“Not really.” Hector winced when he climbed out of the carriage and jumped onto the cobbled street.
The shoes constricted his feet and squashed his callouses, but he didn’t want to complain. Not when he was worried about the workers. He followed Mr. Merriweather to the front gate, avoiding piles of rubbish and shards of broken glass.
Maddie walked next to him. “Has it always been like that?”
“No. Years ago, it was clean and well-kept. A model for other factories. Robert’s pride.”
As they stepped inside, a couple of workers touched their hats at their passage and smiled warmly at Mr. Merriweather.
“Good morning, everyone,” the solicitor said in a loud voice. “As you must have heard, Lord Hector Wentworth, the brother of Lord Robert, is indeed alive. He’s here to inspect the factory. Please continue your work. We won’t be long.”
Hector expected the usual mutters and whispers his introduction always started. But the workers didn’t utter a sound. An acrid smell tickled his nose. Something greasy covered the floor, causing his soles to stick to it, and cold gusts swept through the hall, whistling. The noise from the spinning machines had never been so loud or braying; it was a constant hammering and strident screeches. He wasn’t an expert, but something had to be wrong with those machines.
But the worst sight was the condition of the workers. Their tattered clothes hung from bony shoulders. Dirt covered gaunt faces. He’d gained more muscles on the island while hunting and fishing than these people working in a smelly factory. What struck him the most were the workers’ gazes. Lost. Sad. Resigned. Hopeless.
There were young men, women, and even children with scrawny faces and frail hands covered in cuts. They bowed and curtsied at Hector’s passage, their fear palpable. The name of Mr. Merriweather was muttered a few times, and the people working at the weaving machines cast bitter glances at Hector. No one said anything, though.
“I don’t remember the workers being so desperate,” he said when they reached the end of the hall. “When I came here with my mother and Robert, the workers would greet us with bright smiles and chat about their families. There weren’t any children, and everyone wore good quality clothes. The windows were whole and shut against the cold. The floor was clean. And hellfire, there wasn’t so much noise.” He forgot to mind his language in front of Maddie, but she didn’t wince.
“Lord.” She blinked quickly, as if fending off tears.
For some reason, shame caused his heart to clench at her dismay. He hated that she witnessed the factory at its worst.
Mr. Merriweather stepped in front of him, a hard glint in his fierce stare. “My lord, I needed you to see this.” He spread an arm towards the workers. “Simply describing it wouldn’t have been enough. This situation started while you were away. Lord Quentin…” He exhaled, his hands clenching on the folder. “Lord Quentin doesn’t care about these people. His main concerns are making money and enjoying himself. He lowered the wages to a bare minimum. He forces the labourers to work long hours without further compensation. Those who fall ill, or carries a child, loses the job. These people are starving, suffering, and forced to work in miserable conditions for a handful of shillings. This is slavery, my lord, not dignified work.”
Hector couldn’t agree more. The factory wasn’t what Robert had built. Maddie gazed up at him with an expectant face that destroyed him.
“There was a protesting march in November that ended up in a massacre,” Mr. Merriweather said. “The journalists dubbed it Bloody Sunday. Irish workers took to the streets to protest about their work conditions and demand the release of P. M. O’Brien, one of the few politicians who did something to improve the workers’ situation. As a result, he got arrested. The protestors clashed against the police, and it was a bloodbath. Since then, Irish workers are marked as agitators and their pleas aren’t taken seriously. A few of your employees were injured during Bloody Sunday, and Lord Quentin gave them the sack. Entire families have been ruined. Lord Hector”—he stepped closer—“wemustdo something. These people need help. Help only you can provide. Claim your title. Help these people. Set things straight. I was one of these children. Not in this factory, but your mother helped my mother and found her a job here. Without your parents, my mother and I would be dead. What do you think is going to happen to these children?”
Maddie drew in a breath as the workers shot glances at them.
Each word shook Hector from the inside out. Robert would be appalled. His mother would be concerned. Even his father would be angry about the situation. While his father hadn’t been the sweetest of men, he’d always prided himself on being an exemplary employer and on having happy, productive workers who excelled in their job.
Hector rubbed his chest, watching a young woman breastfeed her child while she kept working at the weaving machine. She looked so frail he worried she might faint from exhaustion.
Maddie placed her hand on his arm. She didn’t say anything though. There was no need to.
“Ernest, Hector,” Maddie said after a pause. “I agree to help Hector in any way I can if he wishes to claim his title.”
He swallowed hard. “Mr. Merriweather, tell me what I must do.”
eighteen
THAT NIGHT, IT wasn’t the noise from the streets or the donkey that disturbed Hector’s sleep, but his constant worry. The gaunt faces of those workers would appear in front of him every time he closed his eyes. His chest would tighten in worry, and shame would burn at the back of his mouth. Robert had been right. Hector hadn’t cared about a duke’s responsibilities or appreciated a duke’s work. But now it was personal. He had to do the right thing, not only for the employees, but for his family as well. If he wanted to honour Robert’s principles, he had to take control of the dukedom.
He perked up when footsteps padded from the corridor. Quentin’s voice sounded too low for Hector to understand what he said, but another voice came. Someone had to be with him. Two different sets of footsteps reached his ears, muffled by the carpet. He huffed. A lover, perhaps. He didn’t care.
He rolled onto his back. Becoming a duke meant learning how to deal with politicians and solicitors. Not what he longed to do. He probably wouldn’t become the scientist he’d dreamt to be, but at least he could publish his book with all the things he’d learnt on the island, and he could keep studying botany at his leisure while dealing with the stuffy barons of the House of Lords.
A scream jolted him. He sat bolt upright. Another muffled sound, like a child whimpering, echoed from the other room.
“Be still!” Quentin said in a raspy voice.
What was going on?
He jumped off the bed and inched the door open. The cold wooden floor chilled his bare feet. More muffled noises came from Quentin’s bedroom. It sounded like a struggle. A new feminine scream shocked him. He marched to Quentin’s room and pushed the door open without knocking.
Half-undressed, Quentin towered over a shivering, crying girl.
