“Yes, but…” His forehead crumpled, like a young boy confronting a thorny bit of arithmetic. “Julian doesn’t own a silk mill.”
“No, Your Grace.” Charlotte smiled because he’d dug a deep hole for himself and it was such a pleasure to push him in. “Iown it, along with my partner, Josephine.”
She expected him to grimace or, better yet, fall to his knees to beg her pardon for how badly he’d underestimated her. Instead, his eyes lit with unholy glee and he let out a low, admiring whistle. “I’ll be damned.”
“Undoubtedly. Now, stay put and try not to bother anyone.”
But Warrick followed her as she hurried upstairs toward the sound of heated voices.
“Non! Non and once more, non!” Both Monsieur LaForey’s nose and his potbelly quivered with indignation. “The problem isnotthe cards! How could it be, when I myself was the one to punch them? The problem is with the weavers, who push the treadle with no delicacy and cause the hooks to—” His eyes fell on Warrick and his face went slack with relief. “Aha! Monsieur, how do I explain? This machine, she is like a woman—beautiful! Compliquée! She needs amanto—”
Charlotte stepped forward. “Monsieur LaForey, address me, if you please.”
But Monsieur LaForey kept his sights trained on Warrick. “You are the husband, non? I should like to explain that—”
“Non!” Charlotte said tartly. “He’s certainlynotthe husband.”
“Non?” Monsieur LaForey asked, still addressing Warrick. “You are the frère?”
“No, he’s not my brother, either.”
Monsieur LaForey looked flummoxed for a moment, but he didn’t let it bother him. His broad face cleared. “Aha! You are the—what do you Englishmen say—man of business?”
Warrick shook his shaggy head. “Wrong again, monsieur, and I wouldn’t try a fourth guess, if I were you.”
Charlotte threw her hands up in disgust and turned to Mrs. Cordelon. “Canyouplease tell me why the Jacquard loom doesn’t work?”
“I’d better show you,” said Mrs. Cordelon.
She led them to the front of the loom, where they could see a few inches of silk damask in the process of being woven. It was the feather pattern, or at least a fuzzy, indistinct approximation of it.
Charlotte frowned. “And his theory is that the weavers are too rough with the treadle?”
“Yes, but we have several finicky looms and all the other silk comes out fine.”
Monsieur LaForey bustled in between them and huffed out his cheeks. “She knows nothing! These clumsy women keep—”
“Non, Monsieur LaForey,” said Charlotte. “I might have asked for your opinion, but you didn’t offer it to me, nor do you allow Mrs. Cordelon to get a word in edgewise. And yet she’s quite right—her weavers put out ell after ell of excellent silk, and your loom produces nothing. Is that not so?”
The noise he let out was loud and rude. “I told you, the Jacquard loom is compliquée! The patterns, the punch cards! You could not begin to understand—”
“But you don’t seem to understand, either. Mrs. Cordelon, do you?”
The other woman grimaced. “The principle’s simple, but the punch cards—I’m afraid it’s a bit mathematical for me.”
“Mathematical?” An idea winked at Charlotte, bright and cheeky, but first she had to deal with Monsieur LaForey. “Sir, your services are no longer required. I will pay out your contract for the remainder of the month.”
Monsieur LaForey spluttered out a stream of gloriously profane French, some of which made Warrick draw himself up, his great muscles tensing. Of course, Charlotte had read all the naughty books her governess had told her not to, and she understood every word.
“I daresay, Monsieur LaForey, and I agree that work is hard to find. I’ll pay out your contract for the remainder of the summer, but only if you leave immediately. Warrick, make yourself useful and show Monsieur LaForey out. And perhaps withoutgloweringso?”
“Certainly.”
Warrick took one menacing step forward and that was enough to send LaForey clomping down the stairs, leaving a trail of filthy looks and even filthier French behind him.
Mrs. Cordelon twisted her apron in her hands. “I hope—I’m terribly sorry, my lady. I’m confident I can run the Jacquard loom, but I’ve never made the punch cards before.”
Charlotte looked around. The mill was flawlessly organized, neat as a pin, with the bobbins spinning merrily, and most pleasing of all, there was an air of pride about the place.
