Chapter 29 Dancing with the Devil
Dancing with the Devil
Peter Moore’s modest terraced house sat wedged between identical dwellings on Turnmill Street, their brick facades darkened by years of soot and grime.
Amelia adjusted her plain wool cloak and gripped her cane more tightly.
The silver lioness head felt cool beneath her palm, a reminder of Charles’ faith in her strength.
The house was respectable by local standards, with clean windows and a well-maintained front step. A few hardy flowers struggled against the smoky air in the small patch of ground before the door.
She lifted the brass door knocker and rapped firmly. From within came the sounds of domestic life—children’s voices, the clatter of crockery, a woman’s voice attempting to impose order on chaos.
The door opened to reveal a neat woman with her hair arranged beneath a modest cap. Her eyes widened at Amelia’s refined bearing and the quality of her dress visible beneath the plain cloak.
“Good evening,” Amelia said. “I need to speak with Mr. Peter Moore. It concerns Crown Street Textiles.”
A shadow crossed Mrs. Moore’s features. “And you are, my lady?”
“Someone with questions about an incident from thirteen years past.”
The woman paled but stepped aside. “Please, come in. Peter’s just finished his dinner.”
The front parlor was small but scrupulously clean, walls papered in a pattern that showed signs of age. Children’s voices grew louder from the back room.
“I’ll fetch him directly.” Mrs. Moore hurried toward the rear of the house, calling, “Peter! There’s a lady here to see you.”
Heavy footsteps approached, and Peter Moore appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth napkin. His face, marked by years of factory dust and worry, showed immediate confusion at the sight of a well-dressed lady in his home.
Before he could speak, three children peered around their father—a boy of perhaps twelve, a girl slightly younger, and a small child of six or seven who clung to her father’s leg.
The sight of them made something twist in Amelia’s chest. These children could run, could dance, had all their limbs intact.
“Back to the kitchen with you,” Mrs. Moore said, reappearing to shepherd them away. “Let Papa speak with the lady.”
“But Mama—” the youngest protested.
“Now, Alice.” Mrs. Moore’s tone brooked no argument, though she cast worried glances between her husband and Amelia.
Once the children’s voices receded to the kitchen, Moore gestured awkwardly to a chair. “I’m Peter Moore, my lady. How may I help you?”
He took the chair nearest the door—positioned to flee, Amelia noted.
“I am the Marchioness of Hereford. You were foreman at Crown Street Textiles thirteen years ago,” she stated.
His brows furrowed as he answered cautiously, “Yes, my lady. That was many years past.”
“There was an accident. A girl named Amelia Thornton.”
Color drained from his face and his whole body seemed to crumple. “That poor child.” His voice broke. “I’ve never forgotten. Such a young thing, barely fourteen.”
From the kitchen came the sound of children laughing, quickly hushed by their mother. The domesticity of it all—this man who had been complicit in destroying her future, surrounded by his intact, happy family—made Amelia’s chest tight with complicated emotions.
“Tell me what you remember,” she said quietly.
Moore’s eyes filled with tears. “Everything. I remember everything. The sound when the machine caught her. Her screams. So much blood.” He buried his face in his hands. “I carried her out myself. She was so small in my arms, so frightened. Her eyes… the way she looked at me, begging for help.”
“What did you do?”
“I held her hand while we waited for the doctor. Tried to keep her conscious. I didn’t know what else to do.” Tears pooled in his eyes. “When they said they’d have to take the leg, I begged them to reconsider. Dr. Morrison, he said it could be saved with time and proper care, but…”
“But?”
“Mr. Bigham had orders. From the owner. He didn’t know which one.
The letter demanded economies. No extended treatments, nothing that would cost more than quick solutions.
” Moore rubbed his weathered face with shaky hands.
“I had to… I was forced to hold her down while the doctor…” Amelia thought he might break down and start sobbing, but he suddenly looked up, awareness dawning.
“Why are you asking about her? How are you related to Amelia Thornton?”
Amelia lifted her chin, perhaps to erase that pitiful girl from his memory. “I am Amelia Thornton.”
His mouth fell open as his eyes roamed over her regal stature. “Dear Lord, you’re… you’re a lady.”
Amelia nodded once and watched the man process her new station. He abruptly stood on shaking legs, moving to a secretary desk. “I kept these. Don’t know why. Guilt, maybe. Or knowing someday someone would come asking.”
He withdrew a folder with trembling hands, offering it to her. “Another little girl was deemed disposable eight months after your accident. Their orders. Still unsigned. Still no identity of the owners.”
Amelia opened the folder, seeing flowing ink on documents that had sealed another poor creature’s fate. When she looked up, Moore was covering his mouth with his hand as if he was going to be sick.
Moore’s knees buckled then. He fell to the floor, sobbing. “Forgive me. Please, Lord, forgive me. I have children—I understand what I took from you and the others. Every day I see them run and play, and I remember.”
“Peter?” Mrs. Moore appeared in the doorway, alarm on her face. “What’s happening?”
“This lady,” Moore choked out, “she’s the girl from the factory. The one whose leg…”
Mrs. Moore’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Peter.”
“You held my hand,” Amelia said softly, her own voice unsteady now. “When I was screaming, you stayed with me. You sang that song about spring.”
“You remember,” he whispered.
“I remember the kindness mixed with the horror.” She moved toward him and offered her hand. “You were following orders you couldn’t refuse without destroying your own family. I understand that.”
From the kitchen, children’s voices rose again—an argument over the last piece of pudding. Such normal, beautiful sounds of childhood.
“I’m sorry,” Moore said as he took her hand and rose to his feet. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know,” she said softly as she stepped toward the door, documents clutched in her hand. “Thank you for keeping these.”
With Moore’s and his wife’s voices faint in the background, Amelia emerged from the house just as a familiar carriage pulled up to the curb. Charles stepped out, followed by Carlisle, Patrick, and Steven. They stopped short at seeing her.
“Amelia?” Steven’s shock was evident. “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing you intended, apparently.” Her voice turned cool as she looked at Charles, the afternoon’s discoveries about his factory ownership fresh in her mind. “Though I’ve already obtained what we need.” She held up the folder. “The direct orders. Their identities are still hidden.”
“You confronted Moore alone?” Charles moved toward her, concern evident despite her coldness.
“I confronted the man who carried me, bleeding, from that factory floor.” She stepped back from his reach. “Just as I confront anyone who profits from workers’ suffering.”
Charles’ expression shuttered at her pointed tone, clearly catching the accusation beneath her words. The other men exchanged uncertain glances.
“Perhaps we should return home,” Charles said carefully. Without a word, she stepped onto the carriage with a footman’s help.
The carriage ride was thick with tension. Amelia sat rigidly apart from Charles, while Steven kept shooting confused looks between them. Patrick and Carlisle maintained diplomatic silence, though their discomfort was palpable.
“Did Moore admit to—” Steven began.
“He admitted to following orders he couldn’t refuse,” Amelia said tersely.
“Did you have to use the cane?” Hereford asked. She shook her head brusquely, catching his meaning. Her husband turned his gaze toward the window.
When they reached the townhouse, the others quickly excused themselves, sensing the storm brewing between husband and wife.
*
Charles followed Amelia to the study, closing the door behind them with quiet deliberation. He sensed her rage, so much so that it seemed to vibrate out of her and ripple in the air.
Amelia moved to the desk where several documents lay spread out—the evidence of his own planning to confront Moore.
“I made some interesting discoveries today,” she said, her voice carefully controlled. “About Penridge Works and several other factories with poor safety records.”
A chill ran through Hereford, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “What sort of discoveries?”
She turned to face him, her expression hardening. “That you own them, Charles. Or at least, you’ve acquired interests in them over the past year.”
The unspoken accusation hung in the air between them. Hereford had known this conversation might come eventually, but he’d hoped to have more time.
“I can explain,” he began.
“Please do,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Explain how my husband has secretly been acquiring factories known for their appalling safety conditions and worker mistreatment.”
“It’s not what you think, Amelia.”
“No? Do you admit you’ve been deliberately concealing these investments from me?”
Hereford ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, I admit it. But I haven’t acquired these factories for profit.”
“Then why?”
“For leverage,” he said, meeting her gaze directly. “To force through reforms from the inside. Sometimes the only way to change a system is to control it.”
“Then why the secrecy, Charles? Why not tell me what you were doing?”
“Because I knew how it would appear. I knew you would doubt my motives, just as you’re doing now.”