Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

H aving remembered to get washed up before he left Nettlethorpe Iron, Archibald went straight to his grandfather’s bedchamber upon arriving home that evening. He paused outside the door but didn’t hear any voices.

He felt a pang of disappointment. He’d only managed to catch his grandfather awake one time this past week. He knew his grandfather wanted him to keep Nettlethorpe Iron running smoothly above all things. But he hated having so few opportunities to speak to him now that the end seemed to be near.

Just as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard Izzie’s voice, muffled through the thick wooden door. “Mr. Nettlethorpe? Are you waking up?”

“I suppose I must be,” his grandfather returned. “Guess this means I’m not dead yet. So, what’re ye going to read me this afternoon?”

Archibald paused. On the one hand, he did want to capitalize on this rare opportunity to spend time with his grandfather. But he had come to enjoy his wife’s easy rapport with her grandfather by marriage, and he couldn’t resist eavesdropping for just a moment.

“I do have some new chapters,” he heard Izzie reply. “But, before I get to those, I wonder if I might ask you a question?”

“Go on, then.”

“Could you tell me about Archibald’s screw-cutting lathe?”

Archibald all but yanked the door off its hinges in his haste to get through. Why was Izzie asking about his screw-cutting lathe? How did she even know about his screw-cutting lathe? He had been so careful to avoid mentioning it.

One of the guards he’d brought over from Nettlethorpe Iron must’ve said a careless word. Goodness knows his parents wouldn’t have mentioned it.

Izzie’s and his grandfather’s gazes snapped to him as he barged into the room. His focus was fixed on Izzie’s face. Usually, it lit up when he arrived home after a day at Nettlethorpe Iron.

But this time, it fell.

Oh, God . His idyll of wedded bliss was already over.

She knew. Somehow, she knew about the screws.

He watched her draw in a breath, composing herself. She forced her face into a lifeless smile. “Good afternoon, Archibald.”

He didn’t know what to say other than, “Good afternoon.”

She stood and began gathering her papers, not looking at him. “I know you haven’t had much time with your grandfather recently. I’ll leave you two so you can talk.”

She was already reaching for the doorknob. “Izzie…” he began, then stopped. He desperately wanted to talk to her, to see if there was any possibility of salvaging their marriage, but he wasn’t eager to have that conversation in front of an audience.

She must’ve read his consternation on his face because her expression softened. “We’ll talk later.”

Then she was gone.

Archibald pulled her desk chair around to face his grandfather’s bed. He did want to spend time with his grandfather. Hell, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that this could be the last time his grandfather would be lucid enough for them to talk.

Yet he was wracked with anxiety, wondering what horrible thoughts were going through Izzie’s head.

As he took a seat, he admonished himself to focus. He would never forgive himself if this turned out to be the last conversation he ever had with his grandfather, and he wasted it.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked.

“Like shyte,” his grandfather replied, and Archibald couldn’t help but smile. You could take the blacksmith out of East London, but you would never take the East London out of this blacksmith.

“So, what you’re telling me is, dying isn’t all fun and games?” Archibald asked.

“Something like that. I must say, though, your gel has made it a lot less dull.”

“She has a way of doing that,” Archibald said, his heart aching at the possibility that he might not be enjoying much more of his wife’s sparkling company.

“That was the one thing that worried me,” his grandfather noted.

Archibald tilted his head. “What was?”

His grandfather coughed, forcing him to wait for an answer. “You being alone. You’ve always been trapped between two worlds. The one yer parents want for you, and the one I brought you into. Maybe it was selfish of me to take you to Nettlethorpe Iron that day, to start you on this path—”

“It wasn’t,” Archibald said, meaning it. “I… I don’t belong in my parents’ world. If I had to choose, I would choose being an engineer.” He paused. His grandfather wasn’t much for sentimentality, but this might be his last chance. “You saved me,” he said, his voice gruff. “By taking me to Nettlethorpe Iron that day. I would never have fit in, never would’ve been happy in the life my parents had planned for me.”

“Good,” his grandfather said, voice equally raspy. “That’s good.” He cleared his throat. “But if I’m tellin’ the truth, I’ve been worried about ye. I messed up with yer father, ye see.”

Archibald didn’t know what to say. He could see his grandfather’s point, yet he had no wish to insult his father. “I… well, I don’t think Father was ever going to be an engineer.”

His grandfather barked out a laugh. “No, that he wasn’t. They say sometimes these things skip a generation, and maybe yer proof of that. But I could’ve pushed him to do something useful with his life. He might never have made cannons, but I could’ve forced him to learn the business side of things. He might’ve done pretty well hobnobbing with the princes and kings who come calling. But I was busy at the forge, and instead of taking the time to push him in a good direction, I left him to his own devices. You see where he wound up. Now, he likes to spend my money, but he decided I was an embarrassment. Then he went and married Anna-Maria Ogilvy—not that I’m meaning to insult yer mother. But both yer parents need a strong hand to guide them. Instead, they have each other, one leading the other farther astray.”

Honestly, that sounded… about right. Archibald grunted.

His grandfather continued, “I know that’s what they wanted for you—to marry some fancy ton gel, who’d appreciate yer coin but never appreciate you. But somehow”—he barked out an incredulous laugh—“you managed to find yerself Lady Izzie.”

Archibald sighed. He’d found her, all right.

And then managed to lose her a mere two weeks after their wedding.

Not that he was going to tell his grandfather as much, especially as he appeared to be drawing comfort from the notion that Archibald was happily settled.

Therefore, he asked, “You approve of Izzie, then?”

“I do. She’s just like you.” At Archibald’s startled look, his grandfather continued, “She don’t fit in her world, neither. She was never going to be someone’s meek little wife, darning their socks and planning some eight-course dinner. Of course, you don’t care about all that rot. And she don’t care that yer not a man of leisure.” His grandfather said the last three words with the same tone most people reserved for the words traitor to the Crown . Which was perhaps unsurprising. A man who had spent most of his life sweating next to a blast furnace so his king and country would have the means to win a war wasn’t bound to think much of men with soft hands who rose at noon, and whose chief occupation was going to their club.

“Now, I know you,” his grandfather continued, “and I saw the way you were looking at her while you spoke yer vows—like you couldn’t believe yer luck. And I don’t disagree. Yer lucky to have found her.” He jabbed a finger in the air. “But she’s lucky to have found you, too—someone who likes her as she is and won’t go trying to make her change.”

Archibald sighed. Maybe that would have been enough.

If only he wasn’t a dull fellow whose great passion in life was making screws…

Still, he wasn’t going to argue with his grandfather. “You think so, huh?”

“I know so.” His grandfather gave a jerky nod for good measure. “Now, tell me what’s been going on at Nettlethorpe Iron.”

They spoke for the next half hour about the goings-on at the firm his grandfather had founded. When Archibald noticed his grandfather yawning and struggling to keep his eyes open, he patted his grandfather’s knee. “I’ll let you rest.”

The only answer he got was a soft snore from the bed. He straightened his grandfather’s blankets, lowered the lamp, and slipped from the room.

He was desperate to find Izzie, and he didn’t have to look very hard as she was pacing the corridor outside his grandfather’s room. He took three quick strides and met her halfway down the hall.

“Is anything the matter?” he asked without preamble, although he knew the answer before she spoke. The hurt was that plain upon her face.

“Anne was here this afternoon,” she began, voice betraying that she was upset. “She said—”

She cut herself short, eyeing the two men from Nettlethorpe Iron assigned to the first floor. The man at this end of the hall, Stafford, was staring resolutely at the wall, clearly finding it awkward to witness their lovers’ quarrel.

“You can head downstairs, Stafford,” Archibald said. “I’m here now. Take Collins with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Stafford said, sounding relieved. He hastened toward the far end of the corridor to collect Collins.

Archibald turned back to Izzie. “What did your sister say?”

Izzie’s blue eyes were full of hurt. “She mentioned that you received her inside your workshop once. You had made some kind of long-handled broom to help the chimneysweep boys, and you showed it to her in there.”

“I did,” Archibald admitted. Was that it? Was she jealous that her sister had been inside his workshop, but she was yet to have a turn?

Izzie drew herself up with wounded dignity. “Anne said you have one of your screw-cutting lathes in there,” she said, nodding toward the closed door. “Is that true?”

“I do,” he said in a clipped voice. “What of it?”

Izzie peered at him, as if she wanted to find something in his face that wasn’t there. “Diana said she read an article about it. She said it was your most important invention.”

He tugged at his neckcloth, which suddenly felt suffocating. “I consider it to be my most significant invention to date, yes.”

“Then why did you tell me you didn’t have anything of note in there?” she asked, her voice rising. “I specifically asked to see some of your creations, and you said there was nothing worth seeing. That it was just a hodge-podge, a room full of junk. Then I discover that you have your most important machine behind that door. You lied to me, Archibald!” She ran a knuckle beneath one of her eyes.

He dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and thrust it at her while he scrambled for something he could say in his defense. She accepted it reluctantly.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you. It would be more accurate to say that I didn’t think there was anything that would interest you in that room.”

“Because I’m too stupid to understand it?” she asked, voice breaking.

“No!” he said, genuinely shocked. “You’re not stupid at all. You’re one of the most intelligent people I know.”

“Then I’m what. Frivolous?”

“No! Of course not!”

She continued, undeterred. “With my silly little Gothic novels?”

“Your novels are not silly,” he said, voice rich with feeling. “They’re brilliant.”

“This is why I don’t understand you at all!” she cried. “You say all the right things, and I feel like you mean them at the time. And you do all the right things, too. But as soon as I ask you the simplest question about yourself, it’s like getting a door slammed in my face. You always find a way to change the subject, or you do something to distract me. It’s like you don’t want me to know you!”

Because I don’t . He couldn’t say that, obviously. But if Izzie got to know the real him, she would discover that he wasn’t the dashing fellow she’d built up in her head who went around saving her from roving brigands.

He was nothing but a tedious drudge whose greatest accomplishment was making screws . She would discover just how unworthy of her he truly was.

Although it sounded like it was too late. She knew about his screw-cutting lathe. Everything she needed to know was right there in the device’s name.

She dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief. “I can’t tell you how small I felt standing here with my sisters. They knew all about your screw-cutting lathe. And I hadn’t even heard of it! I’m your wife, and they knew more about it than I did. I felt like such an idiot!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, meaning it. Because he had obviously hurt her, and that was the last thing he would ever want to do.

Even if this was the beginning of the end.

She was looking everywhere but at him. “I just… I love you. I love you so much.”

The words should have made him feel elated.

Instead, they tore at his heart. Because he knew she only loved the illusion he’d created, that he was some kind of hero.

That he was a thousand times more interesting than he really was.

“But I don’t feel like you respect me,” she continued. “I feel so confused sometimes, and—”

“You’re right,” he said, wrapping his hands around her trembling fists. “Not that I don’t respect you. Because I do. But you’re right that I should have shown you my workshop the first time you asked. I’m sorry, because I would never want to make you feel embarrassed in front of your sisters. I just… I fear that once you see my inventions, you won’t find them all that impressive.”

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I am certain that I will. And I’d like to judge that for myself.”

He nodded. “You will. I’ll show them to you right now. Just… let me go in and clean things up a bit. Make it somewhat presentable.”

“All right,” she said in a clipped voice. “Thank you.”

He unlocked the door and stumbled inside, closing it behind him. He lit a few lamps. He hadn’t been in here in weeks, and, as he’d been keeping the door locked, the household staff hadn’t been able to come in and perform any basic cleaning. It was a bit dusty, in addition to being a bit grimy, and he felt the crunch of metal shavings beneath his boots.

There wasn’t much he could do about that. It wasn’t as if he had a broom. But he grabbed a rag and started wiping down the screw-cutting lathe.

He wasn’t doing a very good job of it on account of the fact that his hands were shaking. He managed to bump the pile of metal rods stacked next to the lathe, and half of them went clattering to the floor.

He threw down the rag, frustrated, and gazed around his workshop. Tins of six different kinds of grease were scattered about the table, many of them staining rings into the scarred wood. Hammers, files, and lathes were strewn about, and papers were scattered everywhere.

He bent and began gathering the fallen rods. Who did he think he was fooling? He wasn’t going to make this place presentable, not if he spent a whole week cleaning, and Izzie was waiting impatiently at the door.

Well, at least he had a moment to gather himself. When she made the horrifying discovery of what a dull fellow her husband really was, he would accept her rejection stoically. He would not beg, cry, or try to make her feel guilty about her decision.

He had always known this day would come, after all.

Resigning himself, he crossed to the door and opened it.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “All right. You can come in now.”

She said nothing. The corridor was… strangely quiet.

He opened his eyes. “Izzie?”

He looked to the left. He looked to the right. He poked his head inside her library and called her name.

She was gone.