Chapter 16
Despite all that was on her mind, Francesca did not wake at her usual hour.
For once, neither London nor her own estates intruded immediately upon her thoughts.
The curtains admitted a pale light, as though the morning itself had elected to proceed with caution after the exertions of the previous evening.
She lay still for several moments, aware first of the unfamiliar indulgence of rest, and then—slowly—of the return of memory.
First, she recollected the political dinner and the conversation that had not dismissed her. Then she considered the patronesses who had found her curious, followed by the truth Major Manners had spoken in the quiet afterwards.
There was an account in her name and proof that funds had been diverted. It had to have been implemented by Thomas.
She closed her eyes again, though there was no returning to sleep. Politics, she thought, was exhausting—not only because of the care when speaking and listening, but also because of the constant negotiation between what one wished to believe and what one must accept.
Yet she felt a quiet, reluctant satisfaction. She had not been dismissed. They had listened to her… Francesca Vale.
It was more than she had expected.
If she could move even one of them to act, then perhaps reform need not remain a matter of pamphlets and polite indignation. Perhaps improvements might even become real.
She exhaled slowly and sat up. First, however, there was Thomas to be dealt with.
She rose and crossed to the window, drawing the curtain aside. London moved below with its usual composure—carriages, pedestrians, the measured rhythm of a city that never slept.
She had known Thomas nearly her entire life. He had been—she stopped the thought before it could complete itself, but it echoed silently anyway. Trustworthy.
The word felt uncertain now. Why had he not asked her?
The question returned again, more painful each time she examined it.
If he required funds—if he believed in the cause as deeply as she—why not speak to her? Why not present his reasoning, his arguments, his necessity?
She would have listened. She might not have agreed, but she would have listened.
Instead, he had taken the money. He was no better than a thief.
Worse still, he had arranged for it to appear as though she was complicit in his dealings.
Her fingers drew circles against the glass.
It might have been forgivable were it merely ambition, or even misguided zeal, but this— If the account were discovered—if the funds were traced—her name would stand at the centre of it, not his. Why?
Why would he implicate her?
The thought resisted her at first. It felt disloyal even to consider it. Loyalty, however, was not blindness. Would she ever know the truth?
She turned from the window. The notion of a trap returned to her with a clarity that surprised her. Arch had said it plainly, as though it were the most natural solution in the world.
Now she had to decide how to perpetrate such a snare.
Francesca had not intended to encounter Thomas Kendall that morning.
She had set out with a purpose that was, in itself, entirely reasonable.
If she were to propose improvements to her mills—ventilation systems, reinforced gearing, safer housing for machinery—then she ought, at the very least, to understand the materials involved.
It would not do to speak of reform in abstractions while remaining ignorant of its practical execution.
The ironworks yard she had been directed to lay just off the broader sweep of Edgware Road, tucked behind a row of respectable but unremarkable buildings.
It was not the sort of place Society ladies were apt to frequent, but neither was it disreputable.
Men moved steadily through the yard with the assurance of habit, carrying lengths of pipe and fitted joints; the tang of metal and oil hung in the air, and the rhythm of hammer against iron echoed faintly from within the adjoining workshop.
Francesca stepped carefully over a narrow rut in the ground, her maid close behind her, and paused near a long work-table upon which several components had been laid out for inspection.
“This,” the foreman was explaining, with a degree of patience that suggested he had not often been required to instruct a lady, “would allow for greater airflow across the upper floors. It must be fitted correctly, mind, or it does more harm than good.”
Francesca bent slightly to examine the piece, her gloved hand hovering just above the metal. “What may be the cost?”
He named it.
She nodded once, committing the figure to memory. “How much would installation add to that?”
Before the man could answer, a familiar voice spoke from just behind her. “I should not have thought to find you here, Miss Vale.”
Francesca straightened at once and turned. Kendall stood a short distance away, hat in hand, his expression composed, though not entirely free of surprise. Had he followed her?
“Nor I you, Mr. Kendall,” she replied, allowing a note of mild curiosity to enter her tone. “Though perhaps I ought not to be surprised. You have always taken an interest in practical matters.”
He inclined his head. “Where they are concerned with your estate, I make it my business to do so.” There was nothing in the words to alarm, nor yet anything in the tone.
Nevertheless, she felt, rather than saw, the subtle shift beneath them.
“I am considering further improvements,” she said, turning slightly so that the foreman’s table remained within their shared view.
“Ventilation, in particular. It seems to be an area in which a modest investment may yield considerable benefit. This place was brought to my attention at dinner last night.”
“That is not a topic I would have anticipated at a Society dinner,” Kendall replied. He stepped nearer, his attention moving briefly over the equipment before returning to her. “Though I wonder whether such matters might have been left to your managers.”
“I prefer not to speak of things I do not understand,” she said evenly. “It invites error.”
His gaze lingered upon her for a moment longer than necessary. “It does.”
The foreman, sensing that his presence was no longer required, withdrew with a respectful nod, leaving them in a quieter corner of the yard.
“I have also been considering what you spoke of before, whether my support might extend beyond structural improvements,” she said, as if the thought had only just occurred to her.
Kendall’s expression altered, though only slightly. “In what manner?”
“In whatever manner would be most effective,” she replied. “You spoke recently of facilitating progress. I begin to think I have not been sufficiently attentive to what that may require.”
He was watching her closely now. “Support,” he said carefully, “is not always visible. There are efforts that require… encouragement.”
“So you mentioned before.”
“It helps matters along,” he answered.
She met his gaze directly. “Then you must tell me where such funding would be best applied.”
There it was again—that look she had noticed before: expectation. He had not been surprised by her offer… he expected it.
“I would not presume to direct you,” he said, although his tone suggested otherwise. “I mean only to suggest that certain groups are working towards meaningful reform, and that their efforts are often constrained by lack of resources.”
“Would these groups be the same as those I have already encountered?” she asked, her voice still light.
“Some will be,” he replied. “Others operate with greater discretion.”
“Discretion,” she repeated. “I see.”
“It is a necessary quality,” he said, “in a climate where progress is too easily mistaken for agitation.”
She inclined her head, as though considering this.
“And Major Manners?” he asked then, with an ease that did not quite disguise its intent. “Does he share your interest in such progress?”
Francesca did not answer at once. “He is only fulfilling his mother’s and my uncle’s request to escort me,” she said.
“Are you sure he has no other motives?” Kendall asked quietly.
She allowed herself the smallest of smiles. “Do you question them?”
“I question everything,” he said.
The sounds of the yard continued around them—metal striking metal, voices calling and answering across a distance; the ordinary industry of labour proceeding without regard for the undercurrents between the two visitors.
“I shall consider what you have said,” Francesca continued at last. “If I am to increase my support, I should like to do so intelligently. For now, I would like to order one of these systems for whichever manufactory you deem it best employed. We will try one first.”
“I will see to it,” Kendall said, but his gaze remained on her.
As she turned to take her leave, Francesca found herself marking the place—the street, the yard, the narrow turn that led back towards the main road—with a precision she did not consciously intend.
Something within her—quiet, instinctive and newly alert—was troubled. Had Kendall been there for some other reason, or just to follow her?
“Shall I call the carriage, miss?” Nelly asked, stepping forward from the shadows where she had been waiting with that particular stillness she possessed when observing more than she appeared.
Francesca did not answer at once. Her gaze remained upon the narrow street beyond the iron-works yard, where carts passed at uneven intervals and the afternoon light fell in muted tones against the brick.
“No,” she said at last. “Send it back. I should like to walk a little. We are not so far from Hyde Park.”
Nelly’s brows lifted, though she did not protest. “Very well, miss.”
Nelly moved to give the necessary instructions to the coachman, who hesitated slightly before departing, casting a look behind him that suggested he was not entirely convinced this deviation was wise. Francesca watched him go, then stepped out into the street.