Page 43 of The Untamed Heart

Before he had sat down, she had worried that the uniform would dominate the portrait if she did not have a care, all that scarlet and gold imposing itself upon the eye. But now she knew that was not a concern. The uniform was nothing more than a gaudy frame to a far more interesting subject. The man who wore it commanded her entire attention, drawing her gaze back to him again and again. He was utterly compelling.

The uniform showed Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, and the medals satisfied Horse Guards’ notions of what a hero ought to look like. But the sword and the other elements she was determined to include, they belonged to the man.

They were Marcus. Not the soldier. Not the hero. Simply Marcus, and that was the man she intended to show the world.

Upper Paper Mill, St Mary Cray, Kent, 25th September 1816

Sheringham looked around with interest. Thankfully, Lucius had set aside his desire to lecture in favour of doing likewise, for it was a fascinating, if malodorous, scene.

The carriage had set them down outside a handsome timber-framed pub named The Black Boy in St Mary Cray, which stood opposite the mill. The ripe stench of boiling laundry vats, damp rags, and animal hide gelatine sizing drifted from the riverbank, filling their nostrils.

Sherry wrinkled his nose.

The sound of the rushing water of the River Cray, a low-level rumble, and the rhythmic splash and slap of the waterwheels and its heavy machinery assaulted their ears. As they turned towards the yard of the mill belonging to Martha Lay, they gazed upon a scene of bustling activity.

The large wooden wagons of the rag-and-bone men filled the yard, piled high with sacks of old textiles, linen rags, and hemp ropes collected from all over London and from the docks. Labourers climbed over the piles, unloading the stinking rag bags, as women and girls hurried towards the buildings, ready to begin their shifts, sorting and cutting the dirty rags by hand.

On the opposite side of the yard, more wagons waited. The cart horses dozed in the traces, as their wagons were loaded up with the hefty wooden crates of finished paper.

“Look, they are loading the bales,” Lucius said, pointing at the crates. “Each bale contains four thousand eight hundred sheets, or ten reams, which is four hundred and eighty sheets, there are twenty quires in a ream and—”

“Yes, yes, very interesting,” Sherry said, forestalling another lecture. “Now, all we need to gain here is confirmation that the Keller family are clients, and their address, so this time, I’ll do the talking and we may escape with our skins intact.”

“I escaped last time,” Lucius said mutinously, but shrugged. “As you like. In fact, I shall leave it entirely in your hands.”

“You will?” Sherry regarded him sceptically.

“Certainly. Have at it, my lord. I shall stay here.”

“And stay out of trouble?” Sherry asked, with more hope than expectation.

Lucius just rolled his eyes and made an impatient flapping motion.

Sighing, Sherry made his way to the office.

A mere ten minutes later, and after an illuminating chat with the capable proprietress, Sherry emerged once more to find no sight of Lucius.

“I might have known,” he muttered, and began looking about the yard. He caught the attention of a labourer and hailed him.

“I say, have you seen the fellow I arrived with? Tall, dark and annoying.”

The man, who was hefting heavy sacks down from the wagon, snorted. “Aye, my lord, he went that way.”

Sherry groaned as the man gestured to the interior of the mill. Thanking him, Sherry hurried inside.

“If you have caused a riot, my Lord Darenth, I shall murder you,” he groused as he made his way around the interior of the mill.

He did not exactly know what he expected to find. A fight was a definite possibility, though Lucius merrily climbing into the dangerous machinery to get a better look, or a deep exploration into the method of making paper all crossed his mind. Sherry was unprepared, however, for the sight that greeted him.

He found Lucius in the rag room.

It was a narrow, dingy space, filled with long tables piled high with rags. Ranged along both sides of the tables, women and girls sat on chairs or upturned crates, cutting the rags and ripping off seams or buttons or anything that must not go into the paper. The metallic snick of the blades and rending of fabric was a constant, almost musical sound, punctuated with an occasional staccato crack as the women shook out the rags with a forceful snap. The air was rank, thick with dust and lint, and the unpleasant scent of damp cloth, soap, sweat, and stale water. Around the table there were dozens of baskets, presumably to collect the different grades of shredded fabric.

The women chattered animatedly as their hands worked with incredible speed and skill. The wickedly sharp knives flashed, and an occasional off-colour remark set them all off cackling with mirth.

To Sherry’s absolute horror, Lucius was himself sitting on an upturned crate in the thick of this scene, helping them prepare the rags. He’d removed his coat, his cravat, and even his waistcoat, and worked with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.

Sherry gazed in stupefied wonder as one woman smacked Lucius’s hands so hard he almost dropped the knife.