He held her gaze, clearly hurt but thankfully prepared to hear her out.
“—but to the rest of you as well.”
Some of their faces softened, just a fraction, but enough to give her confidence moving forward.
“What I said was disrespectful and unkind. Truly unkind, and I am ashamed and embarrassed those words came out of my mouth. Particularly when you were defending me. I repaid kindness and loyalty with cruelty. I do hope you’ll give me the opportunity to make it up to you.”
There. The words were said.
Some of the weight lifted off her. Not all of it—she’d carry the shame around for a long time to come—but she’d started to repair the damage.
“Thank you for your apology, m’lady,” Peter said. “Though I must say, I don’t think much of your friends.”
“An opinion we’re beginning to share,” Amelia said wryly. As desperate as she’d been to have all of these people visit, the reality was far from what she’d envisioned.
Tomorrow would be easier. She’d planned a day of parlor games—how wrong could that go? And the hunt was the following day. Assuming none of her guests shot each other, it should round out the visit in a way that madeThe Timesfor all the right reasons.
Crack.Amelia whirled around at the high-pitched sound of ceramic breaking. Benedict was sitting on the floor, one arm hugging an almost-empty bottle, the other wiping at his pants. A broken cup lay beside him. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“We ran out of whiskey.” He waved the bottle in his hand in the general direction of the men in the room. “I went to get some more.”
Which explained where he’d disappeared to after dinner. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. If they hadn’t been having this discussion in front of their entire staff, she’d strip his hide.
“Generally, one is expected to join one’s guests after dinner rather than leaving them to their own devices.”
“Generally, one expects their guests not to be jackasses.”
Behind her, the servants sniggered.
She crossed her arms and glared at him. “You’ll be pleased to know that, despite your lack of manners, I managed to convince Mr. Grunt and Mr. Harcombe to visit the firm again tomorrow.”
He straightened quickly and then swayed as the movement set him off balance.
“So unless you want to botch this again, I suggest you leave the liquor here and go sleep it off.”
Chapter29
The aftereffects of his night spent drinking made what should have been an exuberant day painful. Tessie’s high-pitched whistle as she chugged back to the warehouse after a successful run of the track almost split his head open. When Oliver patted him on the back in excitement, he almost cast up his accounts on the spot.
But despite him, Tessie had done what she needed to. When she’d finished, the two Americans had gone over every inch of her, asking questions about every design feature that differed from Trevithick’s existing model. After that, they’d gone to the upstairs office and pored over every test record, every costing, every piece of thinking behind her design. They’d asked to see the letters of patent, and after four solid hours, they turned to him and offered him the contract.
To move to America.
They would buy the license to build three engines. But the parts would be built in America, and he would need to supervise.
Benedict gave the excuse that there was work still to be done when he saw Grunt and Harcombe into the wagon with a promise to give them his decision that night. In truth, he needed the long walk home to process their offer.
A cloud of fog marred his vision as he sighed into the night air. The licensing fee was better than expected. With it, he could turn the firm’s focus to producing a prototype of Fiona’s invention. The town would still have work, just not the work they were expecting. And diversifying their investments was a smart strategic move.
He could achieve what he’d set out to—bring enough industry into Abingdale that no one in his town would need to survive on the goodwill of the aristocracy if they didn’t want to.
But it would come at a cost.
He felt nauseous—a roiling pit of fear and guilt and heartbreak had settled into his core the second he’d realized he was considering the offer.
Perhaps Amelia would welcome a move to the Americas. Perhaps it would be the fresh start they needed. He tried to picture her—perfect Lady Amelia—in a country with no traditions, where wealth was no indication of breeding, and an Irish working man could have the same influence as a gently-born aristocrat.
