The mill employed about three hundred souls, many from the surrounding Yorkshire villages, and Alistair knew most byname. 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!”
He turned to see Franklin weaving through the aisles, his coat flapping as he hurried. A few years his junior, Franklin shared Alistair’s dark reddish hair and sharp features, but where Alistair was broad-shouldered and imposing, standing over six feet with a presence that filled the room, Franklin was leaner, with a quick wit that often lightened the burdens of management. His eyes, a shade lighter than Alistair’s, often sparkled with the energy of someone who thrived on numbers. As second-in-command, he handled the ledgers and negotiations, leaving Alistair to the operational heart of the mill.
“Franklin,” Alistair greeted, falling into step as they headed toward the offices at the far end of the hall. “What’s the word from London? Any progress on the Hollingford & Goss deal?” His mind shifted gears, from the tactile world of machinery to the strategic chessboard of commerce.
Franklin glanced around, lowering his voice slightly, though the machines provided ample cover. “Promising … very promising. Their latest missive arrived this morning. They’re keen on our high-grade worsted for naval uniforms, and they see potential in Bombay and New York markets. But they’repushing for a five-year exclusive export contract. No side deals with competitors.” Franklin’s words came rapidly, his excitement evident. He had been the one to initiate contact with the prestigious London mercantile house, leveraging old Fraser family connections.
Alistair’s jaw tightened thoughtfully as they navigated past a steaming boiler, the heat washing over them in waves, carrying the faint metallic scent of heated iron. “Exclusive? What’s the condition?” He sidestepped a puddle of condensation, his boots echoing on the flagstone floor.
“Shared investment in canal upgrades,” Franklin replied, dodging a cart laden with dyed yarns. “They’ll front half the cost to improve transport from here to Liverpool. It would triple our reach. Faster shipments, lower costs. But it ties us to them for the duration.”
The brothers paused briefly as a group of workers maneuvered a heavy bale, its fibers spilling slightly like snow. Alistair lent a hand to steady it without a second thought, his muscles straining momentarily under the weight. “Careful there, lads. Mind the edges.” Once clear, he turned back to Franklin. “It’s a gamble, but a sound one. Our worsted’s unmatched. The wool from our suppliers in the Dales is prime. Draft a response. Agree in principle, but negotiate the investment split. Sixty-forty in our favor. We have the production edge.”
Franklin nodded, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. “Will do. And they mentioned their agents in Lisbon could open doors for the Portuguese trade.”
“Even better. Push for details on the overseas tariffs. We cannot have surprises eating into profits.” The deal could catapult Fraser & Oxley into international prominence, securing their family’s future for generations.
They reached the staircase leading to the elevated offices, the noise fading slightly as they ascended, the wooden stepscreaking under their weight. The offices overlooked the mill floor through large paned windows, offering a panoramic view of the operation, a purposeful design by Alistair to keep management connected to the work below.
After pushing open the door to step inside his private sanctum, Alistair shed his coat and hung it on a peg, revealing a crisp linen shirt and waistcoat that spoke of discreet prosperity. The room was functional with a sturdy oak desk piled with correspondence; ledgers stacked on shelves lined with fabric samples in various weaves; and maps of canal routes pinned to the walls, marked with red ink for proposed improvements. No ostentatious frippery here. This was a place of work, not show. A small coal fire crackled in the grate, warding off the January chill that seeped through the bricks.
Franklin followed, closing the door behind them with a soft click, muting the mill’s roar to a distant hum. Alistair sank into his chair, a worn leather affair that had been his father’s, and reached for the stack of letters on his desk. He cracked the seal and unfolded the first letter, a supplier’s invoice for raw wool from the Dales. The next, from a banker in Leeds, confirmed a loan extension for the latest engine installation. These details were the lifeblood of the mill, the threads that wove their fortunes.
Franklin lingered by the window, gazing out at the bustling floor below. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “You have inherited.”
Alistair glanced up, saw his brother’s businesslike expression had shifted to something more somber, and then frowned, too busy leafing through his correspondence to pay his brother mind. “What do you mean?”
“The duke was killed last week. You are next in line,” Franklin elucidated with a shrug, his voice casual but his eyes watchful.
Alistair’s head shot up, and he glared at him in confusion. “What?”
“You have inherited a dukedom … Your Grace.”
Springing to his feet, Alistair thumped the desk in anger, the impact rattling the inkstand and scattering a few papers. “I do not want it.”
Franklin flashed a smile laden with irony, unperturbed by Alistair’s flare of temper. “Ah. But it wants you.” He leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed, his manner light to counter Alistair’s storm. It was the marriage of levity and severity that made them such good partners.
Alistair paced the room, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards. The Duke of Oxley, their estranged uncle Jerome, dead? And the title falling to him? It was absurd. The Oxleys had always been the aristocratic branch, distant and disdainful, residing in their grand Fortunestone Hall while the Fraser-Oxleys toiled in trade. Their father had been disowned by Grandfather Peregrine for marrying Moira Fraser, a mill owner’s daughter, and embracing commerce over pedigree. Edmund had built this mill alongside Grandfather Alistair, scorning the nobility’s idle habits, and his sons had inherited that disdain, channeling it into relentless ambition.
Now this?
“Killed how?” he demanded, halting to face Franklin, his hands clenched at his sides. “And why me? Surely there are some nearer kin.”
Franklin sighed, a regretful note to his voice when he said, “Hunting accident, or so the solicitor’s letter claims. Fell from a cliff on the estate, leaving behind four daughters and no sons. As the eldest son of Grandfather Peregrine’s second son, you are next in line. It is set in stone, Alistair. You are the tenth Duke of Oxley now.” He produced a letter from his coat, the solicitor’s seal prominent.
Alistair snatched it, scanning the lines with growing incredulity. The words blurred.
Inheritance, entail, immediate attention required.
He crumpled it slightly in his fist.
Duke.
The word tasted like ash. He had no use for titles, for the idle pomp of the nobility. His life was here, in the mills, forging a legacy through sweat and ingenuity. “To hell with it. I will not accept. Let it pass to you or Benedict or Gregory.” His voice was rough, edged with the Yorkshire accent that softened in business dealings but emerged in moments of passion.
Franklin shook his head, a wry twist to his lips. “Cannot. Entail’s strict. Eldest male heir. And even if you could, think of the scandal. The Crown does not take kindly to refused peerages.” He straightened, his tone turning persuasive. “Besides, it could be an asset. The Oxley lands are vast. Prime pastures for sheep. Integrate them with our suppliers, and we could control the wool chain from flock to fabric. And the influence? Seats in the Lords, swaying tariffs on imports.”
