Chapter Fourteen #2
‘We don’t drink tankards of ale but ouzo, an anise-flavoured alcohol favored by the Greeks.’ She poured two small glasses of the milky-white drink and handed one to him, then raised her own glass.
He watched her lips as they touched the rim of her glass. He raised his own. The unique anise taste reminded him of licorice. He’d always loved licorice.
‘You’ve fed me far too much and ruined my expectations of tavern food,’ he said when they’d finished.
She laughed, a soft musical sound that wrapped around him. ‘I was nervous and not sure you would like it.’
‘I like it,’ he said, his gaze steady. ‘Very much. I believe Cook has much to learn.’
Her lips curled in a smile. ‘I thought you could use an evening away. You have been working too hard.’
The words hung between them. He’d buried himself in his study not only to work, but to escape her.
The way she smiled. The way her green eyes lit with intelligence when she found something interesting.
The way, even now, across a candlelit table with mouthwatering food he couldn’t pronounce, he was far more ravenous for her than for anything else on his plate.
His voice was hoarse. ‘You were right. I needed this. My work has been on my mind.’
Their eyes held for a long moment. ‘Tell me more about your child labor bill,’ she said.
He was grateful for the change in topic. He could talk politics and focus on something other than the vivacious woman sitting across from him. She’d likely soon grow tired of it and want to return home.
‘As you know, I’m hoping to reduce the hours of child labor in London factories. It applies to those under the age of nine years old.’
She looked aghast. ‘Eight years old! How young can they be employed?’
‘There is no age limit as it stands. Some are four.’
Fire lit her eyes. ‘Four! When you told me about it on the beach, I thought your bill was worthy then, but even more so now.’
‘There is opposition and not all of it is easy to overcome. Lord Weber says it is fiscally irresponsible and would be too costly for the factory owners.’
‘If they must rely on child labor, then they are earning too much themselves.’ She held out her glass and he refilled it.
He added another good amount of anise-flavoured liquor to his own glass. ‘Others say that the children need the work to support their families. Or that idle hands will commit crime.’
‘Idle hands of a four- to eight-year-old child?’ she asked. ‘You have a stronger argument. They will surely become sick from working in unhealthy factory environments. Or even injured. If their hours are limited, then they can work more as they grow older and stronger.’
He was surprised she knew this. He ran other arguments past her.
Younger children are small enough to squeeze beneath factory equipment and fix looms, their parents need and want them to work, and others.
She kept up with him and helped hone his arguments.
She even played devil’s advocate and made him think fast on his feet.
He was reminded of the time she’d first shown him her sketchbook at the beach in Cornwall.
Once again, he appreciated her sharp mind.
‘Lord Weber is in contact with the London mills. I’m certain they are giving him money to oppose my bill,’ Ralston shared.
‘Is that ethical?’ she asked.
It was a good question. ‘Politics is a tricky world. The line between ethics and improperness is often blurred. Weber can easily claim he’s been speaking to mill owners to listen to their concerns, not to take a bribe. What they do behind closed doors is entirely private.’
When they were finished, he held her chair as she stood. ‘Thank you for bringing me here and sharing your food. I will forever crave hummus.’
She laughed up at him. ‘How else was I to drag you away from your study?’
He thought of many other ways. They each ended up with her naked in his bed.
That night, Nora tossed and turned. The sheets tangled around her limbs like the thoughts in her mind.
She recalled Ralston in the private dining room of her uncle’s tavern, his lips parting as he tasted the hummus, the slow widening of his dark eyes, and the hum of pleasure that escaped him.
She’d wanted to share her culture, and had been worried he’d dislike the food, only to be secretly thrilled he’d enjoyed it.
As the evening progressed and the ouzo flowed, the more she longed to reach across the table and press her lips against his.
The desire unsettled her, making her feel foolish and alive all at once.
She feared the pull between them. Feared how easily her heart pounded and her body grew warm when he was near.
And when they kissed, she felt that heat in the strangest places.
A tug in her chest and a wetness between her thighs.
Such an attraction was perilous. She’d spent too many years protecting herself and working towards her own scientific ambitions.
Her husband could undo all of it with a look, a kiss, a whisper of her name. It was a risk she could not take.
Yet, as he’d eaten each dish, an idea had taken root.
She could cook her own meal for him, another Middle Eastern dish he had yet to experience.
She was grateful to him for upholding his promises and there was a simple way to show him.
She sat upright in bed. Of course, she’d never learned how to cook.
But how hard could it be? And she knew just where to find someone to help teach her.
Her thoughts wandered back to the rest of their conversation that evening.
His voice had grown fervent when he spoke of his bill.
She knew how much the passage of his bill meant to him.
His political career was at a precipice, and he would be devastated if Lord Weber prevailed and the bill failed to pass.
She could sympathize and understand. If the London Scientific Society barred her from presenting her findings, her world would come crashing down.
Her feelings were growing more confused.
The more she learned of her husband and his passions, the more tempting he became.