Hearts Entwined: A Historical Romance Novella Collection

  “That’s not true.” Her hands planted on her hips. “No woman dreams of being nothing more than a set of numbers to be transferred from one rich man’s portfolio to another’s.”

  He shook his head at her. Why was she always thinking so little of herself? “You’re far more than that.”

  Her stern expression melted.

  Oh, if he didn’t say something to chase that longing look away, he was in trouble. “Have you forgotten Mr. Kingsman would fire me the instant he sensed anything between us?”

  “No. Anything else?”

  He sighed and turned to look at her, letting his face soften as he took in her high cheekbones and her beautiful eyes, the color of the shadowy blue that followed the sunset. “What else needs to be said when those reasons are insurmountable?”

  She didn’t shrug or look defeated but let her gaze roam over his face, as if she could discover something in his expression that could convince her they had a future together.

  But she wouldn’t find anything. For the past few days, he’d tried to convince himself that he could defy convention and marry her. But she’d only grow to hate him once she realized she’d be forever doomed to live as he did. Just as his mother had grown to hate his father when he’d been unable to provide for her as she’d wished.

  And if his father hadn’t been able to survive being abandoned by his wife, how could Calvin possibly survive being abandoned by Marianne? How could he live through losing the most important woman in his life a second time?

  “Are you an honest man?”

  He jerked his shoulders back at that one. “You need to ask?” Didn’t she know him well enough to know that already?

  “I just want you to confirm.”

  He gave her a decisive nod. “Everything I’ve said is true.”

  “Then tell me, are you pushing me away because you find me repulsive?”

  What kind of unfair question was that? His lips stayed in a tight line as she moved closer, invading his space, the smell of her lavender soap making him itch to comb his fingers through her hair.

  “Well?”

  He swallowed. She was the epitome of everything he found attractive. Her hair had just the right amount of waves so his fingers wouldn’t be able to brush through without getting entangled. Her full lips made the most attractive pucker whenever she was lost in thought.

  “Any—” His voice squeaked and he tried again. “I don’t believe any red-blooded male could be repulsed by you.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What if I could prove you wrong?”

  “You can’t, for you certainly can’t ask every man in the world. And even if a man finds you attractive, that doesn’t mean he’ll marry you. No good man would, if it’d destroy your life.”

  “That’s not what I meant—”

  Mr. Kingsman’s door burst open. “Hochstetler.”

  Calvin jumped back and raced toward his desk, his heart pumping overtime. “I’m almost done with the requisitions. Are you in need of something else?”

  Mr. Kingsman stopped short at his desk, catching sight of Marianne. “Miss Lister, why are you still here?”

  He’d hoped Mr. Kingsman wouldn’t notice her, but her pretty rose-colored dress contrasted sharply with the wood walls and gray sky outside the office window.

  “I had an inquiry of Mr. Hochstetler, but I got my answer.” She glanced at him for a second, nibbling her lower lip. She walked toward them, and his heart nearly burst at the thought of what she might say. She could easily get him fired on the spot.

  She stopped in front of him, not even bothering to look at his boss. “However, I plan to come back later in hopes of a different answer.” She turned to give Mr. Kingsman a farewell nod, and then with her back as straight as if she were going off to battle, she disappeared out the door.

  “What was it she asked of you?”

  “Oh, um . . .” He shook his head as he busied himself with the papers on his desk, hopefully looking like he wasn’t completely flustered. “She asked when David was returning.” Hadn’t she done so when she’d first come in? “Do you have a better idea of his return than I?”

  “No,” Mr. Kingsman huffed, yet a small smile graced his lips—but only for a second. “Well, get me those requisitions post haste and then find me the folder on the Quaid account.”

  “Yes, sir. And what about the figures I’m compiling with Jenkins?”

  “I’d forgotten you’d initiated that. Yes, bring those, too.” Mr. Kingsman marched back to his office and slammed the door, jolting Calvin from his tense posture. Had Marianne truly just told him she wasn’t giving up on pursuing him right in front of his boss? He tugged at his too-tight tie.

  He was in trouble.

  The kind of trouble he wished he could leap into, hang the consequences.

  More trouble than he’d ever been in in his entire life.

  Chapter

  4

  The early-morning traffic was busier than the last time Marianne had walked across this part of town, or maybe it only felt that way since her maid insisted on coming this time, and staying together was difficult.

  Did Miss Blasdale really think she was in danger? Women of lower stations walked longer distances than this, and today she looked like one. She’d put her hair up in a simple knot, and the dress she’d sewn over the past few days was plain and poorly tailored.

  Perhaps she was a little spoiled by her lady’s maid, dressmakers, and drivers, but she wasn’t as hard to please as Calvin thought. If he refused to think about a future with her because she couldn’t grasp how life was for the working class, then she’d fix that.

  Besides, she wanted to help people. What better way to become something more than a hostess than to actually work? Marianne looked behind her toward the building where Calvin worked. Though he’d made it sound as if his wife would have to live the life of a lowly factory worker, he wasn’t that financially bad off. He even had the respect of quite a few in her social set, though they might never entertain him.

  But if she could survive the life of a factory worker, surely he’d see she could be content as his wife.

  The rising sun backlit the Liscombe Mill across the very crowded street. She tapped her toes, waiting for an opportunity to cross, and looked at Miss Blasdale, who’d been coaching her on how to act more like the class of women she was trying to emulate. If she wanted this job, apparently she must act a little less genteel.

  How did Miss Blasdale get her hair to look so good without any help?

  A wagon filled high with crates and pulled by a beautiful team of draft horses passed, and Marianne stepped onto the street, careful of the puddle in front of her.

  Miss Blasdale’s small hand caught her elbow. “You can’t go now, miss.”

  “Why not?” She looked to the left again and saw no traffic.

  She pointed to the right on the far side of the street. “Because that buggy isn’t going to stop for you.”

  “He’ll see me in plenty of time.”

  “That’s just it, miss. He’d have stopped for a fancy lady, but you’re not a fancy lady anymore.”

  She shook her head but took a step back since an automobile was about to zip past now. “Just because someone’s humbly dressed doesn’t mean drivers will run them over. The rich don’t think so much of themselves they consider others’ lives expendable—at least not any who aren’t terrible people to begin with.”

  “’Tis true of your family, yes, but not all people care so much, rich or poor. Besides, you told me I was supposed to help you blend in. I sure don’t expect the driver of a fancy buggy to take heed of me. I’ve been splashed too many times, grazed too often, and cursed at by enough crazy drivers to believe otherwise. And I’m not exactly keen on testing it, not with those newfangled motorcars racing about.”

  Who knew anyone thought so much about crossing a road?

  Another break in the traffic opened, and she scurried across, avoiding the low areas where the brick had sunk and fill
ed with water.

  “Don’t walk like that,” Miss Blasdale called from behind her.

  She was walking wrong, too? “Like what? I’m taking care to avoid puddles. Surely even the basest of women don’t just plow through puddles.”

  “You’re right, they don’t,” she huffed beside her. “But you’re walking like you own the world.”

  How could she possibly be doing so when such a thought hadn’t ever entered her head? Marianne slouched her shoulders as she finished crossing the last half of the road.

  Her maid chuckled. “Well, that wasn’t good, either. Even a lowborn woman wouldn’t walk like an ape.”

  Marianne shook her head as they gained the sidewalk. “Perhaps these non-lady lessons weren’t a good idea. If I just act like myself in this new outfit and hairstyle, they’ll only think I’m giving off airs—nothing to keep me from being hired, right?”

  Miss Blasdale looked over her dress. Several days ago, she’d outright laughed at her for asking where everyone bought their work dresses. “Well, yes, you did a good job copying my mother’s dress and picking out the drabbest of brown muslins. Your shoes, however . . .”

  Drat. She’d meant to borrow the head housekeeper’s boots but had donned her own without thinking after Miss Blasdale panicked over how much time she’d wasted making her hair look ordinary.

  “Hopefully no one will notice.” If they did, she’d switch shoes before trying for a job at the next place. But Liscombe’s cotton mill was the factory Calvin had pointed to when he’d said she’d not be able to make it through a day of work, so that’s the job she wanted.

  However, she’d failed to procure it at the beginning of the week. A well-to-do lady asking for a job at the mill, even wearing a work dress, had gotten her ignored by some and looked at with disdain and suspicion by others. The foreman hadn’t even let her argue her case; he’d promptly told her no and spun on his heel.

  Marianne fingered the crooked pleat she’d accidentally sewn into her sleeve. The women who’d rushed along the street beside her this morning all seemed to have flaws somewhere in their attire, be it patches or too-short sleeves or even ill-fitting bodices—which she’d never noticed before.

  Perhaps Miss Blasdale was right; maybe she hadn’t really been seeing the lower class that surrounded her. But she’d pay attention now. “I’m sorry for being snippy with you this morning, but thank you for trying to help. Now pray I get this job.” She’d likely be turned right back out the door again, but she’d try once more before asking for work at the linseed mill.

  Miss Blasdale shook her head as if trying to talk a toddler out of her belief that she could fly. “I have no idea why you’d want such a job. I wouldn’t even want to work in a factory. But if it’s that important to you—”

  “It is.”

  The work bell rang behind them.

  Miss Blasdale frowned back at the mill. “I will pray, miss. At least that God helps you get to where you should be.”

  “That’s a prayer I’ll take.”

  Her lips tickled up into a smile. “Then good luck, Miss Lister.”

  “You should call me Marianne. At least while my parents are away.”

  Miss Blasdale’s pretty red lips compressed into a frown. “If someone told your parents . . .” Miss Blasdale continued muttering under her breath.

  Something about the rich and their silly games?

  Marianne gritted her teeth against reprimanding her, since for the next few weeks she would not be her maid, but an equal. “How about this? If someone informs my parents, I’ll tell them I insisted. They’d believe that of me. So I insist.”

  Miss Blasdale’s eyes danced a bit. “I wish you the best, Marianne.”

  “And you, too, Della.”

  Her maid’s eyebrows winged up at that, but she gave Marianne a small push along with a slightly bigger smile. “Go get yourself a terrible job.” Then she slipped back into traffic.

  Marianne turned toward the newer mills, and her heart sped up. Now faced with the reality of going back in . . . well, the way she’d been derided the last time was almost enough to push her to seek employment at the ice plant instead. But freezing all day was not exactly calling to her.

  The crowd had nearly disappeared, so she marched straight up to the big doors, slid into the dim, cacophonous factory, and weaved through the workers toward the area where the foreman had been at this hour last time. When she’d come before, it had taken twenty minutes to find him with all the yelling over the noise she’d had to do. But he was over six feet tall, so he should be easy to spot now that she knew who he was.

  As she walked between the rows of constantly clacking contraptions that were slightly taller and wider than upright pianos, she saw no one with earmuffs to dampen the noise. Did they get used to the racket or did it deaden their hearing? She paused for a second. She didn’t want to permanently injure herself to gain Calvin’s heart. But surely the banging and whirring wasn’t enough to turn anyone deaf or no one would work there, right?

  She spied the foreman, Mr. Tomblin, looking over the shoulder of a lady working a machine, her fingers dancing lightning quick as they tied knots in cotton thread and fiddled with levers and knobs.

  “Sir?”

  He turned and gave her a blank stare.

  Did the difference in her clothing really cause such a drastic change that he didn’t recognize her? Her heart flew with hope. “I would like a job.”

  He sighed, though the only evidence he did so was the rise and fall of his chest, since such a sound was impossible to hear above the melee. “Your late arrival doesn’t make you an appealing employee, but we’ve got absences enough, the boss might consider you.” He started down the aisle. “This way.”

  She couldn’t help her giddy shoulder jiggle. She might have a chance, after all!

  Mr. Tomblin walked faster than a man normally would with a woman beside him, then opened a door and pointed for her to go in. She frowned. He wasn’t even going to find out her name and introduce her?

  The door shut behind her, barely dampening the factory’s noises.

  A portly man looked up from the stack of papers he’d been perusing from behind his desk. “Yes?”

  “I’m in need of a job.”

  The man, likely one of the Liscombes, scanned her from the top of her head down to the toes of her well-polished boots.

  She tried to stand in a way that wasn’t too upright nor too apelike. Maybe she should have practiced this in the mirror last night.

  “What do you know how to do?”

  She let out a breath. Seemed the ugly dress had gotten her to the next step. “I can sew and mend and take care of a family.”

  “I mean what factory experience do you have?”

  She wrung her hands. “None, actually. I’m expecting nothing but an entry-level position.”

  “Well, you’re lucky I’m shorthanded. We’ll see how you do, but don’t be late again. I can find a girl to replace you easy enough.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man just stared at her. “Well, go see Mr. Tomblin and tell him to put you to work.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. When else did you expect?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me fire you already.”

  “No, sir.” She gave him a stilted little curtsy, not knowing what a woman of her new station would do taking leave of a superior, and backed toward the door. “And thank you, sir.”

  But he’d already returned to scrutinizing his paperwork.

  She let herself out and blew out a breath. A job! But she hadn’t even packed a lunch.

  No matter, one day without lunch wouldn’t kill her. Though next time God answered her prayers this quickly she’d try to be better prepared for it.

  She spied Mr. Tomblin and scurried over to him, shouting, “I’m to start today.”

  “Doing what?”

  If she hadn’t seen his lips, she wouldn’t have understood him. “I don’t know.” She raised
her voice above the machines. “I told Mr. Liscombe I don’t know anything about manufacturing. I just needed a job—”

  “Fine, we’ll have you feed the sliver into the spinner.”

  Did he say slimer or Iver? Hopefully someone would explain more about what she’d be doing and speak loud enough she didn’t have to ask them to repeat themselves a half dozen times.

  Mr. Tomblin walked off without asking her to follow. Would they not even discuss hours or pay? No matter, she’d take it even if they paid crumbs. She rushed to keep up as he traversed the factory, passing more machinery than she’d ever seen in one place. So many of the women working the fancy equipment seemed younger than she. Did they not attend school? When Mr. Liscombe had said he could replace her with a girl, he hadn’t meant to demean. Seemed he really meant girl.

  Mr. Tomblin stopped beside a young lady, who couldn’t be more than seventeen, rushing back and forth between two machines. “Georgia?”

  The redheaded waif looked over at him, her hazel eyes dull yet wary. She only stopped for a second before rushing to the machine beside it to feed it a white wispy rope of cotton.

  Seemed she’d certainly stay trim working here, racing back and forth maybe twenty feet.

  “This is—” He lifted his eyebrows to indicate that Marianne should finish his sentence.

  “I’m Miss—I mean, I’m Marianne.” Oh, what was she going to do about her well-known surname? She didn’t want to lie. But then maybe by the time they issued her wages, they’d hear Lister and think nothing of it, considering no wealthy Lister would purposely work in such a place.

  “You’ll work under Georgia.”

  “All right.” She’d expected some matronly woman to be in charge, not someone years her junior.

  “You’ll report to Georgia each morning at six thirty sharp. If you’re gone more than two days in a row for anything, you may find yourself in need of another job if we fill your position while you’re gone. You are not allowed to bring any children. If you do, they will be expected to work. We are not a nursery.”

  She nodded slightly. So if she caught the flu, she’d be out of a job? Not even a shred of sympathy for her situation?