her by at least a head. Though his body was hidden by his loose touring coat, his decisive, economical movements suggested he was lean and athletic. For a moment he hesitated, staring at her proffered hand. When he finally accepted it, his firm grip confirmed her impression of strength. His palm felt warm and dry against hers. She suddenly wished that she were not so sticky and dishevelled. When he released her, a momentary lightness swept through her, as though she might float away.
“And can I assume that you are the instigator and cause of this illegal strike, Miss Alcott?” He seemed flustered, less confident than she would have expected. Her spirits rose.
“Instigator? Perhaps. But not the cause.” Sweat trickled from her hairline, down into her eyes. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“Here.” He surprised her by offering a crisp handkerchief of fine linen, of a white so pure it almost seemed to shine with its own light. The initials ‘AM’ were embroidered in the corner, in golden thread. A faint scent of lavender reached her nostrils.
“Why, thank you!” The square of cloth was far more effective than her hand. When she’d mopped the perspiration from her face, she held out the swatch of now-damp fabric. “Here you are.”
He waved dismissively. “Keep it. I’ve got dozens more. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.”
“How much did this handkerchief cost, Mr MacIntyre?”
“I have no idea. My secretary handles my personal expenses.”
“It’s imported linen, I suspect. Belgian, perhaps?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Look, Miss Alcott…”
“And the monogram looks like real gold. Is it?”
“Honestly, what does that have to do with anything?”
Olivia tucked the handkerchief into her bodice, noting that MacIntyre’s eyes followed the movement. Indeed he didn’t try to hide his survey of her figure, rude as it was. Another tremor of strangeness fluttered in her belly.
“I’m no expert—I don’t have anything so fine myself—but I’d estimate that each of the dozens of handkerchiefs like this that you possess cost at least ten dollars.”
“Ah—really I don’t know—perhaps. Something in that vicinity.”
“That’s about two weeks of salary for one of these women who work here in your factory.”
“What? What are you
talking about?”
“The cause of the strike, Mr MacIntyre. You asked about the cause of the strike. These poor women—your employees, sir, to whom you have a certain responsibility—generally make five dollars a week. They’d have to work for two weeks—twelve days, twelve hours per day—to afford one of your handkerchiefs. Do you think this is just?”
“Well, they should be grateful they have jobs.” MacIntyre leaned closer, his manner and his voice menacing. “And if you don’t stop your meddling, they won’t. I’ll fire every single one of them in a minute. There are plenty of people who’d be happy for steady work, for a reputable company that’s not about to go bust and put them out on the street.”
“Won’t you consider raising their salaries, Mr MacIntyre?” Olivia countered, inserting a bit of sweetness into her own voice. She laid her hand on his upper arm and felt his muscles shift under her fingers. “An additional dollar a week would make a big difference to them.”
“I’m running a business here, Miss Alcott, not a charity.” He pulled away from her grasp and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then stepped past her to speak to the assembled workers.
“Go back to your machines, ladies. Don’t listen to this—this rabble-rouser. She’s only here to make trouble. You know that MacIntyre Textiles has always taken good care of you…”
“Oh, really, Monsieur?” Lisette Beauchamps pushed her way through the clot of ragged women to confront him. “Did you care when my daughter got the brown lung? Poor petite wheezing and coughing so hard that she couldn’t walk, let alone work? And no money for a doctor or medicine? Or when Maria Clermont’s hand got tangled in the spinning machine? After they cut it off at the wrist, the fever took her. Left her four children all alone, les pauvres. Now they work here too, in this hellhole that killed their mother.”
“Oui!”
“C’est vrai!”
The women besieged Andrew MacIntyre, crowding around him, blurting out their sad stories in broken English. For a moment, Olivia almost felt sorry for him.
“Silence!” His voice drowned out their pleas and complaints. The babble died away. He raised his fist as though to batter the closest of the supplicants. Then he let it fall to his side. “The next person who makes a sound will be arrested and thrown in jail.” Despite his rough words, though, he appeared uncertain.
She had a premonition of triumph.
“Miss Alcott, I’d like to speak with you in private.” Grasping her by the arm, he led her towards his motor car. He opened the door on the passenger side and practically pushed her inside.
Her heart leapt in her chest. Had she won? Or should she be worried? He levered his body into the driver’s seat, then turned to her with a peculiar expression she couldn’t read at all, but that somehow made her tingle all over.
“What’s in this for you?” he asked finally. “You’re obviously an intelligent and cultured woman. Why get involved with this rabble?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do, sir. These people need help.”
“You truly believe that?”
“I do.”
“And you thought you could make me believe, too?”
“I’d hoped I could, yes. That’s why I asked to speak to you personally. You’re young, educated, a different generation from the greedy swine who raped America for their own gain.”
“Like my father, you mean?”
She blushed in spite of herself. Normally she was more diplomatic.
“Well, then, Olivia—” The way he emphasised her first name made her shiver. “I have a proposition for you.”
Chapter Three
The instant he set eyes on Olivia Alcott, he saw her on her knees. The image came to him unbidden, unlike the fantasies he so often summoned to amuse himself. His twisted desires could not have been further from his mind. He’d been preoccupied with the strike and all the other manifold concerns of his industrial empire. Still, there was something about her erect posture, her trim curves, the set of her lush mouth, that called to his dominant nature and turned his thoughts from business to forbidden pleasure.
She was a modern woman—that much was immediately clear—self-confident and assertive. Although adequately polite, her forthright manner lacked any hint of the deference to which he was accustomed. She spoke to him as an equal. Yet his instincts told him that under her steely exterior lay something soft and yielding, a spirit hungry for surrender to the sort of power he loved to exercise.
Probably she didn’t realise it herself, but Olivia Alcott was a natural submissive, born to be mastered.
This sudden insight distracted him. He could scarcely look at her without imagining her graceful limbs wound with rope, her neat bosom bared to his pinching fingers, her lively brown eyes hidden by the blindfold that would give him licence to use her however he chose. His cock swelled to an uncomfortable bulk inside his trousers. He was grateful that the motoring duster he wore concealed the evidence of his excitement.
When he shook her hand, he sensed her shock of unconscious recognition. Her breath quickened and the colour rose in her smooth cheeks. Her voice grew softer as she entreated him to increase the millworkers’ wages, laying out the arguments, pleading with his better nature. He wanted to make her beg for something quite different.
An inspiration seized him then, a stroke of brilliance that would enable him to solve multiple problems at once.
“Olivia, I have a proposition for you.” She did not resist when he led her to the automobile and installed her inside. As he breathed her lilac perfume mingled with her clean sweat, his erection grew more insistent. “There’s to be a ball this weekend at Wavecrest, my house in Newport. My mother has invited what she considers to be the cream of society, including every eligible—that is, single and wealthy—female she can think of. She’s determined to marry me off to one of these creatures, regardless of my wishes.”
“What does that have to do with me?” Her frown of perplexity delighted him. He could practically see the wheels turning in her agile mind as she tried to understand his motives.
“I need an escort, a woman to keep at my side all weekend so I can fend off the advances of all these would-be Mrs MacInytres. Come back to Newport with me. Spend the weekend. If you do, I’ll seriously consider the question of raising the workers’ salaries.”
Olivia laughed, a bright, clear sound that sent a stab of want to his groin. “Me, a poor professor’s daughter, at a society ball? I’d be as out of place as a Hottentot in the White House! I don’t have the airs and graces of a Vanpatten girl. And what would I wear?” She indicated her dusty brown frock. “I doubt very much this would be appropriate.”
“No one need know who you are—we’ll invent some mysterious identity for you. You can be the illegitimate American child of a Hungarian prince, how’s that? As for clothing, I will supply everything you’ll need.” He gave her luscious body a frank once-over that brought the blush back to her face, to his immense satisfaction. “I suspect your measurements are quite comparable to my sister Ann’s. You could wear one of her dresses. But no, that won’t do—you must be the most resplendent creature at the ball. We’ll stop at Ann’s dressmaker on the way and have you fitted for a new gown. With adequate monetary incentives, I’m sure the dress can be ready by tomorrow evening. We’ll pick up a whole kit for you, tennis and boating outfits, morning attire, underclothes. With jewels to match each ensemble, of course…”
“Mr MacIntyre, doesn’t the impropriety of what you’re suggesting bother you in the least?”
Her critical tone brought him up short. What would people say about a single young woman, unchaperoned, in Andrew’s constant company? He’d hoped she was less conventional than the women of his regular circle, but, given the importance of reputation, he couldn’t blame her for her concern.
“You’re essentially trying to buy my sympathies, aren’t you?” she continued. “You suppose that if you lavish enough money upon me, I’ll drop my support for the strike an
d encourage the workers to return to their looms, correct?”
“Not at all…”
“Well, it won’t work. I intend to spend every minute we are together reminding you of the plight of these poor women. I shall work upon your conscience, sir, until you have no choice but to do the right thing.”
“What? Then—you agree? You’ll come to Newport?”
“How could I pass up the opportunity to do so much good?” A smile played at the corners of her compressed lips and Andrew understood that she was teasing him. Yes, she was serious about her cause, but she wanted to join him for other reasons. Hope flared in his chest while desire hardened his loins.
“Thank you, Olivia.” He clamped his hand down upon her smaller one. Her breath hitched with excitement she could not hide. He focused all the force of his will upon her, compelling her to meet his gaze. “There’s one more thing to which you must assent.”
“Yes? What’s that?” She was brave, this woman. The girls on the lawn this morning would have wilted under that stare, but she held her own.
“You must agree to follow my orders in every particular and without question. Otherwise, your charade may be unmasked and we’ll both suffer.”
“In every particular? Even if you should command some indecency?” Her hand still lay beneath his. The pulse fluttered in her wrist like a captive bird.
“In every particular, as I said, and without question.” Full of anxiety, he searched her lovely face. Would she change her mind? “I promise I won’t allow any harm to come to you, Miss Alcott.”
She allowed the smile he’d seen her fighting to bloom. He released the breath he had not realised he’d been holding.
“I agree, Mr MacIntyre—Sir. Shall we be on our way?”
Chapter Four
Challenge to Him Page 2
