The Unanticipated Duke (The Oxleys #1)

Prologue

The clamor of the mills enveloped Alistair Fraser-Oxley like a familiar embrace as he stepped through the heavy oak doors into the vast weaving hall. The air was thick with the scent of wool. Raw, earthy, and faintly oily, it mingled with the sharp tang of steam and hot metal.

Machines thrummed in rhythmic unison, their pistons hissing and clanking like the breath of some colossal beast, while the shuttles of the power looms darted back and forth with relentless rigor.

It was a symphony of industry, one that Alistair had conducted since he was barely out of his youth, and it never failed to stir a quiet pride in his chest.

This was the heart of Yorkshire’s burgeoning textile empire, a place where raw fleece from the rolling Dales was transformed into fine fabrics destined for the wardrobes of gentlemen and the sails of merchant ships.

The mill’s red-brick buildings stretched along the banks of the River Irwyn, harnessing water power alongside the newer steam engines, and had expanded thrice in Alistair’s lifetime to encompass weaving halls, dyeing vats, and storage warehouses.

He had seen it grow from a modest operation under his father’s guidance to this sprawling complex, employing hundreds and rivaling the great factories of Manchester.

He adjusted the cuffs of his woolen coat, which was tailored from the very cloth produced in these halls, and nodded to the foreman who stood overseeing a row of workers.

“Morning, Hawkes. How fares the new batch of worsted? Any snags 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 face weathered by years amongst the looms, straightened at once, his cap clutched in his hands.

“Mr. Fraser-Oxley, sir. Smooth as silk, if you’ll pardon the expression.

The lads have the tension just right. No breaks since dawn.

Production’s up by a quarter from last week.

” There was a deference in his posture, but not servility.

Mill management had earned their workers’ loyalty through actions, not mere authority.

Alistair’s lips curved into a brief, approving smile. He was not one for effusive praise, but his workers knew his nods carried weight. “Good man. Keep an eye on the steam pressure. We cannot afford a burst line. And ensure the apprentices are rotating shifts properly. No one works past fatigue.”

He scanned the row of looms, noting the incessant rhythm, the workers’ focused expressions. Too many mills in the region had stories of mangled limbs and lost lives, victims of careless owners who valued profit over people.

Not here. Alistair had implemented guards on the machinery, regular inspections, and even a small infirmary.

He paid fair wages and walked the floors daily, not out of mere benevolence but because he understood what most mill owners did not.

That a man who felt safe and valued produced 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.

Into the schools he quietly funded for their children.

Into 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.

It aligned with the principles his father, Edmund Oxley, had instilled.

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

As he moved deeper into the hall, Alistair exchanged greetings with the men and women bent over their tasks. “Mrs. Wilkins, how’s that shoulder mending? No heavy lifting, mind.” His memory for names and details was legendary among the staff. He believed it made each feel seen, valued.

The older woman, her fingers deftly threading a bobbin despite her age, looked up with a gap-toothed grin.

“Better each day, Mr. Fraser-Oxley. Thanks to the physic you sent. My boy’s learning his way about here now.

Says he wants to be like you one day.” Mrs. Wilkins had been with the mill for over two decades, starting as a young spinner herself.

Her loyalty was a testament to the family’s approach.

Alistair chuckled, a rare sound that lightened the atmosphere amid the din. “Tell him to aim higher. But keep him away from the flywheels until he’s learned safety.” He clapped a young lad on the shoulder as he passed, the boy’s eyes widening in awe. “Steady hand there, Tom. You’re doing fine.”

A sudden clatter drew his attention to a corner loom, where a young woman, no more than eighteen, fumbled with the controls.

Her dark hair was pinned under a simple cap, and her apron was smudged with lint.

The machine sputtered, its shuttle jamming awkwardly, and she reached out tentatively, her hand hovering too close to the moving parts for comfort.

Alistair’s heart quickened. He had seen accidents like this before.

Fingers caught in gears; lives altered in an instant.

“Easy there, miss,” Alistair called, striding over with purposeful steps. He pushed up his sleeves without hesitation, revealing forearms corded from years of labor. His hands, calloused from handling tools and bales, moved with the confidence of experience. “What’s your name?”

She startled, her cheeks flushing as she straightened abruptly and clasped her hands in front of her apron, eyes dropping from his face.

“Annie, sir. Annie Croft. I’m new. Started last week.

The lever’s stuck, and I don’t want to force it.

” Her voice was soft, barely audible over the surrounding hum, but there was a determination in her eyes that Alistair recognized.

The spark of someone eager to prove themselves.

“Wise of you. Forcing it could snap the thread or, worse, catch your fingers in the gears. Let me show you.” He positioned himself beside her, his large frame dwarfing the loom. He inspected the mechanism, his keen eyes spotting the misalignment at once.

“See here? The warp beam’s shifted. Happens with the steam pressure if it’s not calibrated right. Hold this fast.”

Annie obeyed, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the frame. Alistair adjusted the tension rod, his movements careful and unhurried, explaining each step in a voice that cut through the noise without shouting.

“Now, ease the pedal slowly. Feel the give? That’s the steam doing its work.

Do not fight it … guide it. And keep your hands clear of the shuttle path.

I have seen good weavers lose fingers for less.

” He demonstrated the proper grip, his fingers guiding hers briefly to show the angle, then stepped back to let her try.

She watched intently, nodding as the loom hummed back to life, the shuttle resuming its rhythmic dance. The fabric began to weave again, a fine worsted pattern emerging thread by thread. “Thank you, sir. I didn’t want to bother anyone—”

“No bother,” Alistair interrupted firmly, though not unkindly.

“Safety first, always. If something feels off, stop and ask. Better a minute lost than a limb.” He wiped his hands on a rag from his pocket, then met her gaze squarely.

“You’re doing well for a newcomer. Keep at it, and you’ll be running this row in no time.

And tie back those loose strands of hair. Do not let them catch in the works.”

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

A few nearby workers murmured approvals as Alistair stepped back, their respect evident.

He was not the sort to lord his position.

He got his hands dirty, and they knew it.

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

The air was humid from the steam, beads of moisture clinging to the windows, but ventilation shafts, another of his innovations, kept it bearable. He paused at the dyeing section, where vats bubbled with vibrant colors: deep navies for uniforms and rich crimsons for merchants’ coats.

“Mr. Ellis, how’s the indigo holding? No fading in the samples?”

The dyer, a grizzled veteran, wiped his brow and reported favorably. Alistair suggested a slight adjustment to the ratio for better fastness.

The mill employed about three hundred souls, many from the surrounding Yorkshire villages, and Alistair knew most by name.

It was a point of pride and a deliberate practice inherited from his late father.

Edmund Oxley had started as a humble wool merchant, marrying into the Fraser family to expand their trade, and together they all had transformed a modest operation into this thriving enterprise.

Alistair, as the eldest son, had shouldered the mantle upon his father’s death, with his brother Franklin as his right hand and their next brother, Benedict, managing the upper works, and Gregory the lower works.

Their youngest brother, Justin, was attending Oxford, and Charlotte, Justin’s twin sister, helped their mother with the administration of the mill.

A voice called out from behind, cutting through the mechanical roar. “Alistair! Wait for me!”