With two fine horses anddry roads, it took only a few hours for the landau to roll into the outskirts of Maidstone. Charlotte could see the archbishop’s palace reflecting off the Medway, wider, faster-flowing, and deeper than it was at Clare, as if it shook off its meandering country ways and got serious when it came into town.
She felt serious as well.
Hersilk mill.
It was working, more orders coming in every day.
Charlotte hadn’t doubted herself, exactly, or let others’ opinions push her from her course. She’d always been well aware of her own strengths. God had tapped her nose on the day she was born and given her strong eyesight and excellent hearing, as well as a lightning-quick tongue and a reasonable brain to keep up with it. Over the years, she’d become a brilliant needlewoman, cultivated her eye for color, and developed a knowledge of fashion second only to Josephine’s.
She spoke fluent French and German, and despite the complaints of her governess, her Italian was more than acceptable, or at least she’d read all of Machiavelli twice. Perhaps as a result, she found she understood people, or at least she knew how to make an entrance, rabble-rouse, and dig up support for her schemes. And though Charlotte couldn’t take credit for her looks, she was happy to take advantage of them. Finally, she could swim, played a formidable game ofwhist, was more than competent on horseback, and could skip a rock with the best of them. Those were but a few of her obvious assets, and as for her weaknesses… why dwell on them?
Yet even with all this confidence, the silk mill still rocked her. Perhaps because she wanted it so badly, or because it felt sofoolishto reveal what she truly cared for to the world, as if she were a green card player showing the sharps her hand. And now, just when success was finally at her fingertips, would she have to betray Josephine and betray herself and, oh God, sell her shares of it? Or because that still wouldn’t generate funds enough, would she have to call Belozersky back, accept his offer, and plead for a chunk of her own dowry? The summer was more than halfway over and she was still no closer to solutions that didn’t make her want to scream.
You could always let your mother solve her own problems, said a small, exhausted voice inside, and Charlotte let it echo in her ear for much too long before she dismissed it.
The carriage jounced to a stop in front of the three-story brick building, the exceptionally large windows on the second story open to catch the summer breeze and let out the loud, rhythmic sound of wood banging up against wood. Abruptly the sound cut off.
“Non!” a man bellowed. “Oh, la vache, non!”
Ivy’s face darkened. “Monsieur LaForey is at it again.”
“Quite.” Because of course they’d arrive just as Monsieur LaForey was having one of his tantrums. “Your Grace, my errand is a personal matter. It would be best if you go about your business and we agree on a time to meet.”
He trained his navy eyes on her. “I’m afraid I intend to accompany you.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“I’m afraid your grandmother insisted upon it.”
Charlotte’s mouth tightened mutinously. Gran was going to pay for this. Should Charlotte replace her horticultural monographs with the fashion pages? Should she tell the doctor how many of his orders the dowager flatly refused to follow?
She lifted her chin. “Do you often let elderly ladies lead you about by the nose, or is it only my gran?”
He hesitated, oddly tentative. “Lady Charlotte, I’m only here to escort you. I’ve no intention of—”
“Oh, all right! But don’t touch anything. Or talk to anyone! Or—”
“I’m terribly curious, you know.” Warrick jumped down from the landau, and his smile felt like a peace offering. “I’ve seen you working in your brother’s study, and now all this secrecy. What are you hiding in Maidstone? Am I entering a den of thieves?”
Charlotte ignored his hand and leaped down herself, waiting for Ivy before walking up to the entrance, pushing open the massive iron-strapped doors, and stepping briskly inside.
“Sophie! Mary! Good afternoon!” she called to two of the dyers. “Is Mrs. Cordelon about?”
Ivy hustled over to the staircase and shouted, “Mum! Mum! Come downstairs! Lady Charlotte’s come to call.”
The woman who appeared at the top of the stairs tossed an agitated look over her shoulder. “You mustwait, Monsieur LaForey! Run down to the pub for your lunch if you must, but I must have amoment!” She turned and hurried down the stairs, dipping a rather harassed curtsey to Charlotte and Warrick before wrapping Ivy in a quick hug.
“What a lovely surprise!” she said, though Charlotte suspected it was anything but.
She stripped off her gloves. “I’ve come about the Jacquard loom—today’s the day we finally tackle it. Have you had any luck with the feather damask?”
Damask might sell for significantly more than silk taffeta or even velvet, but a Jacquard loom that didn’t work was simply an expensive dust catcher, taking up valuable room and contributing nothing. If it didn’t start producing, andsoon, it would have to go.
Mrs. Cordelon had a pair of fine gray eyes, but they clouded. “We haven’t. Monsieur LaForey believes there’s a problem with the hooks, but…” She shook her head. “Come see for yourself.”
Mrs. Cordelon and Ivy started up the stairs, but Warrick held Charlotte back. “Wherearewe?”
“We’re in a silk mill. Good Lord, I should have thought it would be obvious by now.”
