“Especially that.”
Chapter 37
The lamplight in her working space guttered, the flames throwing leaping shadows across the walls of the office. Beyond the room, downstairs in the factory, the machines had gone silent and the general hubbub of voices had dissipated as the men had gone home for the evening.
No one was left working but her.
She crumpled the sheet of paper in her hand and tossed it into the wastepaper basket that was overflowing with discarded ideas.
Finding a distributor for her matches was a dream long gone. She had traveled direct from the courthouse to Viscount Chester’s offices, and he had made it clear that while she may not be guilty of treason, she was certainly guilty of deception and she was no longer someone he was willing to bet on.
Other distributors, ones that had already rejected her, were unlikely to change their minds now that she’d alienated her entire client base, and her chances of finding a backer within theton—the very people she’d lied to—was unthinkable.
She should have accepted Edward’s offer of help when she had it. Had she met with Viscount Chester as Fiona, with Edward’s introduction and recommendation, the contract would be signed, and they’d likely be heading into production by now.
Instead, she had spent the last two weeks looking for a new project, something that could make a difference in this world while simultaneously putting a roof she owned over her head.
She poured oil into a new lamp, lit a wick from the existing one, and gave the room some steady light for her to work in. Then she sat with a blank page in front of her and waited.
Nothing came. Eventually, she heard thethunk, thunk, thunkof heavy boots on a metal staircase. Not John, he was still in America. Not Ben, Amelia had gone into labor a mere hour ago. “Oliver? Is that you?” The foreman had formed a habit of checking in on her hourly. He was not a man of many words when it came to feelings, but he’d shown his concern with the excess of cakes he’d brought to her from the local bakery and the way he always had an excuse to stay back at work until she was ready to go home.
A monthago she would have chafed under such intense concern. The old Fiona would have pushed him out the door with the insistence that she would be fine on her own, that she’d been the last one to leave work a thousand times before this and she could be the last to leave tonight.
Now, she was simply grateful for his company on the way home, even if they most often walked in silence. Edward would have stayed to walk her home. Not because he was an overbearing jackass, but because he had cared and would have wanted to help.
“I’m ready to go,” she called as she neatened the papers in front of her. “I’m not getting anything done here anyway.”
“That be a shame, wee bairn.”
She whipped around to face the door, her heart leaping. Her father stood there, leaning against the doorframe, his usual roguish smile on his face. Relief was what filled her as she realized that he was alive and well. Then rage.
She pushed back her chair and stood, arms akimbo. “You’re alive then. Thank ye for letting me know, although ye could’ve sent word weeks ago.”
“Och. You’re a big lass. Ye dunnae need to be tied to th’ apron strings.”
He didn’t care, not a whit, for the cloud of worry she’d been under. Hadn’t thought it necessary to inform his daughter that he was neither dead nor arrested. She waited for the shooting pain such realizations always caused but it didn’t come.
“Dare I hope it was Tucker who was shot?” she asked, starting to clear her worktable and pack up for the night. It was late. She would begin again in the morning.
“Tucker will be all right. Th’ ball lodged in his shoulder but he knew a sawbones who could take it oot wi’oot informing th’ authorities, th’ mangled fannybaws.”
“Bonny. I’m so glad.” Tucker could go rot. It was a shame the ball hadn’t done more damage. She dumped the dishes into the sink and then turned to face him, wiping her hands with a cloth that hung from the bench. “What do ye want? I’ve nae more ideas for ye to steal.”
Alastairtsk, tsked. “Now, dinnae be lik’ that. Ye’v got a smarter head on yer shoulders than yer auld da does, and a lifetime tae make yer fortune. Ye shuid have wanted tae help us oot.”
She couldn’t help the way her jaw dropped. How dare he try to turn the tables so thatshefelt guilty, after all he put her through. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though. Her father had always been a master at playing the victim. Had they had this conversation a month ago, she’d likely have been the one apologizing in a desperate effort to keep a grasp on their perpetually slipping relationship.
She no longer felt compelled to do so.
“I support yer grievances, Da, but I do nae agree wi’ yer methods. Folks die in these uprisings. Good people like Jeremy.”
He shifted, turning his attention to the shelves that stored all the bibs and bobs that Ben and John had collected as they designed their steam engines. “Weel, on this we cannae see eye to eye.”
And they never would. Her father was stubborn and immoveable. His opinions were cast in iron and there was no bending, no compromise. Not even for those he supposedly loved.
She swallowed hard as she looked at him—his wild curls more grey now than red, like a dying ember; his green eyes shuttered; his face a landscape of shadows and deep crevices. She was more like him than she’d care to admit, in personality as well as appearance, and she was currently staring into her future.
She turned back to the sink and dumped in lukewarm water and a cake of soap. “Ye didnae answer my question. What do ye want?”
