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Double damn in the highest.

“Only a few times. My mother died when I was young and when I was older, I had a governess, because m-my father wished me to rise in society, I suppose. She was not so encouraging of any ties to Ireland,” she said, her voice simultaneously wry and dark.

“But you did not listen to her.” He offered her a devilish grin, one he genuinely meant.

“N-no, I suppose I did not.” She offered him a small smile in return.

James returned to his mutton, using his fork to gesture toward her before he stabbed a piece. “You know, I’ve noticed you do not stutter on vowels. Only on consonants. Do you think that it is because you speak your vowels from the back of your throat?”

James realized too late that he had likely embarrassed her horribly, never having mentioned her stutter in conversation before. He had been lulled by the oddly personal nature of their conversation on a topic of which he was genuinely curious.

“No, I believe it is because m-my governess gave me raps on the hand if I ever spoke in Gaeilge, or Irish to you. So I always doubted what I could say. Always had to think it over in my head for too long, then it always came out with a stutter. Believe me, that governess had my father hire expert after expert to t-try to fix me, but to no avail.”

“I—” I do not believe you have to be fixed. It was the truth but why would she believe him when he had shown such disinterest in her life up to this point? He was beginning to discover that her reticence likely came from a fear that he believed her to be simple given her stutter.

If only he knew how to reassure her. What had Harrison done to earn her trust?

The thought of his brother with his wife caused the mutton to sit heavy inside him. Pushing that thought aside, he mechanically finished his plate. Aside from a raggedly-dressed older man who gave him a long, assessing look from the public room, the rest of their meal was uneventful, as was the short carriage ride back to the school, which was in an old warehouse adjacent to the mill and Counting House.

“What of you, my lord?” his wife had surprised him by asking, once she was settled in the velvet squab of the St. George carriage. “Do you ever return to the estate in that painting? What is Bedford Chase?”

“Bedford Grange,” he corrected, his cravat suddenly feeling far too tight. He would have to speak with his valet when he returned to Bailey Hall. “No.” He swallowed as he pulled at the damned thing. “I have not been back. Not since Lionel died.”

Mariah nodded sagely. “I am sorry for that. It is beautiful in the painting.”

“It’s even more beautiful in my memory,” he muttered under his breath, unable to meet her eyes. He used his walking stick to open the velvet curtain again and was relieved to discover they had arrived back at the factory. He ought to have known, for the hum of looms was far louder here than at the assembly hall or the Crown and the Loom.

Instead of turning right once she reached the Counting House, Mariah turned left, and James was faced with several warehouses, all blackened from the smoke that permeated the air. Mariah led him past the first two to the third and smallest. James was struck momentarily by the image of Oxford in his mind, the place where he dreamed so many big dreams of travel, of the beauty of life. How different those hallowed halls of learning seemed than this crumbling brick building, a former warehouse.

Mariah slowly pressed the door and popped her head in, then leaned back out and waved James on. As they entered, one side of the room held small children sitting on benches and listening to a teacher read.

“Miss Simmons,” Mariah greeted her quietly.

The woman glanced over at Mariah briefly and smiled, then returned to her reading on the basics of grammar.

On the other side, an older group of children, several covered in the white dust of the mills, sat on benches while several stood before the group. A more harried-looking young woman stood beside the standing group of children, though she repeatedly returned to a large text that sat on a small desk in the corner.

“They cannot be more than twelve or thirteen. Where is the school for the older children?” he muttered as he followed Mariah’s lead to that side of the room. Mariah stopped for a moment, then gazed at him sadly, as if life were a giant puzzle he hadn’t a clue to figure out. “There is no school for the older children. After that, they may work full time in the mill.”

James opened his mouth and closed it, filled with the sensation of swallowing lead.

Several heads turned her way as they approached, and there was a squeal of “Miss Mariah!”

“That is Lady St. George, as you recall, Sophie.” Came the voice of an exasperated teacher.

Mariah hurried forward, “While you should always listen to Miss Mason, Sophie did know me when I was Miss Mariah many years ago. Didn’t you, Sophie?”

“Aye, Miss Mariah, I mean, Lady St. George.” The girl sitting on the front bench stood, the powder on her hair from the mill giving her the appearance of a young ghost.

“Lady St. George, we were working on the performance you suggested of pieces from Henry V, but we had some challenges in, er, execution.”

“Níl ciall ar bith leis,” one of the boys standing at the front muttered to another.

“English, please!” Miss Mason snapped.

Mariah held up a hand and stepped forward to the front of the warehouse, James all but forgotten behind her.

She whispered to the boy in a language that James could neither fully hear nor understand, then glanced again at Miss Mason before standing in front of the boy.