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?”
