by L Rollins
Samuel wrapped his arm around Amelia. “I’m glad you never had to work here.”
She nodded her agreement. “I almost did, right after father died. But neighbors helped me pull through those first few weeks, and the harvest came through just afterward. I was one of the lucky ones.”
One of the lucky ones. Just who was lucky?
When the factory had first opened, it had employed those whose orchards were failing. They thought they were lucky at the time.
Since then, new housing buildings had been built to the east of the factory and families looking for work had swarmed into Conques, nearly doubling the population in only a couple of years. They thought they were lucky.
Because of the population boom, many of the shops and farmers in the area had been able to raise their prices. They thought they were lucky as well.
Now, so many filled the castle beds and the abbey’s graveyard.
Were any of them truly lucky? Or just caught in a mouse trap? Samuel’s gaze moved to the front of the group. The rich officials and friends of Monsieur Martin could escape Conques at any times. Why did they stay?
Monsieur Martin, he knew, had spent a good deal of money bringing in scientists and doctors, all to no avail. But he was a man of soft beds and a full belly. Sometimes it took a scrapper, someone who’s comforts and even necessities were never a guarantee, to see what had been previously overlooked.
They wound from one space to the next. The factory held more rooms and corridors than he’d imagined.
“I had no idea it would be so cold in here,” Amelia said more than once. Samuel didn’t think she was talking about the temperature as much as she was talking about the pale, empty expressions of the few remaining workers.
“I demand to know the meaning of this!” a deep voice yelled, shaking the thin glass windows along one wall.
“Come on.” Samuel pushed himself and his sister toward the front of the group.
An angry-faced man stood with arms across his chest, blocking the groups’ progress. Just behind him stood a tall woman with a hard jaw line and no smile. She wore breeches and her hair was cut short.
“Monsieur Jus.” Martin spoke in a kind tone, as though he was trying to calm an angry lion. Samuel guessed that was fairly close to what he was trying to do. “May I introduce you to the inspector—”
“No, you may not.” Monsieur Jus interrupted. “I never gave permission to have my factory searched like a crime scene.”
Interesting choice of words: like a crime scene. Was that the man’s interpretation of the group’s collective expression, or his own guilt speaking?
“Sir,” one of the officials, dressed in more paisleys than Samuel could ever deem manly, spoke up. “We have orders—”
“I don’t care.” Jus seemed close to exploding. “This is private property and I demand you leave.”
Madame Winstone stepped forward, looping her hand through the man’s arm. “I’ve heard incredible things about your factory. This is your second, correct? In England, talk of you is all the rage.”
Monsieur Jus sputtered. “Oh. Really?” His eyebrows twitched, as if they didn’t know if they should continue their determined scowl or switch to a bemused cock.
“I have traveled no less than two hundred miles, purely for the purpose of seeing your ingenuity at work.” Madame Winstone leaned in close, dropping her voice low and whispered something Samuel couldn’t hear.
Whatever it was, it worked. Monsieur Jus’ eyebrows settled on bemused and his lips lifted, not quite into a smile, but at least into something friendlier than his scowl.
“Very well.” He turned back to the officials. “But I shall guide the tour myself. All are to remain with the group, and no pestering me with pointless questions.”
Madame Winstone remained arm in arm with Monsieur Jus as they once more began to move forward. It seemed that was invitation enough for Madame Uppertick and she looped her arm through Monsieur Martin’s. That man’s brow creased into something humorously similar to Jus’ previous scowl.
The tall woman just behind Monsieur Jus remained mute but fell in line just behind him.
“Well, well,” Amelia said as they moved forward with the group. “It appears Monsieur Jus is none too pleased to have other people poking about his factory.”
“Why do you suppose that is?” Samuel asked. The factory was filled everyday with people, so why be displeased now?
“He probably doesn’t want anyone knowing what deplorable working conditions his employees endure.” Amelia scrunched her nose as they walked by a small door, from which wafted the strong smell of excrement.
“Or, perhaps he’s hiding something he doesn’t want found.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think.”
It probably was, but it also made sense. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Suppose it is the factory making everyone sick? It’s not an outlandish idea.”
“You aren’t suggesting that Monsieur Jus knows he’s poisoning the town?”
“He could. He could know it and not care. Or know it, and is trying to cover it up.”
They moved with the group up a flight of stairs. They were metal stairs, with no risers between each plank. It was if even the staircase was determined to remind the workers they were to be given only the barest of essentials, nothing more.
“But why?” Amelia asked.
“Perhaps he doesn’t want to take the fall for what’s happened here in Conques. You heard Madame Winstone. This isn’t his only factory. If his factory was shown to be the cause of the waltzing flu, he’d have to shut down not only here, but at his other factory, too.”
“If his factory is causing the waltzing flu, then why aren’t they having these same problems in the other location?”
Now that was a good point. Samuel gave his sister a one shoulder shrug. “Perhaps they do different things at this factory than the other. Do you know if mercury is used in the making of petticoats?”
Amelia looked up at him, one eyebrow up, her lips in a flat line. “No. I’m fairly certain it is not.”
Judging by her tone, Amelia thought it a ridiculous question. But she didn’t know that the waltzing flu was actually a form of mercury poisoning. Leila had asked he keep that detail under his hat.
‘Under his hat’—that was an unusual phrase he hadn’t heard before Leila, slipping into English, had used the other day. He’d have to add it to his arsenal of ‘strange things Englanders say’.
Monsieur Jus led the group down a hallway with open doors along each side. It was almost like Crow’s Hall. Except these doorways still had doors hanging in them, even if they were open. It was far hotter in here as well. Each room was filled to the rafters with large, lumbering machines which roared and clanked.
Samuel wouldn’t have been able to hear Amelia speak had she deigned to say anything. Instead, she watched the workers feed pre-cut squares of cloth up into the machine. Her expression was a mix of disdain and curiosity.
Leave it to Amelia to be interested even in those things she was also appalled by. Samuel had never seen her desire to learn about something new wane.
They turned left and continued down a much narrower hallway. Monsieur Jus must have picked up the pace for Samuel and Amelia were soon trailing behind the group. He was probably anxious for the ‘tour’ to be over. Madame Winstone had worked magic in convincing the factory owner to allow them this glimpse into his business, but even that could probably not last much longer.
A single door, smaller, narrower than the wide one’s he’d seen everywhere else, caught Samuel’s eye. Not only was it narrow, it was the only door he’d seen yet that was closed.
As they neared it, Samuel reached out and tested the doorknob.
“What are you doing?” Amelia asked in a whisper.
“You’re not the only one who’s curious now and then.” The door was locked fast. Strange—why keep only this one door closed and locked? Monsie
ur Jus already said all the management rooms were higher up in the building.
“We’d better catch up before we lose the group.” Amelia pulled on his arm.
Samuel nodded slowly. They should catch up. But something about the door was plain off. He followed his sister down the hall and once more joined the group, but his mind didn’t leave the door.
It was too small to lead to a room of importance—at least too small to lead to a room which was meant to impress. It was nowhere near the other management rooms, so it probably didn’t contain financial or production records. If Samuel was right, the room beyond would lie quite close to an outside wall, which would make it a poor choice for storage as it would be hot during the summer and cold during the winter.
What, then, could it be?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MONSIEUR CLAUDE MARTIN strode into the front entryway, pulling on heavy gloves. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Leila said as she tugged her blue coat tighter around herself; the first tinge of autumn had blown through town. The boiling summer days had begun to ease and the nights were chilled enough to give one goosepimples. “But if it isn’t too pertinent, why are we going to check on a patient? Why not just bring whoever it is here to the castle?”
Claude glanced around the entryway where they stood, ascertaining they were alone, before answering in a soft tone. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Leila raised an eyebrow—she’d never once heard him speak quite so . . . Gently? Was that the right word? Almost sweetly. Gears above, who were they going to see?
Claude took hold of her elbow and led her out the large front doors. A small motorcar, engine idling, was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. A footman opened the door for Leila as she neared the motorcar.
It had been several months since anyone had opened a door for her, and for the first time, the deferment which she had grown up with felt strange.
The footman hurried over to the other side, to where Claude was waiting for his own door to be opened. He could have just opened it; it seemed almost silly to stand there, fully capable, waiting for someone else to do what would take him less than five seconds.
Leila shook the thought from her head. She would have done the same had she not been undercover as a nurse. Truth was, when she first moved to Conques, there had been several times when she had paused and waited, expecting a door to be opened for her or a plate of food to be placed in front of her, only to remember a heartbeat later that she was no longer a member of the upper class, at least not while posing as a nurse.
Perhaps this is what Inez meant about not buying into the flawed logic of ‘if Leila herself wouldn’t, then neither would anyone else’. She had thought of that statement many times since their conversation almost a month prior. Though she wasn’t certain she could do as Inez asked.
The motorcar sputtered as Claude put it in gear and they rolled down the path and away from the ancient castle. “We are going to visit someone very close to me.”
She’d gathered as much by his tone earlier, but hearing her assumption confirmed only piqued her curiosity all the more. Never once, in their many conversations, had Claude mentioned anyone in particular. Other than perhaps Uppertick, but he never talked of her in a caring way. Certainly he’d never used the same tone he used now.
Monsieur Martin changed the topic of conversation unexpectedly. “When I spoke to you of Monsieur Jus’ visit a few days ago, I admit, I underplayed just how enraged he was.”
Leila kept her sigh of disappointment silent. No doubt, Claude would tell her who they were seeing soon enough. Until then, she could respect his privacy and not pry. It was true that Claude had said that Monsieur Jus was quite displeased to learn the French government was shutting down his factory. Jus argued that the government even went so far as to admit they found absolutely no trace of mercury anywhere and yet they were still blaming him.
Were they going to see Monsieur Jus, now? “I wondered if you were.”
Claude continued, raising his voice just loud enough to be heard over the chug of the motorcar. “I wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you not telling any of the other nurses.”
“I felt you were telling me in confidence.” Which, of course, hadn’t stopped her from telling Inez. But Claude had no clue as to Leila’s true relationship with the visiting lady. She’d also talked to Samuel about Jus—he brought up the possibility that Jus knew the factory was causing the waltzing flu and simple didn’t want to face the music.
“I don’t know of any other individuals of your status who would have taken my desires quite so seriously.”
“You are quite welcome, sir.”
The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, but Leila’s thoughts wouldn’t still. Could a man knowingly infect dozens of people, even go so far as to claim innocence and act outraged when blamed, solely for financial gain?
Leila leaned an elbow against the motorcar door and tipped her head, resting it against her fist. The cold night air bit her cheeks and made her eyes water.
Inez said to think past her own self, reach out and contemplate what someone else may be capable of. They drove through the heart of the small town, but didn’t stop or even slow. On Claude took them, down a small road Leila had never noticed before, and deep between two hills.
Hold on—Leila slowly lifted her head from her fist—exactly how did Claude know she hadn’t told other nurses of Monsieur Jus’ outburst? He had spoken with such confidence, but how could he be so sure?
“Claude, how do you know I didn’t tell any of the other nurses?”
He gave her a long sideways glance, his expression one of surprise. “Surely you can appreciate that a man of my standing needs to know which of his subordinates can be trusted and which have a loose tongue.”
He’d called her a “subordinate”. Of all the arrogant, superior notions. “Are you saying you checked up on me?” How dare he? Checking up on her like she was some naughty child he wished to catch in the act of sneaking off with chocolate cake. It was insulting and demeaning.
More than that, it was cause for worry. Suppose word got back to him that she’d been gathering hair samples with Samuel, or having tete-a-tetes with Inez? She couldn’t risk being found out, not now. Not when they were finally making progress.
“You have no need for concern,” he said. As though his reassurance was all she needed. “You passed the test.”
Leila only just stopped the burst of anger that threatened to overturn Claude’s trust in her. Passed the test, indeed. Friends didn’t test one another.
And there was the rub. Claude didn’t actually see her as a friend. Not in the way he would have had he known her true standing in English society. She was naught but an underling; a subordinate.
She’d always tried to remember when talking with Claude that he thought of her as a nurse, not an equal. But never until that moment had the truth of that inequality felt so real. He saw her as someone who was there to serve him, in whatever position he saw fit.
“I am pleased to know that, sir.” The words sounded hollow to her own ears. They certainly left a bitter taste in her mouth. She had been kidding herself to believe he saw her as more than a lowly maid to be replaced if ever he desired.
“Don’t sound so put out—you’re the first to truly earn my trust. Which is why I’m bringing you here.” He turned the motorcar between two large trees and brought them to a stop.
A small cottage sat nestled between overgrown foliage. Random ferns and wild shrubs littered the forest floor, nearly blocking anyone from entering the front door. It certainly wasn’t a well-kept spot of land, such as Samuel’s house was.
Leila shoved her indignation to the side—it wouldn’t serve her just now anyway—and followed Claude out of the motorcar. Her curiosity surged back as she followed him. If Claude Martin did have a secret love, somehow Leila couldn’t see the woman living like this. He struck her as the kind of man who would fall for a woman of r
efinement and social status, not a lowly milking maid. Their most recent conversation only supported that theory.
Claude picked his way between plants, not bothering to offer Leila his arm, and led her to the door. He knocked twice, then opened and walked in without waiting for an invitation.
A fire crackled in the hearth to the right. A small, ornate table rested not far away with two, well-crafted chairs pushed up against it. In the far corner was a velvet sofa with what appeared to be a silken comforter draped over it.
The obviously expensive furniture felt far out of place in the small, well-hidden cottage. What was this place?
Against the wall, closest to Leila’ s right, sat a rocking chair, and in it, a beautiful woman.
“Hello, Alice.” Claude’s voice had never held more warmth.
The woman turned toward them both, her eyes wide and vacant. Then her gaze landed on Claude and recognition sparked there.
“Claude!” she shrieked. She leapt up and hurried toward him. Halfway across the room, her leg gave out from under her and Alice stumbled.
Claude dashed forward, wrapping his arms around her just in time to keep her from hitting the floor. Whoever this woman was, she was clearly important to Claude. The fine furnishings were suddenly starting to make more sense.
The richest man in all of Conques had not made it a secret that he spent more than most earned in a lifetime caring for those who’d fallen ill or employing those who needed jobs. Leila had even heard rumors, and was quite certain they were true, that it was due to Claude’s persuasion that Monsieur Jus had set up his factory in Conques.
If he truly cared for a woman of simple means, there was no doubt in Leila’s mind that he’d provide anything she may need.
Alice laughed at her own stumble, but her tone turned high at the end. Leila’s brow creased; there was something off about the sound.
Claude helped her back to her to her feet. “Alice, I want to introduce you to Leila, one of my most competent nurses.”
Competent? At nursing? Claude probably should have tested her in that area before coming to such a conclusion, just as he had tested to see if she could keep his secrets. She was learning as she went, and hid her uncertainties well, but she was not truly a nurse.
