strange about her hand warranted a second look, and he felt ill upon noticing the

ring finger on her right hand had been reduced to a raw, red stump. She seemed to sense his presence and looked up.

Seeing he was young and handsome, she winked at him above the mask.

She's a comely little wench, but my wife is more appealing. Then his eyes narrowed. She had a bruise around one eye.

Shaking his head, he followed his father and the foreman to the office, which

was equipped with simple plain desks for father and son. The walls had been outfitted with the best sound-proofing which could be had in 1848; they were stuffed with newspaper. Doesn't help too much, Christopher thought, not for the first time, as his ears adjusted to the clanking and hissing of the factory.

“Well,” Adrian asked as the men removed their masks, “how is everything,

Turner?”

“Excellent,” the bluff former soldier replied, smoothing out his silvered

blond hair where the mask had rumpled it. “As you can see, we have a new girl,

Miss Jones. She's quite accomplished on the loom.”

“What happened to her?” Christopher asked, his voice dark.

Colonel Turner shot a look in Christopher's direction. “What, her finger? She

lost it at her previous employment. Machine accident.”

He shook his head. “I've seen that before. Who's beating her?”

“What?” The Colonel appeared thunderstruck.

“She has a black eye.”

Turner lowered his eyebrows. “You know, I'm not sure. I'll see if I can get Mrs. Turner to talk to her and find out.”

“That would be good.” Christopher thought of his own sweet wife. After our

lovely weekend together, it was wrenching to leave her. She still seems sofrightened and uncertain, but she has cook-maids to interview and her lovelynew pianoforte to keep her company. He had finally left, and despite long good-bye kisses, he had almost been on time. I suppose that means she's good for me

too.

The gentlemen settled into their desks upstairs while Colonel Turner returned

to the floor. As usual, a mountain of paperwork awaited the father and son, and

they settled into reading and signing.

Christopher filled out an order form for cerulean dye and for a new wheel for a loom that had turned cranky the previous week. I'm looking forward to taking

that bastard apart and putting it back together again, he thought to himself, wondering what his old school chums would have thought. Most of them didn't

care a whit about working with their hands or repairing anything bigger than a

faulty sentence. Not me. I've done every job in this factory from repairing theequipment—my specialty—to hauling bolts of fabric and bales of cotton with the

men. Ah, well. Chacun à son goût, as the French say. I love my job.

“So, son,” Adrian asked, signing a document with a flourish and setting it aside to dry, “how is your marriage so far?”

“Quite good,” Christopher replied, filling in an order form for dark brown dye. “We've settled into a little house and Katerina is interviewing cook-maids today. I bought her a pianoforte.”

“Does she play?” His father queried, meeting his son's eyes across the room.

Christopher responded with a brief, enthusiastic nod. “Yes. She's incredibly

talented. I'll ask her to play for you sometime. You'll be astonished. Mother didn't tell you this?”

“She may have,” he admitted. “When she goes on about what her friends are

up to, my mind sometimes wanders.

His mind wanders? If my wife wants to tell me something, I'll listen. Or if she

wants to play for me again. She's incredible. Remembering his wife's skilled performance led to memories of the night he'd rescued her… and then to another

distressing thought.

Adrian noticed immediately. “What are you not telling me, son? You look…

upset all of a sudden.”

Christopher shook his head. “It's nothing.”

“Come on, Christopher,” Adrian urged. “Let it out. Who else are you going

to talk to? You've undertaken a massive and risky venture with this woman.”

“Actually, she's doing better than I expected,” he argued.

“Excellent. But?” Adrian waved his hand, urging his son to the point.

Christopher gave up prevaricating. “But she has a little… mannerism I

dislike.”

“And that is?”