The Duke’s Delight (Family First #1)

Prologue

The clamor of the weaving hall wrapped around Alistair Fraser-Oxley the moment he stepped through the oak doors. The scent of wool hung thick in the air, raw and earthy, laced with hot metal and steam.

Pistons hissed. Shuttles clattered back and forth along the looms in their endless race. It was a symphony of industry, one Alistair had conducted since he was barely out of short coats, and it never failed to stir a quiet pride in his chest.

This was the heart of Yorkshire’s burgeoning textile trade, a place where raw fleece from the rolling Dales was turned into fine fabric bound for the wardrobes of gentlemen and the holds of merchant ships.

Redbrick buildings ran the length of the River Irwyn behind him.

Water power and steam engines worked side by side, powering weaving halls, dye vats and storage warehouses that had tripled in size since his father’s day.

He had watched it grow from a modest operation under his father’s guidance into this sprawling complex, employing hundreds and rivaling the great mills of Manchester itself.

He tugged his cuffs straight, wool cut from cloth spun in these very halls, and found Hawkes waiting by the third row of looms, cap already coming off his head.

“Morning, Hawkes. How does the new batch of worsted fare? Any trouble in the spinning?” His voice carried over the din without effort, a tone honed from years of commanding respect amid the noise.

Hawkes, a burly man with a weathered face that spoke of his years among the looms, straightened at once.

“Smooth as anything, Mr. Fraser-Oxley, sir. The lads have the tension just right. Not a single break since dawn, and we’re a quarter over last week’s count already.

” There was deference in his bearing, but not servility.

Mill management had earned its workers’ loyalty through action, not authority alone.

Alistair’s mouth curved into a brief, approving smile. He was not a man given to effusive praise, but his workers knew his nods carried weight.

“Good man. Mind that steam pressure. I will not have a burst line on my hands. See the apprentices rotate proper. No lad works himself past sense.”

He moved down the row, his gaze skimming the looms, the bent shoulders of the men and women at their work. Too many mills in the region carried stories of mangled limbs and lost lives, victims of owners who valued profit over people.

Not here. He had fitted guards over the worst of the machinery with his own hands, argued half of Yorkshire deaf over the cost of it, and built a small infirmary besides.

He paid fair wages and walked the floor daily, not from mere kindness but because he understood what most mill owners did not.

A man who felt safe and valued wove finer cloth than one driven by fear.

It was good business, certainly, but it was also a deeper conviction that the mill’s prosperity ought to ripple outward.

Into the villages that supplied its workers, the schools he funded for their children, and the roads and drainage he had petitioned the parish to improve.

Alistair did not build for the Fraser-Oxleys alone. He built for everyone whose livelihood was tied to these walls, and he weighed his success not only in bolts of worsted shipped, but in the lives made better by the enterprise.

Treat your people well, and they will build your legacy.

Those had been his father’s words, and Alistair carried them the way another man might carry a pocket watch, always close, always consulted.

As he moved deeper into the hall, Alistair exchanged greetings with the men and women bent over their tasks.

“Mrs. Wilkins.” He slowed by a loom near the window.

“How is that shoulder mending? No heavy lifting, now.” His memory for names and small details was well known among the staff.

He believed it made each of them feel seen and valued.

The older woman looked up from her bobbin, gap-toothed and grinning despite the care in how she held her arm. “Better every day, sir, thanks to the physic you sent round. My boy’s taken quite the shine to this place. Says he means to be like you one day.”

Mrs. Wilkins had been with the mill above two decades now, since she was a young spinner herself, and her loyalty stood as proof enough of how the family did business.

“Tell him to aim higher.” The corner of Alistair’s mouth twitched, near enough to a smile. “But keep him well clear of the flywheels until he knows his way safely about the machinery.”

He clapped a young lad on the shoulder as he passed the next row, the boy’s eyes widening in awe. “Good man there, Tom. You are managing fine.”

A clatter from the corner loom snapped his head round.

A girl, hardly more than eighteen, hair pinned under a plain cap and her apron already smudged with lint, wrestled with the controls.

The shuttle had jammed, and her hand hovered too near the moving parts for Alistair’s liking.

His heart lurched. He had seen accidents like this before.

Fingers caught in gears, a life altered in an instant.

“Easy there, miss.” He crossed to her in three strides, shoving his sleeves back without hesitation, forearms corded from years of labor. “What is your name?”

She startled, color flooding her cheeks, hands clasping tight in front of her apron, eyes dropping from his face. “Annie, sir. Annie Croft. Only started last week. The lever’s caught fast, and I didn’t like to force it.”

Her voice came soft, near lost beneath the din of the hall, but there was grit under it. Alistair recognized that grit. It was the spark of someone determined to prove herself.

“Wise of you. Had you forced it, you might have snapped the thread or, worse, caught your fingers in the gears. Let me show you.” He positioned himself beside her, his large frame dwarfing the loom, and found the trouble at once.

“There. The warp beam has shifted. It happens when the steam pressure is poorly regulated. Hold this fast for me.”

Annie obeyed, her hands trembling a little as she gripped the frame. Alistair adjusted the tension rod with care, explaining each motion in a voice pitched to carry over the noise without shouting.

“Now ease the pedal slow. Feel the give? That is the steam doing its work. Do not fight it. Guide it. Take care to keep your hands well clear of the shuttle path. I have seen good weavers lose fingers for less.” He showed her the proper grip, his own fingers closing briefly over hers to set the angle, then stepped back to let her try alone.

The loom hummed back to life, the shuttle taking up its dance again, and the fine worsted pattern began to grow thread by thread beneath her hands. “Thank you, sir. I didn’t want to trouble anyone—”

“No trouble.” Alistair’s tone was firm, though not unkind.

“Safety first, always. Should anything feel amiss, do not hesitate to stop and ask. Better a minute lost than a hand ruined through haste.” He wiped his hands on the rag from his pocket and met her gaze square.

“You are doing well for a newcomer. Keep at it and you will be running this row before the year is out.” He set his lips firm.

“Bind back those loose bits of hair, as well. I will not have them catching in the works.”

Annie’s eyes shone, a small smile breaking through. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” As he moved on, she returned to her work with renewed vigor, the loom’s clack joining the chorus once more.

A few nearby workers murmured their approval as he passed, their respect plain.

He was not a man who lorded his position over them.

He got his hands dirty right alongside theirs, and they knew it.

He continued his circuit, noting the smooth performance of the carding machines, the great rollers combing wool into even strands, and the regular flow of raw fleece from the storage bays.

The air hung humid from the steam, beads of moisture clinging to the windows, but another of his own improvements was the ventilation system he had installed.

They kept the wet heat bearable. He paused at the dye vats, where the air turned sharp and bitter with color.

Deep navies bubbled for uniforms, rich crimsons for the coats of merchants who could afford such vanity.

“Mr. Ellis. How does the indigo hold? Any fading in the samples?”

The old dyer, grizzled but diligent, wiped his brow and reported all was well. Alistair suggested a small adjustment to the ratio for better fastness and moved on satisfied.

Three hundred souls worked beneath this roof, most of them from villages he could have named blindfolded, and Alistair knew the greater part of them by name.

His father had taught him that, the same as he had taught him everything else that mattered.

Edmund Oxley had been the second son of a duke before he married Moira Fraser, a mill owner’s daughter, and built all this from the ground up alongside her father.

Alistair had inherited the mantle when his father had died, with Franklin at his right hand, Benedict over the upper works, and Gregory below.

Justin, the youngest, was off at Oxford being a scholar, and Charlotte helped his mother keep their books in order.

“Alistair! Wait for me!”

He turned to find Franklin cutting through the aisles at speed, coat flapping.

A few years his junior, Franklin shared his dark reddish hair and the same sharp cut to his features, though Alistair stood a couple inches taller and was broad enough to fill a doorway, Franklin was leaner, his eyes a shade lighter, often bright with the restless energy that came from thriving on columns of figures the way other men thrived on drink.

As second-in-command, Franklin handled the ledgers and the negotiations, leaving Alistair to the operational heart of the mill.