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Delia’s heart thumped. He was a factory owner, not an aristocrat as she had imagined. Papa despised men like him. He often said that it was a crying shame the way common men were climbing the social ladder now just because they had gathered wealth. He said they were uncouth, unpolished, and vulgar. He refused to have anything to do with them.
And Minnie had told her that the northern factory owners were brutes. It had been the reason her family moved south, to escape work in the factories there. She felt a sharp pang of disappointment. She had thought he was something he wasn’t. He was a common man. And if her father and Minnie were to be believed, a vulgar one and a brute.
“I would never employ children in my factory, Miss Tilney,” he said slowly. “And I pride myself that I treat my workers well. I offer them above average wages, and I try to make sure that the factory is a safe place, so they don’t hurt themselves, which is a common occurrence in other factories.”
“I am pleased to hear it,” said Miss Tilney, looking pained. “I am opposed to children slaving in factories. Children should be at school. It is a dreadful situation which I hope our government will outlaw.” She paused. “I also hope the government supports workers’ rights to a fair wage and working hours. A lot of these factories exploit them terribly.”
“Here, here,” said Sister Mary Majella, crossing herself. “The poor souls. I pray it is so as well.”
Mr Hartfield sighed. “You know, I agree with you. I see a lot of factory owners, blind with greed, who do exploit their workers, and it angers me, Miss Tilney. The only thing I can do is make sure that my own workers are not treated in that way.” He hesitated. “I was born into a poor home. Some of my workers were neighbours when I was growing up. They are not factory fodder to me. I know they are people and treat them accordingly.”
“Praise be to the Lord,” said Sister Mary Majella, raising her eyes heavenwards. “For didn’t Jesus himself tell us to love thy neighbour?”
“Indeed he did, Sister,” said Mr Hawkins. He gazed at Mr Hartfield. “You sound like you run a fine factory. Do you have any need for new looms? I know a man who could give you a good price.” He winked.
Mr Hartfield grinned. “Not at the moment, thank you, Mr Hawkins. I am waiting to purchase a new type of loom, which is much safer for the workers. That was what my trip to London was about. But they cancelled, and I would prefer to wait until I find another company that sells exactly what I want. Not many do.”
Delia sat back in the carriage. Mr Hartfield didn’t sound like a brute—not how Minnie had described, anyway. He treated his workers well and didn’t employ children. But he was still a common factory owner, an industrialist. Papa’s words rang in her ears.
It is a pity he is a common man, she thought, her heart lurching.He seems so clever, dynamic, and driven.
But hewasa common man. Not only was he a hated industrialist, but he had told them he had been born into a poor family. She wondered how he had managed to buy his factory. He must have worked awfully hard for it.
Delia pulled herself up swiftly. These musings were ludicrous. She couldn’t seriously contemplate acting on the powerful attraction she felt towards him. She was on the run, pretending to be someone she wasn’t. She couldn’t afford to embroil herself withanyoneuntil she was safe.
And being disappointed that he wasn’t an aristocrat was ridiculous as well. She wasn’t Lady Cordelia Pelham, the daughter of a marquess, any longer. She could hardly bump into him at an afternoon tea party in Bradford, could she?
She was so deep in her reverie that she didn’t realise that Mr Hawkins was talking to her until she suddenly realised everyone in the carriage was gazing at her. That was, everyone, except for Mr Giles, who was still blissfully snoring, entirely oblivious to the conversation.
“Pardon?” she said, blushing slightly.
“I asked where you are from, my dear,” said Mr Hawkins. “You have such a refined accent that I am curious.”
Delia could feel Mr Hartfield gazing at her closely. He seemed as eager to hear about her background as she had been to hear about his.
“Surrey,” she said, taking a deep breath, quickly trying to think. “I was born and raised there. I was very lucky that a kind benefactor allowed me to attend a good school. I was her protégé, you see. That is why I talk the way I do. We had elocution lessons.”
“That is very lucky, Miss Parker,” said Miss Tilney, nodding her head. “It is lucky for girls to be educated well in any class. Often thetonare just as lax at educating their daughters as the lower classes. Did you have a very well-rounded education at this school?”
“I did,” said Delia, her heart pounding hard, hoping fervently that the lady wasn’t going to ask for the name of this fictitious school. “In fact, it was such a good education that I am thinking of applying for governess positions when I am in Bradford.”
“You are intending to stay in Bradford, then?” asked Mr Hartfield, his dark eyes flickering over her face. “It is not just a visit?”
Delia nodded. “Yes, indeed. I think I want to be close to my grandmother. She is not getting any younger.”
“And she is suffering terribly with her bunions,” said Sister Mary Majella gravely, nodding. “The poor lady.”
“Bunions?” Mr Hartfield raised his eyebrows. “Your grandmother is ailing with…bunions?”
Delia nodded, trying to keep a straight face. She had a sudden wild desire to burst into laughter. It was all so ridiculous, trying to invent a background like this—to become an entirely different person. And she was so tired and overwhelmed she knew it could tip over into hysteria if she wasn’t careful.
“I could help you if you do intend to apply for governess positions in Bradford, my dear,” said Miss Tilney. “I know quite a few people who are always on the lookout for a refined-looking, educated woman to teach their children. Even if you are not a proper lady. What workhaveyou been doing in Surrey, by the way?”
Delia was saved from replying by Mr Giles abruptly lurching up from his sleep mid-snore. He blinked owlishly, clearly disoriented, gazing around at everyone.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked, trying to stretch.
“Only a riveting discussion about Miss Parker’s grandmother’s bunions, Mr Giles,” said Mr Hartfield in a dry voice, accompanied by a small, wicked smile.
