Betsy laughed dismissively before she took the gown from Cassandra and waited for her to stand up. “Here, let’s see. If I am to take it in before the dinner, it must be fitted. We’re about the same height, but I am a bit plumper. It shouldn’t need much alteration.”
Energized by her friend’s enthusiasm, Cassandra stood. “I wish you had an invitation. I hate the thought of attending alone.”
“Alone? No, no. Mr. North will be there with you. And Mrs. Martin, of course,” Betsy goaded, retrieving a measuring tape from the chest. “You know, Mrs. Martin has had her eye set on Mr. North since the day he arrived. She flirts shamelessly. Imagine, a woman of her age. He’s so much younger than she is. It never would be. Besides, like I said, his sights are clearly set on you.”
Cassandra pivoted to allow Betsy to take her measurements.
Betsy paused in her task. “While we are speaking about Mr. North, I hope I can say something to you as a friend and you will not be offended.”
Cassandra’s mood shifted as Betsy’s countenance sobered. “Of course. Say whatever you wish.”
“I know I tease you about him, but I do realize that Mr. North is very charming and handsome, and as much as I would love to see you happy and settled and wed with a dozen babies around you, I feel I must say something by way of caution.”
Cassandra swallowed nervously. “Go on.”
“Mr. North might be a vicar. And he is probably a very good man. But people do talk.”
Cassandra remained very still, preparing her mind for whatever would pass her friend’s lips.
“He has a certain reputation. While he is a friendly man, he’s a guarded man. I have friends, male friends, who have been in his presence at certain events. It’s said he has a darker side to him.”
Cassandra struggled to understand exactly what Betsy attempted to convey. “Do you mean with women?”
Betsy leaned closer, her fair brows furrowed. “Not so much about women, but he’s rumored to be greedy. He gambles a great deal, not around here, of course. I don’t know details, but I think you should be fully aware of what is being said about him. Just take heed.”
“If greed is his fault, what interest would he have in me?” She could almost laugh at the very suggestion. “I have nothing to speak of.”
But then it struck her. She might be inheriting land.
Surely that had nothing to do with it. She had only just learned of it, and his interest in her had been evident since her arrival.
The conversation fell off as Betsy pinned the gown and marked the length, and in no time, Cassandra’s measurements were complete.
When Betsy was done, she stood back, propped her hands on her ample hips, and tilted her head to the side. “Well, Cassandra Hale, when you meet your future husband at the ball, and after you marry someone fabulously rich, you will remember your friend who lent you a gown and will, in turn, find said friend an equally wonderful beau. Goodness knows I need all the help I can get.”
* * *
Miss Cassandra Hale.
James thought about her as he leaned with his elbows on his rough desk in the mill countinghouse that had been here for decades.
He should be focused on wool. On buying and selling. On worker relations. On securing the safety of the new looms that were to be delivered in less than a fortnight. But all he could think of was the winsome brunette and her haunting expression.
A light rain tapped against the room’s four windows late that afternoon. A dying fire popped in the grate. He should get up and stoke it.
It had been three days since the meeting at Briarton Park when Longham shared his news. Miss Hale had tears in her eyes when she’d hurriedly climbed into the carriage.
That was the last sight he had of her.
There had been no more talk of governesses or Mr. Clark. In truth, he’d thought about their last interaction far too much.
When he’d bought the mill and Briarton Park, he was all too aware of the effect Mr. Clark had on the wool industry in the area. To his credit, Robert Clark had single-handedly built three mills in different areas of Yorkshire and restored Briarton Park from a crumbling old house to an elegant home. Over the years, however, his actions led to one mill closing entirely and Weyton Mill and Briarton Park being sold so inexpensively.
James had not really considered Clark’s legacy at the time. He’d been so intent upon making changes and implementing procedures that he’d considered little else. He’d not even accounted for the effects of the deceased man’s decisions—including angry former employees and odd solicitors coming to his home.
James stood from his chair to look out the window. The rain still fell, and now the slick, shiny dampness covered the mill’s looming, storied brick buildings and muddy grounds. His workers, both men and women, darted to and fro about their tasks to prepare for the shipment due to leave the next morning. His focus fell on a group of about five men loading a cart. The fact that each one of these people was employed by him—depended on him—was sobering.
“Are you going to Kent’s dinner?” Cool air swept through the door as Milton entered the countinghouse.
“Ah yes. Of course.” James turned from the window. “Tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“Comes ’round like regular.” Milton shrugged off his dusty, damp coat, hung it on a hook, and tossed a letter onto James’s desk. “Might be worth it this time. Peter Clark’s returned from the city, so I’ve heard. Cut the London visit short. If we want to team up with ’im about some shared security, it might be the right time.”
James turned from watching the activity in the courtyard. “Did you hire extra watchmen along the route to the village and back toward Briarton?”
“Yes.”
“The river too?”
“Yes, but ’tis costin’ us. Threat of violence is high. No one wants to get involved.”
The extra security was expensive, but did he have another choice? The locals were growing angrier by the day at the perceived slights. Costs were increasing, demand was going down, and every farthing he had was invested here. “Given the week’s events, I’ll talk with Clark and see what we can come up with. Since the mills are in such close proximity, maybe we can find a mutually beneficial solution.”
“If he’s willin’ to work with us, that is. ’Tis no secret you’re not exactly one of his favorite people.”
Very true. Peter Clark had made no effort to hide his annoyance that the mill and estate had to be sold to cover his father’s debts. Peter had no doubt expected to inherit it and was as shocked as anyone at the business’s state at the time of his father’s death.
But that was out of James’s control. It had been a family matter and had nothing to do with him. He owned the house and the mill outright now, and that was the start and end of his business with the Clarks.
Movement outside the window near the gate caught his eye. A drably clad youth with a flat cap was running in toward the courtyard. The boy paused to talk to a group of men, one of whom pointed to the countinghouse.
“Who’s that?” asked James.
Milton joined him at the window. But before he could respond, the boy ran to the countinghouse and flew inside. “Letter from Briarton Park for Mr. Warrington.” The boy extended the missive toward James.