Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 96
Realizing his tactical error, Simon scowled. “The fact that it’s safe for me doesn’t mean that it’s safe for you.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a woman.”
Boiling like one of the aforementioned vats of hell-broth, Annabelle regarded him through slitted eyes. “I’ll reply to that in a moment,” she muttered, “if I can manage to conquer the urge to crown you with the nearest heavy object.”
Simon paced around the parlor, frustration evident in every taut line of his body. He stopped before the settee on which she reposed and towered over her. “Annabelle,” he said gruffly, “visiting the foundry is like looking through the doors of hell. The place is as safe as we can make it, but even so, it’s a noisy, rough, dirty business. And yes, there is always a chance of danger, and you…” He stopped and dragged his fingers through his hair, and looked around impatiently, as if it was suddenly difficult for him to meet her gaze. With an effort, he forced himself to continue. “You’re too important for me to risk your safety in any way. It’s my responsibility to protect you.”
Annabelle’s eyes widened. She was touched and more than a little surprised by his admission that she was important to him. As they stared at each other, she was conscious of a peculiar tension…not unpleasant, but disquieting nonetheless. Leaning the side of her head against her hand, she studied him intently. “You’re entirely welcome to protect me,” she murmured. “However, I don’t want to be locked in an ivory tower.” Sensing his inner struggle, she continued reasonably. “I want to know more about what you do during the hours that you’re away from me. I want to see the place that is so important to you. Please.”
Simon brooded silently for a moment. When he replied, there was an unmistakable thread of surliness in his tone. “All right. Since it’s obvious that I’ll have no peace otherwise, I’ll take you there tomorrow. But don’t blame me when you’re disappointed. I warned you what to expect.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle said in satisfaction, giving him a sunny smile that dimmed somewhat at his next words.
“Fortunately, Westcliff will be visiting the foundry tomorrow as well. It will be a good opportunity for the two of you to become better acquainted.”
“How nice,” Annabelle said in a brittle attempt at pleasantness, fighting the temptation to glower at the news. She had still not forgiven the earl for his cutting remarks about her and his prediction that marriage to her would ruin Simon’s life. However, if Simon thought that the prospect of being in the company of a pompous ass like Westcliff would dissuade her, he was mistaken. Pasting a thin smile on her face, she spent the rest of the evening thinking what a pity it was that a wife could not choose her husband’s friends for him.
Late the next morning, Simon took Annabelle to the nine-acre site of the Consolidated Locomotive works. The rows of cavernous buildings were fitted with myriads of jutting smokestacks, spewing out smoke that drifted over truck yards and intersecting walkways. The scale of the locomotive works was even larger than Annabelle had expected, housing equipment so mammoth in scale that she was nearly rendered speechless at the sight. The first place they visited was the assembly shop, where nine locomotive engines were in various stages of production. The company’s goal was to produce fifteen engines the first year and double that the next. Upon learning that the cash outlay for the locomotive works was, on average, a million pounds a week, with a capitalization of twice that amount, Annabelle stared at her husband with slack-jawed astonishment. “Good Lord,” she said faintly. “How rich are you?”
Simon’s dark eyes danced with sudden laughter at the ill-bred question, and he bent to murmur in her ear. “Rich enough to keep you well supplied in walking boots, madam.”
Next they went to the pattern shop, where drawings of parts were carefully examined and wooden prototypes constructed according to specifications. Later, as Simon explained to her, the wooden patterns would be used to make molds, into which molten iron would be poured and cooled. Fascinated, Annabelle asked a slew of questions about the casting process and how the hydrostatic riveting machines and presses worked, and why quickly cooled iron was stronger than slow-cooled.
Despite Simon’s initial misgivings, he seemed to enjoy touring her through the buildings, smiling occasionally at her absorbed expression. He guided her carefully into the foundry, where she discovered that his description of it as a glimpse into hell was not the exaggeration it had seemed. It had nothing to do with the condition of the workers, who seemed to be well treated, nor was it because of the buildings, which were relatively organized. Rather, it was the nature of the work itself, a kind of coordinated bedlam in which fumes and thundering noise and the red glow of roaring furnaces provided a seething backdrop for heavily clothed workers bearing brands and mallets. Surely the devil’s minions were not half so well orchestrated as they went about their labors. Moving through the labyrinth of fire and steel, the foundrymen ducked beneath massive pivoting cranes and vats of hell-broth, and paused casually to allow huge plates of metal to swing across their paths. Annabelle was aware of a few curious glances cast her way, but for the most part, the foundrymen were too intent on their work to allow for distractions.
Traveling cranes were set all through the center of the foundry, hoisting trucks filled with pig iron, scrap iron and coke to the tops of cupola stacks more than twenty feet high. The iron mixture was loaded at the top of the cupolas, where it was melted and forced into gigantic ladles and poured into molds by additional cranes. Odors of fuel, metal, and human sweat imparted a hazy weight to the air. As Annabelle watched the melted iron being transferred from vats to molds, she drew instinctively closer to Simon.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a woman.”
Boiling like one of the aforementioned vats of hell-broth, Annabelle regarded him through slitted eyes. “I’ll reply to that in a moment,” she muttered, “if I can manage to conquer the urge to crown you with the nearest heavy object.”
Simon paced around the parlor, frustration evident in every taut line of his body. He stopped before the settee on which she reposed and towered over her. “Annabelle,” he said gruffly, “visiting the foundry is like looking through the doors of hell. The place is as safe as we can make it, but even so, it’s a noisy, rough, dirty business. And yes, there is always a chance of danger, and you…” He stopped and dragged his fingers through his hair, and looked around impatiently, as if it was suddenly difficult for him to meet her gaze. With an effort, he forced himself to continue. “You’re too important for me to risk your safety in any way. It’s my responsibility to protect you.”
Annabelle’s eyes widened. She was touched and more than a little surprised by his admission that she was important to him. As they stared at each other, she was conscious of a peculiar tension…not unpleasant, but disquieting nonetheless. Leaning the side of her head against her hand, she studied him intently. “You’re entirely welcome to protect me,” she murmured. “However, I don’t want to be locked in an ivory tower.” Sensing his inner struggle, she continued reasonably. “I want to know more about what you do during the hours that you’re away from me. I want to see the place that is so important to you. Please.”
Simon brooded silently for a moment. When he replied, there was an unmistakable thread of surliness in his tone. “All right. Since it’s obvious that I’ll have no peace otherwise, I’ll take you there tomorrow. But don’t blame me when you’re disappointed. I warned you what to expect.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle said in satisfaction, giving him a sunny smile that dimmed somewhat at his next words.
“Fortunately, Westcliff will be visiting the foundry tomorrow as well. It will be a good opportunity for the two of you to become better acquainted.”
“How nice,” Annabelle said in a brittle attempt at pleasantness, fighting the temptation to glower at the news. She had still not forgiven the earl for his cutting remarks about her and his prediction that marriage to her would ruin Simon’s life. However, if Simon thought that the prospect of being in the company of a pompous ass like Westcliff would dissuade her, he was mistaken. Pasting a thin smile on her face, she spent the rest of the evening thinking what a pity it was that a wife could not choose her husband’s friends for him.
Late the next morning, Simon took Annabelle to the nine-acre site of the Consolidated Locomotive works. The rows of cavernous buildings were fitted with myriads of jutting smokestacks, spewing out smoke that drifted over truck yards and intersecting walkways. The scale of the locomotive works was even larger than Annabelle had expected, housing equipment so mammoth in scale that she was nearly rendered speechless at the sight. The first place they visited was the assembly shop, where nine locomotive engines were in various stages of production. The company’s goal was to produce fifteen engines the first year and double that the next. Upon learning that the cash outlay for the locomotive works was, on average, a million pounds a week, with a capitalization of twice that amount, Annabelle stared at her husband with slack-jawed astonishment. “Good Lord,” she said faintly. “How rich are you?”
Simon’s dark eyes danced with sudden laughter at the ill-bred question, and he bent to murmur in her ear. “Rich enough to keep you well supplied in walking boots, madam.”
Next they went to the pattern shop, where drawings of parts were carefully examined and wooden prototypes constructed according to specifications. Later, as Simon explained to her, the wooden patterns would be used to make molds, into which molten iron would be poured and cooled. Fascinated, Annabelle asked a slew of questions about the casting process and how the hydrostatic riveting machines and presses worked, and why quickly cooled iron was stronger than slow-cooled.
Despite Simon’s initial misgivings, he seemed to enjoy touring her through the buildings, smiling occasionally at her absorbed expression. He guided her carefully into the foundry, where she discovered that his description of it as a glimpse into hell was not the exaggeration it had seemed. It had nothing to do with the condition of the workers, who seemed to be well treated, nor was it because of the buildings, which were relatively organized. Rather, it was the nature of the work itself, a kind of coordinated bedlam in which fumes and thundering noise and the red glow of roaring furnaces provided a seething backdrop for heavily clothed workers bearing brands and mallets. Surely the devil’s minions were not half so well orchestrated as they went about their labors. Moving through the labyrinth of fire and steel, the foundrymen ducked beneath massive pivoting cranes and vats of hell-broth, and paused casually to allow huge plates of metal to swing across their paths. Annabelle was aware of a few curious glances cast her way, but for the most part, the foundrymen were too intent on their work to allow for distractions.
Traveling cranes were set all through the center of the foundry, hoisting trucks filled with pig iron, scrap iron and coke to the tops of cupola stacks more than twenty feet high. The iron mixture was loaded at the top of the cupolas, where it was melted and forced into gigantic ladles and poured into molds by additional cranes. Odors of fuel, metal, and human sweat imparted a hazy weight to the air. As Annabelle watched the melted iron being transferred from vats to molds, she drew instinctively closer to Simon.
