She knew the precise design of the sword, but the exact composition of the steel had eluded her in six attempts over the past three weeks. Last night, as she’d sat packing various keepsakes for her move, the solution had come to her—they needed to use a different-shaped crucible. She’d brought in her grandfather’s favourite one and insisted on using it for good luck.
‘Just about ready to pour, Mrs Blackwell,’ Mr Swaddle said. ‘You and Timmy might want to stand well clear. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to either of you two.’
‘Nothing will.’ Eleanor forced her mind away from Ben’s absence today and back to the most dangerous part of the operation—pouring the steel in the bar mould. She tried to gauge if the steel was ready to pour. Too soon and it wouldn’t set correctly. Too long and the metal would froth up like milk and be completely spoilt. ‘I know what I am doing.’
‘All the same, Mrs Blackwell, it is best to be cautious. I don’t want you getting hurt. You and Timmy stand on the other side of me.’ Mr Swaddle wagged his finger at his young grandson, who had recently started working at Moles. ‘And mind you, Timmy—none of your tricks. Not a blessed peep out of you once I start pouring. I want to concentrate.’
Eleanor moved closer to where Timmy stood and held the skirt of her new white muslin dress with its triple ruff away from the furnace. Normally she’d have worn leather breeches, but the chance that Ben might appear and whisk her away for lunch remained—even though it was long past the dinner hour—so she had covered the dress with a heavy leather apron and worn heavy leather gloves. Safety first, just as her grandfather had taught her.
‘Do you think my slight tweak of the formula worked?’ she asked, standing on one foot, trying to improve her view of the crucible. ‘And the slightly different-shaped crucible? I’m sure that is the very one my grandfather used when he wanted a more flexible steel. I found it stuffed in the bottom of a drawer at home.’
‘Could work. The crucible appears sound. I can’t rightly remember why we stopped using that one.’ Mr Swaddle made a considering noise. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Mrs Blackwell. Steel can be a tricky thing. I’ve tried for years to recreate this here particular formula. Sometimes I think the secret died with your great-granda and sometimes I’m certain it did.’
She ignored Mr Swaddle’s pessimism. After fifteen years she was used to his gloomy forecasts. ‘A more flexible steel is needed to keep up with the requirements of today’s swordsmen and possibly other people.’
‘Not thinking of branching out, are you, Mrs Blackwell?’ The elderly man laughed. ‘I can remember the speech you gave that first day, about how swords were our business first, last and for ever. Real stirring it was, too, Timmy. And I thought, Mrs Blackwell here might be young, but she is just like her grandfather—dedicated to sword-making. My God, she even fashioned swords with her own hands to start with.’
‘Not many,’ Eleanor hastened to add as Timmy looked at her open-mouthed. At the start she’d had to prove herself, and she’d done it in the only way she knew how—demonstrating to the men that she intimately knew every facet of the business.
‘Your father thought new-fangled machines were the answer. How many times did that grindstone’s leather strap break afore you scrapped it?’
‘Merely a thought,’ Eleanor said, putting her hands behind her back and crossing her fingers. She knew what her grandfather had thought about new-fangled machines but he wasn’t in charge any longer. She was. And times were changing. They were in a new century. Swords would always be their main business, but it would be good to find new markets just in case. She’d get Mr Swaddle used to the idea. Slowly.
‘What would you use the new steel for?’ Mr Swaddle shook his head. ’Sides making this right fancy sword for Lord Whittonstall’s pleasure, like? How many people will want swords that fit in their hat? Have you thought about that? Where’s the market you are always talking about?’
‘Lord Whittonstall and I have had a discussion about the possibilities of travelling engines,’ she said, trying another tack. ‘I wondered about machine parts and if our steel could be used to make coils and other springs. Lord Whittonstall believes the age of the machine is dawning. And he’s very interested in steel’s potential.’
Mr Swaddle shook his head and made an irritated noise. Eleanor raised an eyebrow, willing him to answer. If he stated his objections she could counter them.
‘You shouldn’t be doing this just to please Lord Whittonstall,’ he said finally, using the same indulgent tone he used with Timmy when he wanted to coax the lad into doing something new. ‘What does he know about steel and the like? He’s an aristocrat—probably never worked a day in his life.’
Eleanor clamped her mouth shut. Mr Swaddle made it seem as if the only reason she wanted to pursue this was to please Ben and that wasn’t true. It did make sound business sense.
Under her glove, she twisted her engagement ring about her finger. It was strange how in a few short weeks, she’d become used to its weight. Her hand now felt naked if she didn’t wear it.
Ben did know. He wasn’t some brainless dandy like Sir Vivian. She’d learnt that much during their picnic discussions. He made her think, and she enjoyed the way her blood fizzed when he was around. Somehow life was more sparkling and full of possibility after she’d seen him.
‘Sword-making is our business. Same as it’s always been,’ Mr Swaddle said, warming to his theme. ‘We don’t need no jumped-up peacock of an aristocrat saying we should do this or that. When did he ever make swords?’
‘You go a bit far, Mr Swaddle. Lord Whittonstall is my intended.’
‘Begging your pardon, Mrs Blackwell, but I don’t want to see you get your head turned by a fine pair of eyes. You’ve always done what is right for the firm, I know that, but you have a man in your life now. I...that is the men here want you to keep making the decisions. We don’t want to see you get hurt. Now I’ve said my piece, as I told Mrs Swaddle I would. We’ve worked together long enough, and I respect you and your judgement, but I will reserve judgement about him.’
Eleanor forced her angry retort down her throat. Mr Swaddle was being over-protective about the firm. She wasn’t going to get hurt. And she most definitely wasn’t about pleasing Ben. It made sound business sense to see if their steel could be marketed elsewhere—if they could take advantage of new markets.
‘Lord Whittonstall is remarkably well informed. He thinks there will be a travelling engine soon, on account of the war and grain prices. The coal-owners will demand it. He knows of a couple of factories out near Wylam working on it,’ she replied evenly. ‘I want Moles to grow and take advantage of this potential market. The new formula could be key. Strong, but supple.’
‘Bah, a locomotive engine will never happen—not in my lifetime. Wishful thinking. You might as well ask for wings while you are at it.’ The elderly man rolled his eyes to show his incredulity. ‘If God had intended us to fly along at unnatural speeds he’d have given us wheels or wings or something like that. That’s what I always tell my son, Davy, when he starts on with that twaddle.’
Eleanor squared her shoulders and stared directly into Mr Swaddle’s face. She had thought it would be simple to expand in that direction, particularly as Ben seemed enthusiastic about the prospect. She’d have to figure out a way to bring her men along with her. An unhappy and suspicious workforce would balk if she tried to force change through. She’d learnt that to her cost in those first few months after her father had died. But she could do it, and she could get Ben interested in the business. It bothered her how much she wanted their conversations to continue after they were married and how much she feared he’d lose interest.
‘Thank you for your opinion, Mr Swaddle. I shall keep it under consideration as I always do.’
‘You know I’m right, Mrs Blackwell.’ Mr Swaddle gave a sudden smile. ‘Stick to what we are goo
d at and the company prospers. You’ve always said that. Swords first. You were the one who wanted to take Moles back to the days of your grandfather and what a powerful lot of good that has done. Moles makes the finest swords. Orders are flooding in. How many months do people have to wait now?’
‘Three months,’ Eleanor admitted. At Mr Swaddle’s look, she added. ‘More like five.’
‘There—you see? We don’t have time, Mrs Blackwell. You keep us doing what we do best, just as you have always done, and we will be right fine.’
‘Right fine,’ little Timmy echoed.
‘But we could try...to see if it’s possible. If there is another market for our steel...’ At Mr Swaddle’s astonished look, she added, ‘Moles produces some of the finest in the world. Why shouldn’t it be put to other uses?’
‘Aye, we could, but we have too much on with the new sword range and all. You wanted a light-weighted lady’s rapier and that is done—all except the hilt.’
Mr Swaddle busied himself with the crucible of metal, twisting it this way and that before starting to withdraw it from the fiery furnace. Eleanor clamped her lips shut. Pouring the molten metal was always the trickiest bit. From childhood Eleanor had been trained to keep completely silent.
The bright yellow-white liquid trickled from the pot, sending sparks shooting through the air. She took a step closer and crossed her fingers. The new formula had to work!
‘Eleanor! Are you in there?’ Ben’s voice resounded in the shed. ‘Eleanor!’
Her heart did a funny leap. Ben had arrived after all. She would see him today. But he couldn’t come in here. It was far from safe. Once Mr Swaddle had finished the pouring she’d go out and greet him.
‘Ben! Wait there. I will be out. Give me a moment,’ Eleanor called out. ‘Stay where you are!’
‘Eleanor?’ Ben appeared in the doorway. ‘This place looks like a scene from Hades! What the blazes are you doing in here in a dress?’
Mr Swaddle swung the pot, missed his timing. A tiny bit of metal fell on the ground, hissing and spitting, narrowly missing her foot. Timmy ducked and curled up in a ball, as his grandfather had undoubtedly taught him. Instinctively she caught her skirts and held them away from the metal. Mr Swaddle had to right that crucible before any more spilled. It was behaving almost as if...as if the crucible had a crack.
Her mouth went dry. A white line had appeared on the side of the crucible—a sign that the worst was about to happen if Mr Swaddle didn’t put the crucible down.
‘Mr Swaddle!’ she shouted. ‘The crucible!’
Mr Swaddle paid no heed and started to pour the molten liquid into the ingot mould. The metal bubbled through the ever-growing crack, hitting Mr Swaddle’s wrist. His agonised scream echoed around the shed. The air filled with steam and the acrid smell of burning. And all the while molten steel poured out of the top like milk pouring out of a jug.
Ben started to move from the doorway.
‘No!’ Eleanor shouted, holding up her hand to stop Ben. ‘Stay where you are, Ben. Don’t move a muscle. It’s far from safe. Drop the crucible, Mr Swaddle. Do it now!’
Ben watched in horror as the molten metal bubbled and spewed out of the crucible, flowing onto the floor. Mr Swaddle’s agonised screams bounced off the walls. Time slowed. Images froze on his brain. Eleanor’s white dress. The brilliant yellow-white of the metal. The young boy cowering beside the table. The elderly man reaching out towards her as more metal spewed out.
‘Drop the crucible, Mr Swaddle! Drop it, I say!’ Eleanor shouted.
‘I daresn’t, Mrs Blackwell. Your dress! You’ll go up like a light!’
Eleanor shot Ben an agonised glance.
Ben stumbled forward—half running, half falling. He grabbed the man’s arm. ‘Do as she says! Drop that crucible! Now!’
‘But you don’t understand!’ the man shouted. ‘If I drop this the metal might hit Mrs Blackwell.’
‘Mr Swaddle!’ Eleanor shouted. ‘Ben! Turn the crucible towards the furnace!’
Without hesitating Ben shoved the man’s hand forward, forcing him to let go of the crucible.
More metal spilt on the ground, hissing and spitting, narrowly missing Ben’s boots as the crucible hit the floor and broke into two.
Ben grabbed a bucket of water and plunged Mr Swaddle’s hand and wrist in. For an instant the man’s wrist seemed to be silver. Then the metal dropped to the bottom of the bucket, leaving behind an angry red and white mark.
Over Mr Swaddle’s grizzled head Ben caught Eleanor’s eye and saw her mouth thank you. He itched to pull her into his arms and check that she was fine, that no particle of her delicate skin had been marred by the hot metal.
‘How bad is the burn, Mr Swaddle?’ Eleanor asked, coming to stand beside Ben.
His eyes roamed over her. She appeared slightly shaken but uninjured.
‘Hurts like the very devil!’ Mr Swaddle gasped as he sank to the ground. ‘I ain’t done something like that in I don’t know how long. Blasted thing. Begging Your Lordship and Mrs Blackwell’s pardon. It were the noise, like. I told you Mrs Blackwell—no noise when I am pouring. It’s the rule. Isn’t it, Timmy?’
The young lad clamoured that he’d kept quiet as a mouse.
‘It wasn’t the noise,’ Eleanor said with great firmness. ‘You get that straight out of your mind, Mr
Swaddle.’
‘What was it, then?’ the elderly man demanded.
Eleanor knelt on the dusty floor beside Mr Swaddle, keeping his arm in the bucket. Her white dress contrasted with the gloom. Her face became very earnest. ‘The crucible split. I saw the line of fracture as it went. A white line snaking up the crucible just before the metal started frothing.’
Both the elderly man and the young boy went pale.
‘Lord Whittonstall saved your life,’ Eleanor continued. ‘You think about what could have happened if you had kept hold of that crucible when it finally went.’
‘Way-aye, you’re right, Mrs Blackwell,’ the young boy piped up. ‘Lord Whittonstall is a hero—not some jumped-up know-nothing popinjay like Grandfather said.’
Ben tried to catch Eleanor’s eye. Had she been defending him? She’d never said that some of her workforce thought him akin to Viv, but it made sense.
‘I’m pleased I was able to stop the accident from getting worse.’
‘If you want to blame someone, blame me,’ Eleanor said.
‘You weren’t to know, like, Mrs Blackwell. It looked fine.’
‘Do crucibles normally break like that?’ Ben asked carefully.
‘They are made of clay. Prevention is best—always checking when they are warm and discarding any which are unsound. It is near impossible to tell when they are cool,’ Mr Swaddle said. ‘But sometimes it happens. Moles has a good record. Better than most. Mrs Blackwell insists on it. Like her grandfather on that, she is. Other foundries...well...men die.’
‘We will have to do an inspection of all the crucibles,’ Eleanor said, a frown developing between her brows. ‘I won’t have Moles getting a bad reputation. Or more men getting hurt.’
‘It can wait until you are better, Mr Swaddle,’ Ben said decisively. Eleanor still appeared shaken. The last thing he wanted was for her to put Moles above her own needs now. ‘The important thing is to get that burn properly tended.’
‘I’m right grateful to Your Lordship. There’s not many men who’d have done what you did. You are no popinjay, but a right honest-to-God gentleman like me young grandson said. I’m sorry I ever thought otherwise.’
‘Do you have any honey?’ Ben asked, ignoring the praise. ‘My nurse swore it was the best thing on God’s green earth for burns. Without treatment that burn will be nasty.’
‘My wife’s mother swore the same. I will see to it when I get home.’
‘And you are going home now.’ Eleanor nodded towards where the young lad cowered, obviously too frightened to move. ‘Timmy, take your granda home. Your granny will know what to do.’
‘But I can’t leave this mess.’ The elderly man appeared close to tears. ‘My tools...the new steel...’
‘It will be cleared up,’ Ben assured him. ‘I will make sure.’
‘I will clear it up,’ Eleanor said in a firm tone, and Ben could understand why she was obeyed. A duchess could not have said it with more authority. ‘Timmy! The metal has stopped falling. You are safe now. Your grandfather needs you.’
‘But you are in your pretty white dress, Mrs Blackwell. I can wait while me lad does it.’
‘You are far more important to me than any gown, Mr Swaddle.’ She made a shooing motion. ‘The dirt will wash clean. Now, go. And, yes, I know—next time I’ll wear my breeches.’
‘Accidents do happen, Mrs Blackwell,’ Timmy said. ‘I am sure Lord Whittonstall would rather you were safe. You could have gone up in flames. It won’t take me hardly any time.’
‘But I didn’t. Now, go and take your grandfather home, Timothy Swaddle.’
The elderly man and his grandson went off, leaving the shed in silence. Ben pressed his lips together. He hadn’t fully appreciated how respected Eleanor was.
Rather than asking him about why he was there or suggesting they leave, or more importantly looking after herself, Eleanor went straight to work, scraping the spilt metal off the floor.
‘Like the lad said, someone else can do it.’ Ben started to grab her arm.
‘I told Mr Swaddle I would. It has to be put in the correct place. There is a proper order to things. He wouldn’t have departed so easily if he thought otherwise.’ She pulled away from his grasp and bent a small piece of steel. Her red lips frowned. ‘All that work and the steel is still far too brittle.’
‘You are in a dress,’ he argued. ‘It is the sort of dress that deserves a picnic, from what I can see of it under your apron.’
He waited for her smile and her agreement to his scheme.
His Unsuitable Viscountess Page 9
