Page 29 of Love with a Notorious Rake

Mr. Meeker frowned, then glanced at the window once again. “I will return in ten minutes.” The man turned and hurried away.

“Quick, Cristyn. Help me move the table and chair behind this open door. It will act as a barrier from any prying eyes,” Paris whispered.

“You saw the man in the window, too?” she replied, then she helped him drag the table.

“Yes. Mr. McRae himself. Come, children, over here.”

They seemed to gravitate toward an older boy, staying close to him, as if for protection. He was a good-looking lad with brown hair and eyes, his cheeks and nose covered by an abundance of freckles. He gave them both an assessing gaze, and his eyes displayed intelligence and a deep distrust.

Paris must have also noticed that the boy was the leader, for he pointed at him. “What is your name?”

He wiped his nose with his tattered sleeve. “Carter Rokesmith, guv’.”

“A good, strong name. Will you assist me with the children? I brought slices of bread and apple; I thought they might like a bite of food before the exam.”

“Aye,” he mumbled. Carter snapped his fingers and the children immediately lined up in front of Cristyn. She handed out the sliced apple and bread, and the children greedily grabbed at the food and gobbled it up. Before she knew it, the bag was empty.

“Carter, will you answer a couple of questions?” Paris asked.

“’pends.”

“Are the children given a dormitory to live in? A place with actual beds? Proper bedding? Healthy meals and—”

Carter shook his head. “No questions. Ain’t answerin’. And neither will this lot be answerin’. Master said not to talk to ye. Got to do wot Master says.”

Paris and Cristyn exchanged looks. “The Master being Mr. McRae?” Paris murmured.

“Aye. That be ’im. Do yer examinin’. Make it quick, ’fore that weasel comes back.” Carter pushed a younger boy before Paris. “Do ’im first, ’is leg be hurtin’ bad like.”

Paris snapped into action, and the boy lined up the children in order of maladies. A small girl with curly golden hair stayed close to Carter, as if looking for protection.

They worked efficiently, cleaning and treating various wounds and cuts, examining mouths for sores and rotting teeth, which they found in abundance. “Make a note, Miss Bevan. Next visit, we will bring cheese with the fruit and bread. We will have to procure plantain for the irritation of the lungs, and vaccinations against smallpox.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And you, Carter?” Paris asked.

“I don’t need no examinin’,” he grumbled.

“Are all these children from the Union Workhouse?” Paris asked.

“The Bastille? Aye, some. Others be from an orphanage. ’Tis all I be tellin’ ye.” The little golden-haired girl slipped her hand into Carter’s and tugged on it. “’Tis all right, Lottie.” He leaned down and she whispered in his ear. “’Tis no more bread,” he told the girl sadly.

The children were still hungry—how heartbreaking. “We will bring more the next we come,” Cristyn said with a shaky smile. She felt like crying at the abject misery before her.

Carter scoffed. “If Master allows ye to come back. Aye, bring bread, apple, cheese. Anythin’. For the little ’uns.”

Mr. Meeker arrived, giving Carter a stern look. “What have you been saying, Rokesmith?”

“Nuffin’, Mr. Meeker, sir. The doctor be askin’ about me chest, ’tis all.” Carter coughed for good measure.

“Rokesmith, take the children to the spinning room. Dr. Middlemiss, if you will come with me. Mr. McRae awaits. He can spare you ten minutes.”

“Miss Bevan, please take a seat. I will not be long,” Paris said.

Cristyn sat and watched the children head toward the mill. Though the sun was out and the air was warm, she shivered. Something was not quite right about this mill, though she couldn’t pinpoint exactly what. Giving another quick glance at the door the children had passed through, she impulsively jumped to her feet and hurried along in the same direction.

Opening the door, she stepped inside. There was a long hallway—which way to turn? Cotton dust floated in the air, similar to a gentle snow falling on Christmas Eve. Almost immediately she began to cough. Machinery noise was to the right of her—that was also where the greatest concentration of cotton dust was coming from. Cristyn followed the trail; the air grew thicker with the floating powder the farther she ventured into the mill. Cristyn waved it away from her face as she walked. The air was stiflingly hot, the humidity enough to seize her breath. She came upon a large sliding door. Dare she open it?