Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Zachary pulled open the door and stepped into the dim interior.
Thanks to the thick plank walls it was a few degrees cooler than outside but reeking of the musk of men’s sweat and echoing with the clang of metal on metal as the workers went about hammering the new equipment into working order.
Zachary had grown accustomed to the appearance and smell and sound of the factory.
The Irishmen were stripped to the waist in the stifling heat. The Chinese in their traditional changshan shirts and long black braids worked in the suffocating temperature owing to the blazing sun of the deep summer afternoon. The men were pouring with sweat, but they weren’t slacking.
As the lunch whistle blew, a carriage pulled up with three women descending.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it’s Miss Spencer, Mrs. Merriweather–and Fiona!”
Zachary did not move, smoothing his hair back and buttoning his shirt. Damn. What were they doing here?
“Do I have crumbs on my face?” snapped O’Reilly.
Zachary scowled. “No. Why?”
“Why are your feet stuck in concrete? Get going lad.” O’Reilly dashed to his love interest like rabbit with a fox on its tail. He grasped Fiona’s hand in a death grip.
Zachary checked behind him unsure of the condition of his plant and noted the men gawking at the ladies, especially Elizabeth in her pink and white stripe batiste day dress, high collar trimmed with lace, fitted sleeves flaring out with lace cuffs.
He raked his fingers through his hair. Her dress would probably pay for his men’s wages for a year. “Ladies, to what do we owe the honor?”
Mrs. Merriweather pulled herself upright. “We wish to impose on your hospitality to obtain a tour of your factory.”
Zachary scratched his head, and then stared at his men that communicated quit your ogling and get back to work. “It’s highly unusual to entertain ladies—”
“Hogwash, Mr. Rourke. I’m demanding a tour,” said the indomitable widow.
Elizabeth stood on tiptoe scrutinizing the inside of his factory. Was she fascinated with his work? No way was her presence in the factory considered proper. A small, prideful part of him wanted more than anything to show her what he’d built.
She must have felt his eyes upon her. Conscious of all the gazes upon them and with her usual grace and deportment, she pretended nothing had ever occurred between them. “It’d be a shame if we came all this way and didn’t get a peek.”
“Come in, come in,” ushered O’Reilly, posing like a bandy rooster preening his feathers.
Zachary had no choice but to follow the oohs and ahhs of the entourage. Suddenly, he felt taller, bigger, and stronger.
O’Reilly hit the bolt of the new engine with his wrench, flashing sweat stains the size of pancakes.
He pointed to a machine with the end of his pipe.
The pungent smell of tobacco hung over the place like a pall.
“I’ve been trying to get this old girl to work over the past few days, but like a woman, she has a mind of her own.
A man can shoot a squirrel out of a tree at seventy feet.
But he can’t vomit into a bucket or pee into a pot only two feet away. One of the great mysteries of life.”
He tipped his head. “Pardon my language. I’m not accustomed to such fine ladies.”
“Oh, please go on,” said Mrs. Merriweather. “Your work captivates us.”
“By the way, Mr. Rourke,” said O’Reilly, “we must use crucible steel. It’s more expensive but higher quality.”
Zachary ran his hands through his hair. “More expense I wasn’t counting on.”
“We must for these specialty applications. And we must obtain a great deal of it. Wells and Company manufactures crucible steel in Pittsburgh. Too far. I’ve heard about a new company in Syracuse, a lot closer, and using the same established techniques in Europe.”
Zachary nodded. “I don’t like it, but if we must, we’ll do it.”
As O’Reilly tamped more tobacco into his pipe, he spouted the merits of what they had accomplished.
Elizabeth strolled through Zachary’s plant.
Strictures of society forbade someone like her to be at a venue like this, but she was like a child experiencing Christmas for the first time.
She let the rest of them continue, waiting for Zachary to come up beside her.
“I apologize for our intrusion. Mrs. Merriweather corralled me into coming. She is a force.”
“I gathered that.”
Amidst the smell of oil and hot machinery, she swept a gloved hand over his factory. “You designed and built all of this?”
He nodded his head, his gaze never leaving hers.
She glanced farther to where smoke belched from forges. “There are so many complicated moving parts to consider. You are a genius,” she whispered. “Is there anything you can’t do?”
“It’d be faster if you asked for the things I couldn’t do.”
She gave him a sideways glance with the tiniest hint of a smile.
What a rogue he was, endearing him to her more than when they’d met in the Fitzgeralds’ gardens, an experience possessing danger, citing an ambiguity that anything to do with Mr. Rourke held potential for failure and risk.
She shrugged and allowed him to guide her to a new machine.
“This, for instance, moves the pistons at greater speed, using less oil. Much more efficient.” His hand moved up and down the machine once, caressing it, as a man would touch the neck of a favorite horse.
Tools dropped behind her and she jumped into him. He caught her and set her straight. “I’m fascinated with everything I see.”
Zachary grinned. “The problem is I’m good at everything.”
“I’m overcome with your humility.” Elizabeth laughed, and on tiptoe amid the earsplitting clamor, bang and clatter of machines, the bellows of workers, she made her inspection into dark recesses occasionally lit by lanterns and spurts of flame.
“I must admit your factory possesses a soul, music and retains a dance to it. What you are doing is good for the world sustained by your creation.”
Her pulse kicked with the undisguised pride in his dark, burning gaze.
Time stopped. The hammering and clanking and shouts of men stilled and then vanished.
Were they travelers on a cosmic journey, stardust, twirling and swaying in the eddies and whirlpools of eternity?
A precious moment, a little parenthesis in infinity.
He had done it again. Pulled her into his mystic universe.
Self-preservation told her to step back from the fire of the illusion before she was burned. Hand on her chest, she was unable to quell her breathing.
Desperate to seize control, she said, “You have not told me the name of your intended so I may invite you and her to tea.”
He narrowed his eyes into an intense cobalt blue. “Ah, that. I suppose she is off to greener pastures…perhaps a duke?”
Was he talking about her? She wanted to look away from that intense gaze and, conversely, let herself get lost in it. “Your scrutiny is affronting, Mr. Rourke.”
He bestowed an abbreviated bow. “Admiring, not scrutinizing. There is a difference.”
Her gaze still on his, she pointed to an observation balcony that spanned the width of the plant, connected to a staircase rising to a second story. “What is that room?”
“That’s my office and where I sleep.”
Where he sleeps. Her brain faltered. Why did his growl sound like a sensual force that licked through her body? Cheeks burning, she turned from him, her skirts brushing his leg. Fire skittered to her thighs. “I thought you were staying with the Fitzgeralds?”
“I work most nights and prefer to not waste time in transit.” He offered his hand to assist her in stepping over a pile of tools and empty pallets.
Tremendous heat and energy. Did she want to invite that intensity?
He cleared his throat, an innuendo that roared a dare.
Staring at his hand, her fingers shaking, she accepted the challenge offered to her.
She placed her hand into his.
Had she set her touch to fire and steel? After stepping over the encumbrance, she drew her hand away, but he held it with his larger one.
He inclined his head and with a seraphic smile, said, “In case there might be something else to stumble over. I promise not to carry you away.”
Was he completely unfazed by what he’d put her through? With a cool expression pasted on her face, she goaded him. “Is there a reason to be concerned?”
He laughed in a rich baritone she would brand in her memory.
A warm glow flowed through her. Her hand felt at home in his.
He was chivalrous for sure. Hadn’t he come to her rescue with the birth of her child?
With the sugar baron’s assault? His men were watching.
She dropped his hand, stepped around a pile of wood shavings that were scattered to soak up a pool of oil.
She nodded her head to two Chinese women serving food to a line of Chinese workers.
“Let me make acquaintances.”
She widened her eyes as Zachary, in flawless Chinese made introductions to the smiling Chinese woman and her daughter. “This is Miss Elizabeth Spencer, and this is Lian Li and her daughter, Anhe.”
They bowed several times.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” said Elizabeth extending her gloved hand.
“I hired Qing-Nan Li and his five sons to work in the plant. Qing-Nan Li is an old friend from my railroad days. He worked out west and sent money home to New York to support his family. He had been buried in the cave-in. His wife and daughter provide lunches for the workers.”
Elizabeth noticed Chen, much taller than his Chinese companions, loitering, allowing everyone to precede him in the serving line.
He bowed to Lian Li. Overlong, he hesitated in front of her daughter.
Unhurried, the girl served his food, dawdling with an extra ladle of broth and noodles.
The monk bowed to her. With his dinner, he sat at a far wall, his eyes shuttered, not looking yet never leaving Anhe as she busied with clean up.