Not in Marble Palaces

by Poinsettia

Forced into a new existence amid the dark secrets of a Northern mill town, Blair Waldorf comes to realize that happiness and redemption can bloom in the unlikeliest of places. B/C Historical. AU.

6. Paper Glass

VI. Paper Glass

Blair woke up the next morning to a loud knock at her door. Attempting to block out the unwelcome sound, she tried to move her body to face away from the door. A sharp sting in her stomach burned through her sleep-filled mind, denying her all chances of ignoring the heavy noise. Rolling onto her back, she groaned angrily, wrapping her arms around her body tightly. After last night, she had wanted to avoid further unsettling meetings with Mr. Bass for as long as possible; so she had planned to keep to her room, pleading exhaustion and a need for further recovery. But she knew with scorching certainty that her period of grace had come to an end.

From the corner of her eye she saw the door being opened slowly, revealing Miss Scott carrying a pile of colorful fabric. "Time to get up, Miss. The Master is expecting you downstairs for breakfast when you are dressed," the housekeeper said gruffly, nodding to the bundle in her arms as she dropped it onto the bed without ceremony. With heavy steps she moved through the room, drawing open the drapes with violent eagerness. Satisfied, Blair noticed the flash of anger flitting across the servant's as she noticed that Blair had opened the window without her consent.

"What time is it?" Blair groaned, shielding her face against the pale morning light.

"Already 6 o'clock, Miss," the servant replied curtly.

"Does your Master want to torture me?" Blair said flippantly, pressing her palms to her eyes.

"Life at a mill starts early, Miss," the housekeeper said solemnly; however, Blair didn't miss the displeased edge in her voice. Withdrawing her hands from her face, she caught Miss Scott staring out of the open window onto the courtyard below. A myriad of dull voices drifted up to pierce the stifling silence of the room. "The mill workers are already starting their shift," the servant said sharply, refusing to meet Blair's eyes.

Ignoring the raw sensation in her stomach, she tried to sit up against the pillow as gracefully and poised as possible. "What are you trying to tell me, Miss Scott?" Blair asked sharply. "And please, don't be shy."

"I'm not sure what kind of deal you have made with Mr. Bass or why he wastes his hard-earned money on you," the housekeeper said with obvious disgust in her voice. "Nor do I care what you did in your former occupation," she spat, curling her lips at the last word, "but as long as I'm the housekeeper here, you'll get up when it pleases me."

Furiously, Blair drew back the blanket, biting her tongue in pain as she scrambled out of the bed. However, yet again she had to hold on to the bedpost to keep from fainting, taking deep breaths to steady herself. While trying to regain her composure, Blair's gaze fell on the poppies on her bedside table. To her surprise the blossoms no longer stood proud and glowing as they did the night before, instead, their delicate heads hung weak and withered although the vase was still brimming with water.

Clearing her throat, Blair straightened her posture, fixing her eyes on the other woman's profile. "You shouldn't challenge me, my dear Miss Scott," she said coldly, "because I believe at the end of the day Mr. Bass would choose my assets over yours."

The housekeeper finally turned around, meeting Blair's eyes with meek deliberateness. "Then, why don't you assert your power and have me removed?" she sneered.

"A disgraced servant? There would be nowhere for you to go but the whorehouse," Blair replied with a hard edge to her voice, the reality of her own life crawling up inside of her.

Miss Scott held Blair's gaze for a moment, before nodding almost imperceptible, her features stern and unyielding. She moved past Blair towards the door, stopping short before opening it and pointing to the bed. "Mr. Bass sent up these dresses for you to wear. He said they would be more comfortable for you."

Blair stepped around to the lower end of the bed, grabbing a piece of silky green fabric from the colorful heap. As it unfolded softly in her hands, she realized with a gasp that it was one of the French dresses Serena had always been talking about; the fabric gathered just above the waist by a ribbon,allowing the delicate material to flow freely around ones figure. Holding the gown up against the timid morning light, she marveled at how the sun seemed to be illuminating the garment from within, reminding her of the deep forest lake Serena had pushed her into once. As she smiled at the memory, she realized that one would be able to see much more than the sun in this dress.

"I can't wear these dresses," Blair said, flinging the garment back onto the bed as if burned. "They are almost translucent."

"I'm sure that's nothing new to you, Miss," the housekeeper jeered as she walked towards the bed. "But I suggest," she continued as she rummaged through the pile, "that you wear a shift and –," she held up a stiff crème-colored garment, "these short stays under the dress."

Blair took the unfamiliar piece of clothing from the servant, fingering it uncertainly. She knew that Serena would not hesitate a second when asked to wear these dresses, not think one second about the repercussions, about what people might say; but Blair could already hear the horrified whispers behind her back, feel the judgmental stares on her body; and she was terrified to take that plunge.

"I want to wear my own wardrobe," she commanded.

"Mr. Bass said –"

"I don't care what he said," Blair hissed in return. "Bring me my wardrobe immediately."

"Mr. Bass said," the housekeeper continued in a bored tone, moving once more towards the door, "that you will get your old wardrobe as soon as you scar is fully healed."

Fury boiled up inside of her at the thought of her own powerlessness and dependence on the whims of a tradesman. "Move out of the way," Blair seethed, "I need to speak to Mr. Bass." She glared at the servant menacingly, daring her to object.

Reluctantly, the housekeeper stepped to the side to let her pass, her eyes filled with apprehension. Ignoring her, Blair quickly walked out onto the gallery as she had done the previous night. To her surprise, nothing had changed. The hall was still dark, not even a figment of daylight dissolving the deep shadows.

"Miss Waldorf?" she heard the servant's uncertain voice behind her. "You can't go down like this."

In response, Blair moved further down the corridor towards the staircase, the sound of her naked feet reverberating soundly on the coarse floor boards. Hastily, she took one step after another, grasping the banister roughly to keep herself from stumbling. Her breath growing ragged, she clasped her stomach with her free hand until she finally felt the unwelcome chill of the entrance hall's marble floor touch her skin. With hesitation, she scanned the surrounding area for any sign of life; however, the nocturnal silence still pervaded the space. As she looked back up the stairs, she recognized the dark silhouette of the housekeeper, frozen on the landing, watching her. So she turned her head defiantly, marching into the shadows behind the staircase.

Hidden in a small alcove, she spotted a sliver of bright light cutting into the marble floor. Slowly, she approached the door, hearing the faint sound of clinking metal and porcelain. She pushed it open gently, attempting to peer inside without being seen. Her gaze immediately fell onto the dark angular figure, backlit majestically by a large front of paneled windows hiding behind transparent silvery drapes. He was perched at the far end of a voluminous dining table, the paltry crockery and silverware almost vanishing against the charcoal wood.

"Good Morning, Miss Waldorf," he greeted her before she had fully entered the room.

She opened the door further, scrutinizing his face as she stepped forward. "How did you know –?"

He grabbed the white napkin next to his plate, dabbing his mouth swiftly before turning his upper body to face her, resting his left arm on the chair's back. "Not many of my servants storm down the stairs with their feet bare," he said with an amused expression, "nor did I hear the rustling of muslin, which suggests that, unlike my servants, you are either naked or are still wearing your nightgown."

"I'm not in the mood for your lewd remarks," Blair hissed, putting her hands on her hips.

"And may I ask why?"

To Blair's annoyance, he still seemed unfazed by her anger. "Your lovely housekeeper woke me up," she replied pertly.

"I was wondering why you were up so early," he said quietly, knitting his eyebrows. "I will have to talk to her about it," he added almost apologetically.

"No," she said quickly, remembering her earlier conversation with the servant. "That's not important." She let her arms fall to her sides, taking a deliberate step into the room. "What's important is that you can't make me wear those dresses." She let her voice grow louder to show him that she wasn't to be trifled with.

"You don't like them?" he asked nonchalantly, making her even more furious.

"No!" she all but yelled.

"Why not?" he shrugged, "they are everything a fashionably young lady such as yourself might crave and certainly more beneficial to your health."

She let out an exasperated sigh, barely refraining from stomping her foot. "Because they are not my own."

"Well now they are, Miss Waldorf." He turned his body back towards the table as if dismissing her, but continued after a short pause, "I presume that you didn't buy these other dresses with your own money either, did you? According to Miss Scott they are far too expensive for a woman of your station."

She dipped her head daringly, crossing her arms over stomach. "So?"

"So, I don't see why the dresses bought by me should be met with so much abhorrence?" he said, his fingers playing with the napkin still clenched in his palm. "Maybe you haven't seen the nightgowns yet?"

She huffed indignantly. "They are indecent and decadent, Mr. Bass."

He threw the cloth onto the polished table, leaning back in his chair. "And you don't want to be these things?" he asked with what she believed was both genuine curiosity and ridicule.

She fixed her eyes on him to gauge his reaction, "I don't appreciate being made into your whore."

His head snapped up at her words, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "That's not what I –"

"You know what people will say about me, what they are saying already." She fought the tears rising to her eyes, determined to make him understand.

He set his jaw into a hard line, nodding slightly. "Why do you care what people think?" His tone was gentle but heated. "Apparently you don't mind wandering about my house without shoes and only your night shift on."

"That's different," she replied pertly.

"Why?" his voice was still soft, but there was an unspoken, yearning edge to it that she attempted to ignore.

She opened her mouth to answer, but halted as she didn't know what to reply. Of course he couldn't see her, but this thought hadn't actually crossed her mind when she had stormed down the stairs to vent her anger.

For a short moment she saw his features harden, before he turned his attention back towards the table, slowly reaching for the handle of his teacup. Yet, he did not lift it to his lips, just traced the delicate porcelain structure with his index finger. "People will talk, no matter what you do, Miss Waldorf," he stated dispassionately, bitterness lacing his voice. "Still, it's not worth risking your health for them." He finally raised the cup to his mouth, drinking a small sip, a fleeting smile playing across his lips. "How about we make a deal?"

"What kind of deal?" she asked warily.

"Why don't you sit down first and have some breakfast?" he pushed back his chair to rise, reaching across the table to draw out the chair next to him. However, his sudden movement toppled a silver basket filled with fruit, red apples and cherries now spilling onto the stained wooden floorboards.

She heard him curse under his breath and moved to pick up the forlorn fruit, but he swiftly held up his hand to stop her. "No, you are not here to be my nursemaid," he bit out angrily, "I'm quite able to manage this on my own." He grabbed a silver bell next to his plate and rung it violently.

Only moments later, a frail-looking elderly man in a black livery appeared in the door. "Yes, Master," he murmured obediently.

Mr. Bass slumped back into his chair dramatically. "Clean up the mess on the floor," he growled, "and lay the table for Miss Waldorf."

"Yes, Sir," the servant bowed, stepping into the room without sparing Blair a glance or a nod. She didn't know if she should be affronted by his incivility or grateful that he didn't acknowledge her state of undress. She watched him silently as he grasped the toppled basket and knelt down slowly to pick up the strewn fruit. From his posture she could tell that he struggled with the task, which was apparently too strenuous for his age. Unsure of what to do, she bent down to retrieve a cherry from the floor and held it up to him as passed her to leave the room. He stopped short and grabbed the fruit from her fingers without meeting her eye. Keeping his head low, he quickly vanished into the hall.

"Please sit down, Miss Waldorf," Mr. Bass repeated, his tone now composed.

Blair advanced slowly, choosing the chair he had wanted to draw out for her. Feeling uncomfortable, she sat down on the furthest edge.

They remained for a moment in uneasy silence as she watched him adjust his cravat and vest with meticulous precision. "You said you had some sort of deal?" she finally asked.

His somber face lit up as an appreciative smirk twisted his mouth. "Ah, yes, I quite forgot." He turned in his seat to face her, his left hand remaining on the table, toying idly with a resplendent teaspoon. "I'll give you back your wardrobe immediately, but only if you promise to wear only your new dresses for the next two weeks, including undergarments," he twirled the spoon between his fingers, "until your wound has healed properly."

"What is it to you?" she asked brashly.

"Well, for one, I spent a lot of money on having you sewn back together, and I would hate to lose such a valuable employee as yourself," his grin grew wider, eyes twinkling with mirth.

She couldn't help but let out a laugh as she watched his joy at the silliness of his own statement.

In fascination her eyes glided over his smiling face; his skin seemed almost ashen against the dark shadows of his hair and waistcoat, his features revealing an odd mixture of boyish exuberance and the intense wariness of adulthood.

He angled his head towards her "Are you watching me, Miss Waldorf?"

She quickly averted her eyes, blushing profusely, but was saved from answering by the reentrance of the old servant, carrying a silver tray with another set of breakfast plates and bowls. Setting it down on the table next to her, he busied himself with arranging the delicate china before her.

"How would you like your tea, Miss?" the servant finally addressed her gravely, keeping his eyes fixed on the teapot.

"Just milk, no sugar," she answered politely.

He nodded his head in acknowledgement, fixing her tea with a severe expression. Having finished this procedure, he bowed curtly and hurried out of the room.

"I believe your butler doesn't like me, Mr. Bass," Blair said, lacing her voice with sarcasm.

He reached across his plate, feeling for the richly filled breadbasket. When he had found it, he lifted it up towards her, ordering her silently to help herself. Swiftly, she snatched the topmost piece of white bread from the pile, placing it before her daintily. "No, I believe none of my servants likes you," he stated, setting the basket back down onto the dark wood. "But their thoughts don't concern me."

She nodded, absentmindedly ripping a small piece of the bread off with her fingers. Realizing what she was doing, she hastily stuffed the morsel into her mouth, chewing it hastily.

"Maybe you should try a piece of ham or some marmalade with that," he stated wryly.

She swallowed the dry bread heavily, grasping her tea cup with both hands to wash down the remains.

He chuckled lightly as he listened to her struggle. "Now, what of my proposition? Do you accept the terms?"

Blair was at war with herself; even if his argument was convincing, she could not yield so easily. "Only if we add it as an addendum to our contract," she said earnestly, knowing that it was a weak attempt at deferring his pleasure at having won.

He nodded, trying to hide the shy triumphant smile on his face. "Can't you just take my word on it?"

"You know I cannot, Mr. Bass," she said half serious, half joking. "Now, when can I sign this wretched document?"

"My lawyer will have it ready in the afternoon, but in the meantime you might enjoy a stroll through the mill?"

"Why would I?" she asked bewildered.

"Because," he emphasized, "it pays your wages, and if you want to work here, you should have some knowledge of how the business works."

Despite his stern countenance, she still suspected that he was jesting with her. "But what of your workers? Won't they object to having a lady there?"

He laughed. "I can assure you that they have seen plenty of women already."

He lifted the teacup to his mouth once more, draining it with a large gulp. "Now, eat up, Miss Waldorf, and get dressed," he said while rising from the table. "I'll meet you in half an hour in the entrance hall."

"Half an hour?" she sputtered. "That's not enough time for –"

"Then you'll have to get used to it. In the North, time is money. We don't have time to be idle around here," he threw at her jovially as he walked towards the door, clearly enjoying himself. "And don't fret about your appearance. I won't see your efforts anyway."

She bristled, almost wanting to grab the piece of bread on her plate and throw it as his head – hard.

"You'll be sorry, you can't see them," she yelled after him, hearing his low chuckle in the hall.

Angrily, she started moving the discarded bread around the plate with her fork. She swirled it around in circles, contemplating whether she could find a way around the wardrobe deal they had just struck. Like he said, he wouldn't even know what she was wearing. However, as the butler stepped into the room once more, it occurred to her that Mr. Bass had enough watchful eyes to track her every move and misstep.

She remained seated as the old man busied himself with cleaning the table, not even asking if she was done. Frustrated, she let her fork clatter onto the table, but still the servant did not even flinch.

"I was not finished," she bit out.

"I apologize, Miss," he said, but continued with his work, "but I'm unsure about the procedure when women of questionable circumstances eat at the Master's table."

She rose from her chair in irritation. "Well, you should get used to it then, because I'll be here for more than just one night," she said with a conviction she didn't feel. As she turned around and marched up the stairs, she knew she wanted to prove to them – and him – that she was more than a charity case, more than a dutiful, doe-eyed personal secretary.

As she entered her room and surveyed the mess of fabric on her bed, Mr. Bass's words from before echoed in her mind as loudly as the drumming of the machines from the now awoken mill. Why do you care what people think?

"Because," she spoke to herself while picking up a low cut carmine-colored dress, "that's what people do," she growled, flinging it onto the floor forcefully. She was breathing heavily, her fingers unbuttoning her night gown furiously. She ignored the taut pull of skin on her stomach as she shrugged out of the garment. Refusing to glance at her pale body in the mirror over the dresser, she scoured the pile of silk and muslin for the appropriate undergarments. She quickly found a white cotton shift that she slipped over her head, letting it slide down her body; the chill of the morning air having settled so deep into the fabric that she shivered.

She rummaged once more through the clothes on her bed until her fingers met the stiff structure of the corset. In wonderment, Blair held it up to her body, realizing that it didn't cover much more than her chest. She was sure that even Serena hadn't worn such a scandalous piece of clothing. She fingered the white laces for a moment, which were to be tied in the front, before cautiously slipping her arms through the sleeves.

As her eyes caught the edge of her reflection in the dresser mirror, she let her gaze linger tentatively on her gangly hair and sunk-in face. With a sigh she trained her eyes on her upper body, starting to lace herself fiercely, almost ripping the satin ribbons. Satisfied with her work, she braided her hair tightly, no curl escaping her severe ministrations. She grabbed a towel from the dresser, drowning it in the cold water of the wash basin for a minute before rubbing her face roughly, trying to add some color to her gaunt cheeks.

As she measured her reflection once more, now rosy and kempt, she attempted to split her lips into a smile, which resulted in nothing more than a crooked smirk. Huffing with annoyance, she turned towards the bed, scanning the dresses for a color that would flatter her skin most and was not too daring.

Pushing listlessly through the choices, her fingers suddenly swept over a soft deep-blue muslin gown. She spread it out on the bed to admire its elegant simplicity and cut; the gown had almost no embellishments, except for a red lace sash, tied below the breast.

Carefully, she opened the buttons at the back, and stepped into the dress, pulling it up over her arms. She regarded herself in the mirror as she tied the sash at the back tightly, her skin appearing to glow in contrast to the dark hue of the fabric. If she was honest with herself she had to admit that the corset and dress were more pleasant to wear than her own, but she would rather cut off her tongue than let him know that he had been right all along.

With a content smile at her image she reached behind her head to close the row of buttons at the back of her gown, but the sudden sharp pain piercing her body reminded her that she would need help for this task. Letting out an exasperated sigh as she remembered that the room was missing a bell, she quickly slid into her leather slippers and stepped towards the door, reaching for the handle.

However, her gaze fell on a familiar object next to the door she hadn't seen when she had entered the room earlier. It was her trunk. Though she wondered for a moment if it had been there this morning or if Mr. Bass had it brought back to her room after breakfast, she was still pleased that he had kept to his word, even if she was angry at herself for having discovered the trunk after having already tried on one of the other dresses.

Slowly, she knelt down, opening the heavy lid, heat rising to her cheeks as she noticed that her knickers and undergarments were perched neatly on top of her gowns, a clear reminder that Miss Scott had perused her wardrobe. With a huff, Blair grabbed the knickers and slipped into them, pulling them up under her dress. Satisfied with her act of insurgence, she straightened her dress and posture to resume her quest for a helping hand.

She cracked her door open a few inches and peered into the hallway, hoping to see the disapproving features of the housekeeper somewhere in the corridor.

However, instead of the servant, she noticed bright sunlight streaming into the gallery through an open door to her right. Quietly, she left her room and approached the hazy rays that illuminated the dust particles twirling gracefully above the cracked floorboards.

Stepping into the light, she was blinded at first by its brightness and warmth; quickly shielding her eyes with her hand, she walked further into the room. As her eyes adjusted, she realized that she was in another bedroom, this one decorated with dark brown wallpaper that already came off the wall at several spots, the corners curling into themselves. As her gaze swept over the four poster bed, which looked similar to hers, her eyes came to rest upon an erect figure at the open double window, clad now in a black knee-length overcoat, his arms crossed in front of his body. He seemed to be listening to the cacophony of bustling humans and hissing machines, not noticing her entry.

Yet, he turned his head slightly towards her. "Are you ready, Miss Waldorf?" he said with an irritated tone. "It took you long enough."

"I was actually in search of your housekeeper to help me button up my gown," she answered calmly. "I know it doesn't matter to you how I look, but I like to be dressed decently."

"Come here, I can do it just as well. It will save us some time," he grumbled, gesturing for her to step closer.

She hesitated for a moment, knowing that his touches were never innocent; however, a sly smile crept unto her face as she sensed a chance to best him at his own game. Walking towards him, she pulled on the sleeves of the dress to reveal more of the skin on her back.

She stopped short in front of him, letting him feel her presence for a few second, before turning around slowly. "The button row starts a little below my neck, if that's easier for you to find," she stated politely.

He chuckled and his breath hit the skin on the back of her neck. "I've unbuttoned enough ladies dresses, Miss Waldorf. I'm sure I can find my way."

She felt him skim the fabric of the dress until he had found the lowest pearl button. Tentatively, his fingers edged upwards along the button row without touching her skin. Quietly, Blair took a step backwards, until his knuckles brushed against her skin. She heard his breath hitch softly, and noticed him withdraw his hands immediately, as if stung.

She couldn't help but smile at his reaction, but chose to appear oblivious. She wanted to tease him a bit longer.

"This is one of the dresses you gave my, by the way. It's dark blue and makes my complexion glow very prettily, I think." She bit her lip to keep the mirth out of her voice.

"Oh?" he stated, resuming his work. It seemed as if his rough fingers now brushed her skin more deliberately, causing her to shiver involuntarily.

"Yes, and it has a wonderful neckline," Blair added.

"Is that true?" he replied, his voice sounding distracted as he closed the uppermost bottom. His fingers itched lightly along the edge of the fabric just below the base of her neck. His hands came to rest on the top of her shoulders, and she felt him take a step closer, his lips softly brushing the hair on her neck, but not quite touching her. Absentmindedly, she tilted her head slightly; however, when she realized what she was doing, she twisted out of his grasp hastily.

She took a silent breath to calm herself, smoothing down her dress nervously, before she looked back up at his face. His features were composed, only a small frown crinkling his forehead, his hands now hidden behind his back.

"Thank you for your help," she said steely, "watching you lose your countenance is most entertaining, Mr. Bass."

To her disappointment, his expression didn't shift except for a sly smirk curling his lips. "Well played, Miss Waldorf." He bowed his head in recognition.

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "Shouldn't we go now? I'm most eager to see your mill," she said caustically.

He opened his mouth to answer, but a noise from the door stopped him. Blair swirled around and caught Miss Scott's eyes darting from her to Mr. Bass and back again before she finally spoke. "Excuse me, Mr. Bass, Lady Baizen is downstairs and wishes to speak to Miss Waldorf."

Blair's eyes widened at the mention of her former Mistress, almost believing herself to be in a bad dream.

"Lady Baizen?" Blair said quietly, shaking her head. "What does she want?

"What should I tell her, Mr. Bass?" Miss Scott said, ignoring Blair's question. "She did not state her suit."

"Miss Waldorf?" Blair heard him address her and turned back to face him. "Do you want to meet her or should I send her away?" His demeanor seemed unfazed, but his jaw was set tight.

She knew that he would respect her wishes, but when she caught Miss Scott's probing gaze she understood that refusing to meet Lady Baizen would only fuel people's belief that she was a woman of questionable morals.

"Thank you, Mr. Bass," she said warmly, watching a small smile flit across his face. She turned her gaze directly to the housekeeper, "I will gladly meet Lady Baizen."

"Show Lady Baizen to the salon then, Miss Scott," Mr. Bass ordered. Blair gave the woman another pointed glare as she scurried away.

"You don't have to prove a point, Miss Waldorf. Least of all to Miss Scott," Mr. Bass said sternly.

"Don't I?" Blair questioned, starting to move towards the door.

"You can meet me later in the mill. You can ask the workers where to find me," he called after her.

"I will, Mr. Bass," she answered over her shoulder as she exited the bedroom. For a moment she hesitated in the doorstep looking back at him, a dark blurry shadow disappearing against the stark light. She felt the urge to say something else to him, but nothing seemed sensible enough. Instead, she just watched him step towards the window once more before she turned silently to walk down the badly-lit hallway and staircase.

Since she didn't know where the salon was, she headed towards the only open door she could see, which was the room where she had met Chuck the night before. When she entered it, she was surprised at how much decay the daylight revealed, the darkened wallpapers and worn-down furniture clearly in need of attention or replacement. The floor, at least, had been cleaned of the glass shards, but she could still smell the alcohol that had spilled into its gaps and cracks.

Lady Baizen was throned on the threadbare settee, which, Blair presumed, had once been a bright rose color, but was now tinged with grey. Remaining silent, she advanced toward the other woman, waiting to be acknowledged. However, Lady Baizen's gaze was sweeping the mantelpiece and walls. "It hasn't changed much since I was here last," she murmured softly.

"Lady Baizen," Blair stated coldly, the other woman's eyes now settling on her. "I can't imagine what brought you here."

Lady Baizen cleared her throat, rising from her seat, her features composed into a serene mask. "Miss Waldorf, I'm glad that you are well. I heard about –"

"Can we please forego the pleasantries?" Blair interrupted, caring very little whether she was being rude. "I know that you are not here to inquire after my health."

The other women inclined her head wordlessly, her grey eyes flickering uncertainly for a short moment. "Very well, Miss Waldorf," she said, turning away and walking towards the fireplace. She swept her index finger over the mantelpiece and wrinkled her nose as she examined the dirt on her hand. "You should know that I wish I didn't have to come here, given your new circumstances," she made a wide sweeping gesture towards the room, before once more turning to face Blair, "but I'm afraid the events of last night make it a necessity."

"I don't follow, Lady Baizen," Blair said impatiently.

Lady Baizen raised her chin as if preparing for a fight. "My husband suffered a leg wound last night, and is now bedridden."

Blair raised her eyebrow in surprise. "I don't care in the least about your husband," she said with as much disdain as she could muster.

"But maybe you care about Kathy," Lady Baizen stated.

Blair stayed silent, not knowing how to respond, which Lady Baizen took as a sign to continue.

"Since you left, she has barely said a word and I found here playing in the ruins more than once," she said darkly, shifting her eyes to the dry ashes in the hearth. "And with my husband's current condition, I have no time to take of her all day long."

"Why not hire another governess then?" Blair replied, feigning disinterest, despite the uneasiness settling into her bones.

"I did," she bit out, her voice hard, "but there is no way to get through to her and –" she cleared her throat, straightening her spine to glance at Blair, "I'm afraid for her."

"So?" Blair shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly though she heard her own voice cracking.

Lady Baizen took a small step towards Blair, scrutinizing her with sharp eyes. "I would like you to be Kathy's governess again, at least until my husband has recovered."

"I'll never again set foot into your house, Lady Baizen," Blair responded calmly, shaking her head.

The other woman nodded thoughtfully, twisting her wedding ring around her finger idly. "I had foreseen that, Miss Waldorf. And that's why I propose you teach Kathy here," she said, her eyes almost hopeful.

"What about Mr. Baizen? Won't he object?" Blair asked warily.

Lady Baizen set her mouth into a thin line. "I guess he would, Miss Waldorf. But he will never know."

Blair opened her mouth to agree to the proposed conditions, but swallowed her reply as she remembered that she was not Mistress of this house and, thus, it was not her place to make decisions of this nature. "I already have new employment here, Lady Baizen, and I can't decide this without Mr. Bass's approval."

Lady Baizen's eyes narrowed. "Of course," she bit out with a strained smile, "you and Mr. Bass can decide on the compensation."

"I don't care about your money," Blair replied coldly. Still, she sighed in defeat, finding it difficult to refuse her former mistress's proposition entirely. She knew that Lady Baizen wouldn't have approached her if the situation wasn't dire, and she decided that she'd rather face Mr. Bass's wrath than risk Kathy being sent to a reformatory school.

Eventually, Blair nodded silently. "I'll send you a note with the details once I've talked to Mr. Bass."

"Thank you," Lady Baizen replied curtly, inclining her head. She started to walk across the room, but stopped close to Blair. "I have a letter for you, Miss Waldorf," she said, reaching into the side pocket of her dress. "It arrived after you left."

Blair took it hesitantly from Lady Baizen's hand, waiting until she heard the other woman's shoes echo through the entryway. Softly, she turned the heavy paper between her fingers, noticing the familiar looking handwriting and crest on the green wax seal.

She slid her fingers under the sharp paper edge, applying enough pressure to break the seal. Unfolding the letter, she hastily scanned the writing for the sender's name and was both relieved and disappointed to find that her supposition had been correct.

With a quick look over her shoulder to make sure she was not being watched by the servants, she stepped closer to the light streaming through the window.

My dearest Blair,

I hope that you have settled in well into your new position. At least as well is it possible in such circumstances as these.

I came to write you because it recently came to my knowledge that your husband's family has all but finalized the divorce settlements, which may alternately fill you with dread or relief. I assume that news of it will be posted in the papers shortly and I wanted to put you on your guard, since such news often travels fast and far.

I'm not sure I should tell you, but as it is wont to happen in London, I met your husband at a dinner a few nights ago. He inquired after your whereabouts, but, as by your request, I declined to answer his question.

Draw courage, my dear. You are yet young and beautiful, and in a few years' time, you may yet find an honorable man that will love you despite your history. And I'm sure your dear parents will come to the same conclusion as well.

Please let me know immediately if you hear anything about my daughter, and if you do, tell her that I will welcome her back with open arms and without questions.

Affectionately yours,

Lily van der Woodsen

Blair's eyes lingered on the last sentence, envy and yearning piercing her until her eyes started to burn. Though the news of the impending divorce stung deeply, it was not unexpected. However, that the bearer of this unfortunate information had to be Lily and not her own parents felt unbearable unjust and painful. If Lily could excuse Serena's questionable choices and still love her, why couldn't her own mother and father not find the strength to forgive her for something she had no power in choosing?

Quickly, she wiped the non-existent tears from her eyes, straightening her posture. Staring at the gap between the half-drawn curtains, she crumpled the paper between her hands ferociously. A gleam of red outside the window caught her attention. Curiously, she lifted the drapes to the side until she glimpsed the shadows and shades of a small enclosed court, overgrown with yellow grass and weak brambles. A row of blazing poppies was sprinkled alongside the brick walls, seemingly out of place, eclipsing their surroundings effortlessly.

To her surprise, she could see no door leading out to the enclave; bewildered she stepped back, expecting to see a French door nearby, but again she was being disappointed. Apparently, the court could only be entered by some hidden door or by climbing through a window.

"Is there anything you need help with, Miss?" a tired male voice interrupted her speculations.

Letting the curtain fall into place and modeling her lips into perfect smile, she turned around to face the stern features of the butler, while keeping the hand with Lily's letter hidden behind her back. The servant did not look interested in her answer at all, but was obviously perturbed by her unattended presence.

"Actually, I was wondering, if there is an access to this small court?" she said sweetly, hoping to charm her way into an answer.

"The Master is waiting for you, Miss. You'll find him in the mill office," he said, bowing his head slightly and gesturing towards the hall.

Blair gave him a tight smile in return, but did not move. "I'll be there in a minute."

She though she caught a wry smirk on his face before he bowed again and retreated without saying another word.

Satisfied that the butler had caved to her, Blair strolled towards the door, her gaze sweeping the room in search of a flame to burn the letter from Lily. She knew it was only a matter of time till the news would spread to Oldham, but she wanted to delay her immanent doom for as long as possible.

To her chagrin, she found the fireplace empty and gaping, and the candle wicks cold. Quickly, she ventured out into the hallway, where she spotted a burning candleholder in a small recess close to the main entrance. As she approached the flickering light, she felt as if she was being watched by the shadows surrounding her, although no breath or sound penetrated the silence. She hesitated. Instead of burning the paper here, in plain sight, she decided to wait until a better opportunity would present itself. Thus, she slid the letter into her cleavage quietly, cursing the fact that this dress had no hidden purses as the rough paper scraped along her skin.

Disappointed with herself for succumbing to paranoia, Blair pulled on the handle of the wooden entrance door. It creaked painfully as she wrenched it open far enough to squeeze herself through it. Immediately, blinding white light assaulted her face, forcing tears to her eyes. Shielding herself with her arm, Blair blinked heavily, until moving dark forms and a whir of voices came into focus.

Feeling warmth spread over her skin like a soft blanket, Blair realized that she was standing in the middle of the sunlit mill courtyard. A few men close by were unloading bales of cotton from a cart, eying her unabashedly. She let her gaze sweep over the yard uncertainly, hoping to see the familiar features of Mr. Bass among the dirtied, roughened faces staring back at her.

"Excuse me," she called out them and couldn't help but smile as they immediately stood up straight. Pleased that basic manners could be found even in this uncouth corner of England, she approached them, watching as one of the men took off his hat, giving her a small nod.

Although she had learned from Mr. Baizen that shaking hands was considered to be polite, she couldn't bring herself to hold out her hand. Instead, she curtseyed, batting her eyelashes invitingly, like Serena had taught her.

"Would you be so kind as to show me to Mr. Bass's office?" she asked softly. "I'm Miss Waldorf, his new personal secretary."

The man who had taken off his hat, stepped forward promptly, offering her his arm. "With pleasure, Miss," he said with a strong Northern accent and a warm twinkle in his eyes. She noticed the other workers share silent looks before returning to busy themselves with the bales.

"That's not necessary, Henderson," a sharp, booming voice cut in. A tall but thickset figure squeezed itself in between Blair and the workers. "I think Mr. Bass would rather that I take care of Miss Waldorf." He turned to address Blair, taking pains to block her view of the working men "Excuse them, Miss, they rarely see a finely dressed lady such as yourself."

She smiled tightly in response. "And may I ask who you are?"

His rather pleasant looking face turned an ugly shady of red at her question, and he almost keeled over in an attempt to bow in front of her. "Forgive me, Miss, I'm the overseer Mr. Linton."

She inclined her head gracefully. "Please show me the way then, Mr. Linton. I'll follow you."

Blair was relieved when he didn't offer her his arm, but scurried on towards a small grey side building with narrow windows to each side of the door. As she looked back towards the cart, the man called Henderson caught her eye and shrugged apologetically, which she returned with a thankful nod.

Mr. Linton opened the door for her with a dramatic arm movement, gesturing for her to step into the dusty, ill-lit cottage. Warily, she entered the building, which consisted of no more than one room, filled with several sagging shelves, a massive paper cluttered desk and an uncomfortable looking high-backed chair. A teakettle steamed on a black cast iron stove next to the shelves, making the air unbearably stifling, but didn't keep Mr. Linton from closing the door behind him. Blair mentally chided herself for letting herself be alone in an enclosed space with an man she didn't know, while at the same time surveying the room for possible weapons.

"And this is Mr. Bass's office?" she asked doubtfully, scrutinizing the overseer coldly. After all she had seen of the owner, this cluttered room did not fit into the picture she had of him.

Mr. Linton hurried towards the desk, closing open books hastily and shuffling papers around in apparent embarrassment. "Actually, this is more my office than Mr. Bass's," he said with a nervous laugh. "I help him keep his books, since you know …" he trailed off, scratching his head in discomfort.

"I see," Blair said, watching his hectic movements closely. "I guess our paths will cross quite often, Mr. Linton, since Mr. Bass hired me to take over some of his foreign business correspondence. And I assume that has been your job so far?"

He glanced up at her with a surprised expression which he quickly tried to mask. "Foreign correspondence?" he asked shakily. "I didn't know that." He let out an uncertain laugh. "But yes, that has been my job so far." His gaze was cast down onto the blank wood that he had excavated by moving the papers from one side of the desk to another.

"Why don't you make yourself comfortable while I try to find Mr. Bass," he stated almost as he made his way to the door without waiting for her assent.

When he had exited the room, Blair sighed in deep frustration; this was exactly what she had feared would happen – that everyone would think she was some kind of kept Mistress. Even the overseer could barely hide his astonishment when she had told him about her assigned duties.

Idly, she walked along the desk, letting her fingers graze the wooden surface, her nose wrinkling in disgust when she felt the dust on her skin. Disinterestedly, she opened one of the books that Mr. Linton had shoved around earlier. The sheets were filled with lists of different goods and items and rows of numbers and calculations, which she assumed to be the sales accounts.

As she closed the book, she glimpsed a pile of letters, hidden underneath it. Glancing guiltily towards the door, she pulled out the topmost carefully and unfolded it slowly. It was written in French, and the sender kindly asked for news on Mr. Bass's state of business, promising an ample compensation in return.

Blair's eyes widened as she realized what kind of correspondence she had stumbled upon. The good Mr. Linton was playing a double game, selling his Master's trade secrets to competitors, trying to get rich in the process. Hastily, she opened another letter to affirm her suspicion; this one was written in German but the subject matter similar to the first.

As she scoured the correspondence for more evidence, she even found an old letter from Mr. Baizen, offering Mr. Linton a place in the town's most prestigious Gentlemen's club and securing him access to The Lion, in return for ordering the mill's cotton supplement from a more expensive seller. She stared at the papers in her hand, contemplating what to do. She knew that she couldn't just leave this office and pretend as if nothing had happened; especially after everything that Mr. Bass had done for her, she at least owed him honesty in this regard.

Quickly, she folded up the letters to hide them; however, as she shoved them into her cleavage, she noticed with a gasp that she hadn't yet destroyed the letter from Lily. She pulled it from her corset hastily, rushing over to the stove. Using the fabric of her skirt to keep from burning herself, she pulled it open and threw the paper into the glowing embers.

Satisfied, she closed the stove, letting out a deep breath.

"Miss Waldorf?" a familiar gruff voice caught her off guard.

"I'm here Mr. Bass," she chirped, twirling around to find him standing in the doorway. "I was just beginning to think you had forgotten me."

He smirked. "Were you trying to prepare yourself a cup of tea just now?"

"No, not quite, Mr. Bass," she answered calmly, while walking across the room towards him, "but I think you already know that."

He nodded, turning around abruptly to step outside the door.

As she moved to follow him, she felt the stiff parchment beneath her corset chafe her skin uncomfortably. "Mr. Bass!" she called after him, reaching for his arm and touching it lightly to make him stop. He halted on the threshold, but did not turn around again. "I need to tell you something."

"You can tell me later," he answered curtly. "We should walk over to the mill. I've got a lot to show you." Swiftly, without waiting for her, he stepped onto the sunlit cobblestones.

Blair raised her eyebrows in irritation at his brusqueness, but followed him outside. However, with unease she noticed several pairs of eyes examining her as they made their way to the other side of the yard.

"Everyone is staring at me," she hissed. "It's the dress you made me wear. "

"I didn't make you do anything," he shot back without slowing down his gait.

"They all think I'm your whore," she bit out, her eyes burning with frustration.

They had reached the entrance of the main mill, and she felt the sounds of the running machines reverberating through her body. He stopped short before the closed door, turning towards her, his face livid. It was the first time, she was able to see his eyes in full daylight, and the blazing darkness in them almost frightened her.

"Of course they think that, Miss Waldorf. Everyone knows the story of your illicit affair with Mr. Baizen and how I brought you home from a brothel for my own enjoyment," he sneered.

She swallowed hard, unable to face the fury in his gaze.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself and prove them wrong," he said sharply, before finally pulling open the door and holding it open for her.

As she stepped inside, the rhythmic noise became so piercing that it seemed hard to hold a conversation without yelling. A narrow wooden staircase led to an open first floor, fluffy white cotton pieces dancing down the steps.

"What if I want to prove them right?" she asked boldly as he closed the door.

He turned towards the stairs, and she noticed a slight smirk now tugging on the corner of his lips. "You wouldn't," he stated as me made his way up with measured steps.

She opened her mouth to answer but realized that he was daring her to disagree with him, to declare herself an immoral girl in front of him. She bit her lip, her prim and proper self warring with her desire to surprise him, to topple the picture he had of her.

Before she could decide, they had already reached the upper landing, the mechanical noises now almost deafening. "This is one of our spinning rooms, Miss Waldorf," he explained with a business-like tone. "Here the cotton fibers are spun into yarn to be later woven into cloth."

She stared at the two long rows of wooden machines, moving back and forth on a static iron frame, seemingly without much effort by the workers. Six large iron wheels protruded above the rows, moved by an apparatus of cables and rollers in the ceiling. She was sure she had never seen something as fearsome and magnificent, the constant whirring and whizzing of the wheels, threads, and spindles was fascinating but also bewildering to her.

"The machines are called spinning mules," he yelled over the clanking and swishing of the machines, starting towards the aisle between the machines. "They are mostly moved by water energy from the river."

"For what do you need the workers then?" she asked curiously.

"Unfortunately, those are not the most modern machines, so the workers have to make sure that their spinning mule is working correctly, of course," he responded over his shoulder, continuing on his way into the midst of the apparatuses.

As she tried to take in the details of the complex machinery, her gaze became fixated on Mr. Bass's erect figure, marching proudly through the rows without hesitating once. She supposed that he walked this path every day and thus did not need any assistance in maneuvering the busy work hall. He greeted and talked to some of the workers as he passed them on his way and a small smile stole onto her face watching him.

Suddenly, she saw a small boy emerge from under one of the moving spinning mules, just as the white threads were wound around dozens of rotating spindles. He was crawling around on his knees, apparently cleaning the metal carriage from cotton fluff and other dirt.

She stared at him in bafflement, realizing that he was no more than six years old. As she observed him, she noticed a few more small bodies flitting back and forth along the machines, busying themselves with repairing stretched and broken white threads, before the machine receded back towards the spindles.

"What are the children doing here, Mr. Bass?" she asked loudly, her voice dry and parched.

He turned back around to face her, a questioning frown lining his forehead. "Working for me, obviously."

"But they are too young." She drew a frantic breath, feeling a feathery tickling in her nose and mouth. "It's not right." She coughed lightly, trying to clear her throat.

He took a step closer. "Without them their families would starve, Miss Waldorf," he said without hesitation, his voice defensive.

She swallowed frantically, attempting to control the painful urge to cough in her throat. "In the South, we –"

"In the South the farmers use their children for field work. Here the children at least get paid," he said sharply, turning his face away from her.

"At least they have fresh air to breath," she rasped.

He tilted his face towards her. "Maybe it's better for you to wait outside," he said with a wry smile that did not echo in his voice. Stunned, she followed his movements as he continued to walk further down the line of whirring machines and workers.

Covering her mouth and nose with her hand, she quickly made her way through swirls of white and dust towards the staircase, taking a deep breath as she finally exited the door towards the hum of busy workers and mule carts.

She leaned against the nearest wall, closing her eyes and exhaling loudly to relieve the tension in her body and the ache in her lungs.

"The first time in there's always the hardest," a soft, low voice spoke to her left. Blair opened her eyes, surprised to meet the sharp blue ones of a middle-aged woman, sitting on a cotton bale a few feet away from her. "It gets easier. Just don't breathe in too deeply." The other woman's gaze slid down Blair's body with unveiled curiosity. "But a fancy lady such as yourself has no business being in there anyway."

Blair stared at the woman for a few seconds silently, taking in her tidy but worn down dress, which stretched over a swollen belly. As her mind caught on to what she was doing, Blair quickly averted her eyes, focusing them instead on a group of workers unloading cotton bales.

"It can't be healthy for the children to work in there," Blair said with a challenging tone as her thoughts wandered back to the frail boys in the mill.

For an uncomfortable moment Blair thought she had offended her as she glanced over at the silent lady. "No, it is not, Miss," the woman answered calmly, her gaze unfocused. "My young ones already have the cough in their lungs."

Blair was surprised by her honesty. "How many children do you have?" she asked, her voice now kinder.

"Five, Miss. All boys." The woman beamed proudly, leaning into Blair, "I hope we get a girl this time," she whispered, as if telling a secret.

Blair couldn't help but return her excitement with a small smile, though her mind was still reeling to comprehend why a mother wouldn't be more concerned about her sons' well-being, "Are you not afraid for them, when they go to work in the mill?"

"Of course I am," the woman exclaimed steely, "but I believe that starving would be a worse fate for them than this." Blair could hear a wary edge in her voice now. "I hope you never have to make this decision when you have children, Miss."

"Yes," Blair said quietly. For a moment she felt the urge to tell this strange woman about her little lost girl. But what was there to tell? She had never seen her or fed her. She was not much more than an unnamed ghost, only the scar on her stomach remaining as an ever present reminder that she had existed at all.

Blair swallowed a burning lump in her throat as she forced herself to concentrate on the woman next to her. "Do you like working here?" she finally asked to dispel the clamor in her mind.

"There's nothin' to like about work, Miss, but there are worse Masters than Mr. Bass."

"Does he pay you more then?" Blair asked with curiosity.

"No, no," the woman replied with a forceful shake of her head, "he pays the same as the other Masters here, and I dare say that's as much as he can afford, but he is –," she stopped, apparently searching for the right word,"not as vile."

Blair pondered her statement for a moment, many more questions about the mill and its owner simmering in her head.

However, before she could gather her thoughts, a loud voice bellowed across the yard. "Mary!"

The woman slowly rose from the cotton bale, waving to the approaching man. As he walked closer, Blair noticed how his eyes darted back and forth between her and the other woman, who was now holding out her hands to him in an intimate gesture. He took the woman's hands gently in his, drawing her closer to him, so he could lean down to whisper something in her ear.

Blair averted her eyes to give them privacy; however, her head snapped up immediately when she heard him hiss, "She's with the Master." The woman shook her head, but turned to steal a glance at Blair with a worried and pleading look. "Miss?" she said hesitatingly after a short pause, "I beg you to not mention any of what we talked about to –"

"To Mr. Bass?" Blair finished curtly, stepping closer to the couple. "Don't worry. Whatever you may think of me, Mr. Bass hired me to aid him with his business correspondence, not to spy on his workers," she stated plainly, before inclining her head politely and walking past them towards the main office, ignoring the eyes and whispers following her.

xxxxx

When she had made the decision to hide in the mill office, she had done it mainly for the sake of showing everyone that she was to be taken seriously. However, after an hour spent staring at the monotone cycle of workers loading and unloading mule carts and hoping that Mr. Bass would come and apologize to her, she had almost been resigned to return to the main house. Yet, she had not wanted to grant this kind of satisfaction to the servants or Mr. Bass; instead she wanted to impress them, or even better, intimidate them.

Frantically, she had pulled the hidden letters from her décolleté and collected books, manuscripts and stacks of paper from the shelves, spreading them out on the table in front of her. She had spent the most part of the morning and early afternoon gathering all of Mr. Linton's correspondence, checking it against the numbers and accounts in the books, jotting down prices and lists of sellers. Occasionally, she would get up from the table to watch the shifting sunrays play across the busy workers in the yard and to check for any sign of Mr. Linton or Mr. Bass; however, both remained absent from the office for the day, allowing her enough time to try and understand the mill's financial network.

Eagerly, she decided to draw up response letters to the corrupt business partners in Mr. Bass's name, barely feeling the shadows in the small room growing larger and darker, the heat of the oven dying slowly.

She hardly heard the gentle knock on the door, only becoming aware of it when she noticed the door being pushed open from outside. Swiftly, she scrambled to her feet, shoving the documents under a nearby book and trying to come up with a believable excuse for her presence in the office.

"Miss Waldorf?" the deep voice of Mr. Bass called into the room.

"Yes, Mr. Bass," she answered pleasantly.

"I brought something to eat for you. Apparently you haven't been out of this office for the whole day." He entered the room slowly, balancing a large steaming bowl and silver spoon in his left hand. Carefully, he reached for the table with the other arm, shoving some of the papers to the side to make room.

Blair wrinkled her nose as she regarded the deep brown concoction with suspicion. "What is it?"

"You can say what you will about Miss Scott, but she does make an edible stew." He pushed the bowl further towards her. "Eat up, Miss Waldorf. You need your strength."

She sat back down, sighing as she drew the bowl closer and took up the spoon, dipping it into the dark broth cautiously. Large chunks of unrecognizable meat and vegetables revealed themselves as she swirled the spoon around.

"Are you sure she hasn't poisoned this?"

He chuckled with amusement, sitting down leisurely on the desktop, "I'm sure. Now, eat."

She wanted to decline to repay him for the manner of his dismissal this morning, but couldn't deny to herself that she was starving and that the stew smelt more appetizing than she'd ever admit.

Scooping up a piece of something she believed to be potato, she started to nibble on it. As she found the taste piquant but not displeasing, she took a larger bite, enjoying the warmth of the food as it filled her stomach.

"How did you know where I was?" Blair asked to dispel the silence between them.

"Mill gossip can be very informative," he replied offhandedly. "Hence, I thought it wise to occupy Mr. Linton elsewhere while you were in here."

She looked up at him in surprise, trying to gauge what kind of answer he expected from her. However, his expression remained an inscrutable friendly mask. "I appreciate that," she said finally.

He nodded, his features still unreadable. "It might interest you that you were a popular topic amongst the workers today," he carried on conversationally.

"Because of the dress?" she asked cautiously.

"Because they rarely get to see a beautiful, fashionably-dressed lady come to the factory. And more so, one that takes an interest in their work," he said gently.

A tender smile crept upon her face. "You are just trying to flatter me, Mr. Bass."

He shook his head, his face now open and sincere. "I might not see, Miss Waldorf, but I still have ears, and I heard my workers talk about you."

"What did they say?" she asked coyly.

He gave her a boyish smile, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. "You don't need to worry yourself about it, it's only talk."

She let out a small laugh. "Of course." Flustered, she busied herself with spooning up a piece of meat from her bowl. Quickly, she shoved it into the mouth, so she wouldn't have to think of something to say. While she chewed on the stringy chunk,which had clearly been bought for its price rather than its taste, her gaze fell on the finished letters before her.

She swallowed heavily, straightening her spine and fixing her gaze on him. "I have to speak to you about a business matter, Mr. Bass," she said with a somber tone, which she believed to be appropriate.

He quirked an eyebrow, shifting his position on the desk slightly. "A business matter?" he said startled.

"Yes," she rasped, her throat suddenly dry. "It's about Mr. Linton," she continued, her voice betraying her nervousness.

He folded his hands in his lap. "Is that the reason why you have been hiding in here the whole day?"

"I haven't been hiding, Mr. Bass," she replied sharply, "I have been working."

He nodded. "What is it then?" he said softly.

Blair took a deep breath. "This morning, when I was waiting for you –"

"Did he hurt you?" he interrupted her, his voice suddenly flat and withdrawn, his eyes burning darkly.

"No," she replied quickly, shaking her head, "but I have found some evidence that he can't be trusted."

He turned his face away from her, remaining silent for a few uncomfortable moments. "Go on," he finally said in a calm voice.

"This morning I happened on Mr. Linton's correspondence with certain business partners of yours. They were offering him money or other courtesies if he shared confidential business matters with them or did what they asked him to do." Blair stopped short to wait for his reaction, but as he showed neither disappointment nor anger, she continued firmly, "So I spent this afternoon going through the accounts trying to find disadvantageous transactions that suggest foul play and were, I believe, carried out in order to harm the mill."

He kept his head low as if listening for her breathing, but was now kneading his fingers relentlessly. "And may I ask how you happened on these letters, Miss Waldorf?"

Blair hesitated, caught off guard by his question.

Slowly, he rose from the table, walking over to the window. "I suppose, by letting your eyes and hands wander," he answered for her. "As you did in the library last night?"

She pushed herself up from the chair, letting its legs scrape loudly over the floor. Deliberately, she made her way towards the window, coming to a halt next to him. "That is not the same, Mr. Bass. You even agreed to letting me have full access to your library."

He continued as if not having heard her, his posture rigid, "Miss Scott told me that she found a candle in the, how should I put it … indecent section of the library and that one book had clearly been pulled from the shelf," he stated gravely, but she knew that he was taxing her. "Sadly, I can no longer enjoy them and the servants would rather drown themselves than touch any of the books in that section, so …"

Blair seethed at the thought of having to live under the same roof as the nosy housekeeper. She was sure that the lady had only told Mr. Bass of her discovery in the hopes of getting rid of her. "I'm not denying that I took it from the shelf, but it was an accident," she stated angrily, staring unseeingly at the grimy window panes. "I was curious and didn't know what kind of depravity I'd find in there."

From the corner of her eye she saw him tilt his head in her direction. "While I admire your inquiring mind and your thirst for knowledge, Miss Waldorf, how do I know you are using them for my benefit?" he asked calmly, but searching.

"You can't, Mr. Bass," she stated matter-of-factly, turning to face him. "But you told me in our first conversation that I shouldn't trust you. Yet, I stayed in your house," she paused as she noted a small smile play across his lip. "So maybe you could show me the same courtesy."

He turned his body fully towards her. "Who are the men Linton received letters from?"

"The letters I found were from Mr. Guiton, Mr. Wagner and Mr. Baizen," Blair said calmly, scrutinizing his face for any signs of anger.

"Of course." He chuckled darkly. "And when were you planning to tell me about all of this?"

"I wanted to tell you this morning, Mr. Bass, but it didn't seem like the right moment."

He took a step closer to her, his voice dropping to an almost menacing whisper, "Now, Miss Waldorf, I suppose you already thought about how to deal with these issues?"

She angled her head in his direction, so that their faces were only a few inches apart. "I might have an idea or two, one of them being that you find a replacement for Mr. Linton," she murmured softly.

"My, my, I wouldn't want to have you as my enemy, Miss Waldorf," he breathed darkly, close to her ear.

A pleasant chill ran down her spine at his words, but she was reluctant to take their power play a step further. Apparently understanding her hesitancy, he stepped away from her towards the door.

"I propose that you read these letters to me tomorrow morning," he now addressed her in a more formal tone, "and then we can talk about your business ideas and the future of Mr. Linton."

"Agreed, Mr. Bass," she answered swiftly.

He gave her a curt nod, his hand already on the door handle. "Now, eat your dinner, and meet me in the library later when you have finished with your work. I have to talk to you about another business matter," he said politely before exiting the door.

When he had left, she sat back down at the table, trying to gather her thoughts. Shoving the bowl of stew to the side, she retrieved all of her documents and letters to sort them, striving to spin her ideas into a convincing argument.

Her musings were disrupted, however, by low voices outside the building, floating through a gap in the door, which Mr. Bass had forgotten to close properly.

" – heard about Mr. Baizen," a young female voice hissed.

"No. What happened?" another girl squeaked excitedly.

Her interest piqued, Blair rose quietly and stepped closer to the door in order to hear more of the conversation.

A short giggle followed. "Agnes has heard from Jenny that he was shot in front of the Lion last night."

The other girl gasped. "Is he dead?

The first one chortled. "No, but I guess a certain part of his body is."

There was a moment of silence before both girls burst out into a fit of laughter and even Blair couldn't suppress a satisfied grin. Maybe there was some just higher power after all.

"Some say it was Mr. Bass taking revenge for his new Mistress," the first girl continued after a while in a conspiratorial tone.

"Oh, that dark-haired lady?" the other one asked. Blair swallowed heavily as she forced herself to continue listening.

"Aye. Did you see her dress? The Master must have paid a pretty penny for that."

"And quite scandalous too," the second girl uttered condescendingly. "But how could the Master have done it, silly?"

"Maybe he is just pretending to be –"

Suddenly, a loud male voice interrupted their chattering, commanding them to get on with their work. She heard their steps die away on the cobblestones as they moved across the courtyard away from her building.

Blair's head swam as she steadied herself on the doorframe, processing the girls' words. She wasn't naïve enough to believe that Mr. Bass's blindness was an elaborate scheme of his, but she feared that it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility that he had paid someone to act on his behalf.

She shook her head. "No, he wouldn't," she whispered to herself, but knew that it was a lie. She had no idea what he was capable of doing. Still, she wanted to know if it was true and what she would feel if it was.

Uncertainly, she collected the documents and books from the desk and exited the office, walking across the yard towards the main house. Remotely, she registered how carts filled with chatting men and women were leaving through the mill gates into the balmy evening. As she watched them disappear around the corner into the city, it crossed her mind that no one would stop her if she walked out of the gate now. She was free to do what she liked, no reputation to worry about, no family that watched her every move, no need to fulfill the expectations of others or answer to anybody, not even a need to be scared of unwanted pregnancies.

She blushed, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to clear her mind.

Yet, no matter how much this unrestraint scared her, she did not want to run from the uncertainties she faced inside these walls. She opened her eyes and quickly turned on her heel, swiftly entering the dim halls of the house before she could reconsider her decision. Determined, she crossed the entryway towards the library, a shimmer of deep light guiding her.

She hesitated on the threshold of the fire-lit room, her eyes searching and finding Mr. Bass at the windows, the curtains already drawn. He did not turn around; instead, he kept his face to the window as if he hadn't heard her. In the reflection, she could see that he was swirling a tumbler in his hand.

"I'm here, Mr. Bass," she stated loudly.

"I know," was all he said in return.

She clutched the bundle of papers to her chest tightly, taking a shaky breath. "Did you hear the gossip about Mr. Baizen by any chance?"

"No, I don't think I did," he answered dispassionately. "Anything interesting."

"I heard he suffered from a little accident last night," she stated flatly.

"Oh?" he said, feigning mild interest. "What happened?"

For a moment she felt light-headed as the truth she had suspected revealed itself in his voice. Still, she wanted to push him further. "A bar brawl at The Lion apparently," she said calmly.

She watched him take a sip from his glass. "How is he?" he said over his shoulder.

"I guess, he'll survive, but some of his body's appendages were not so luckily," she sighed deeply

"Poor chap," he murmured darkly. "At least he is still alive."

She finally stepped into the room slowly, enjoying the growing warmth and hisses of the fire. She would have barely recognized the room if it hadn't been for the small forbidden alcove of books twinkling at her. The candleholder from last night was still in the place where she had left it, except that a new candle had replaced the old, a proud, bright flame now dancing on top. "Maybe the gunman should have aimed a little higher," she said darkly, skimming the back of an old, beaten armchair with her fingertips, moving closer to him.

He turned towards her now. His face was taut but he let out a small, appreciative laugh. "Maybe he should have." He gestured with his free hand to a cozy sofa close to the fireplace. "Won't you sit down, Miss Waldorf?"

She hesitated behind the armchair as if it would shield her, unsure of how she felt about Mr. Bass's role in Mr. Baizen's mishap. She felt her conscience war with dark emotions within her, but she couldn't find it in herself to condemn him for something that she had found satisfaction in just mere moments ago.

She walked towards the sofa slowly, seating herself at the edge of the soft cushions. She placed her documents on the unoccupied seat next to her and daintily folded her fingers in her lap. She studied the pattern of the wooden floor intently, listening to his lithe footsteps as he walked past her and sat down in the leather armchair across from her. From the condition of the floor she could tell that the furniture hadn't been moved for a long while, probably allowing him to walk about securely in his own house.

As she looked back up at him, he grabbed a leather folder from a close by table that also carried an unopened book. He held it up for her to take. "It's the contract. My lawyer brought it over earlier."

She pulled it from his fingers gently, extracting the papers in one swift motion. From the corner of her eyes she saw him sipping at his drink repeatedly.

As she skimmed the paragraphs, a pleased smile crept onto her face at the realization that everything she had demanded and he had offered had been included. Even the wardrobe addendum they had argued about this morning. Moreover, she noticed in surprise that he had already signed both copies of the contract, his letters wide but steady.

"You don't have to sign it now," he mumbled, his free hand pulling on the stitched seams of his armrest aimlessly.

She traced the curves of his name with her fingertip for a moment before rising from the sofa and walking over to a small writing desk, wrenched painfully between two narrow shelves of books. An opened stained inkwell and a quill were already waiting for her; the feather had clearly been used shortly before and thrown onto the desk haphazardly. Already a dark spot was forming on the aged wood, seeping into its structure.

Carefully, Blair picked up the discarded quill, wiping away the spilled ink with the side of her hand. Ignoring the black smudges on her skin, she spread out the papers in front of her. Swiftly, she plunged the feather into the ink pot before scratching her name into the parchment.

Yet, her hand kept hovering over the sheet as she read over the agreed points once more, her eyes lingering on the section stating her demand for a chamber maid. A day with numbers and duplicity had told her that Mr. Bass and the mill were not nearly as well off as he would have her believe, and she did not want to aid its downfall with her vanity. So, she took a deep breath and crossed out the passage with a thin but steady line on both versions.

Satisfied with her work, she placed one copy in the folder and stored the other one in her corset. Returning to the fire, she placed the closed folder in his lap without saying a word. Blair turned her head just in time to catch a faint smile flit across his face, causing a warm sensation to spread across her body up to her cheeks. "So, now that this is out of the way, how else are we going to entertain ourselves?" she said in a bored tone as she resumed her seat on the sofa.

He quirked an eyebrow. "Well …," he trailed off suggestively.

She sighed exasperatedly. "No, don't even say it."

With a shrug, he placed the documents back on the small side table. "What would you suggest?"

Blair leaned back into the velvety cushions, her fingers drawing circles on the fleecy surface, marveling on how, compared to the other pieces in the room, it seemed almost new and unused, as if no one ever sat on it. Realization dawning, she peered up at him, watching him stare unseeingly into the fire.

"What do you usually do? If you don't have company?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light and conversational.

He swirled the alcohol in his glass for a long moment before answering, his face inscrutable. "In my situation, there are not plenty of things one can do." Suddenly, he turned to her with a twisted smirk marring his features. "Except to amuse oneself with ladies of the night now and then."

She swallowed, unsure whether he wanted to insult or compliment her. "How did it happen? Your eyes?" she asked shamelessly, wanting to unsettle him.

He chuckled, talking a sip from his glass. "Maybe we start with an easier conversation topic first?"

"So what would you suggest?" she said mockingly, mimicking his earlier response.

He leaned forward slightly, tilting his face once more towards the crackling flames. "How about you tell me what Lady Baizen wanted this morning. I'm sure it must have been of some importance if she deigned to visit us."

"She wants to reinstate me as a tutor for her daughter since –"

"No," he barked, his head snapping back up towards her. "You won't go up to that house again," he said in a tone that allowed no protest or argument.

"I'm not yours to command," she said bitterly, pushing herself up from the sofa. To put some space between them, she walked towards the window that he had stood in front of mere moments ago. She attempted to peer beyond the glass, but his reflection refused to fade out of focus. "Do you really think I'm foolish enough to put myself into the same situation again? After everything that happened?" she asked the small figure mirrored in the window pane.

She watched the blurred form raise an arm to its face. "Then why do it?" His tone was a mix of calm anger and curiosity.

"I can't be as indifferent to children as you are," she answered curtly, the distress over this morning's discoveries boiling back up inside of her.

"That may be, but at least they are not my own," he bit out.

She turned around to face him. "What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that it is much worse to be indifferent to one's own child and the wife, who almost died giving birth to it. Wouldn't you agree?" He tilted his head to the side, waiting, listening for her reaction.

She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of revealing any kind of emotion, so she closed her eyes and swallowed. "You know?" Blair asked in an eerily silent voice that seemed almost foreign to her.

He gave a short nod. "It wasn't very difficult to find out."

"How much do you know?"

He turned his head towards the hearth, his fingertips tracing the rim of the tumbler loosely. "Everything."

"Everything?" she deadpanned.

"I know who your husband is. That he left after you gave birth to a stillborn child." His voice was harsh and filled with cold anger. "That his family is seeking a divorce and that your own parents disowned you," he paused, "and I know that you fled your home to escape the humiliation."

Livid, shameful tears rose to Blair's eyes as she felt exposed and embarrassed of her own life, her failure. She balled her fists, her nails cutting into her tender palms painfully. "I would very much like to slap you right now, Mr. Bass," she spat, taking a step closer.

Slowly, he placed the glass on the table next to him, before turning towards her with astern expression. "Why don't you, Miss Waldorf?" He spread his arms in an inviting gesture. "I'm sure it would feel liberating."

She took another step forward, but hesitated. "I guess it would," she said calmly, belying the seething fury inside of her. "But I'm a lady, and I was taught not to hit crippled men." With satisfaction she watched his expression change from surprise to a wry smirk.

"I suppose you won that round, Miss Waldorf."

She smiled in spite of herself, crossing her arms in front of her stomach. "Even so, I'm much disadvantaged in this competition since you seem to have more ammunition at your disposal than I."

Suddenly, he shifted in his seat, leaning forward, his smirk fading. "Blair, I –"

"It's still Miss Waldorf," she interrupted him brusquely.

He sighed. "Miss Waldorf, I hope you know that I would not use this information to hurt you."

"How would I know? You are a stranger," she said pertly. "And if it wasn't your plan to use this information about my past to hold me at ransom, then why did you pry into something that is none of your business?"

"Because I always do a thorough investigation of my new employees," he volunteered, but she could tell that it was a half-hearted answer.

"I might have told you freely if you had asked me," she said quietly, in an attempt to make him feel guilty.

He shook his head, smiling somberly. "No, you wouldn't have."

She let the atmosphere fill with unsettled quietness, wanting to let him stew over whether she would leave the room.

"So much for an easier conversation topic," he stated darkly into the room, lifting the liquor-filled glass from the table once more.

"I should go to bed, Mr. Bass. We've said quite enough today," she stated, rubbing her hands across her upper arms absentmindedly.

He gave a curt nod in her direction, balancing the tumbler on the armrest. "Before you go though, I have a small job for you to do."

"What is it?" she asked uncertainly.

"Please sit down again for a moment, Miss Waldorf," he said in detached tone, gesturing to the sofa.

She eyed him curiously, but did as he asked, letting her weight drop onto the plush cushions.

He took up the lone book from the side table, handing it to her. "I'd appreciate it if you read page 53 to me, Miss Waldorf."

She leaned forward, taking the volume from his hand tentatively. As she shifted it between her fingers, she saw that it bore no title. Immediately, Blair was reminded of the books she had discovered in his library the other night, hoping fervently that this was not one of them. However, when she opened it to the page he had requested, she realized that it was exactly the book she had grabbed from the shelf.

She shook her head violently, snapping the book shut loudly. "I won't read this, Mr. Bass."

"Why not?" he asked, a smirk playing across his lips. "If I remember correctly, reading to me is part of your job, as stated in article seven of our contract." His eyes sparkled darkly, giving her the impression that he enjoyed her discomfort.

"This," she pointed at the book in her lap in agitation, "is not work, my dear Mr. Bass."

He cocked his head to the side. "What are you afraid of? It's just a book?"

"I'm not afraid, Mr. Bass," she bit out.

"Then read it to me," he said firmly, taking a sip from his drink.

She reopened the book with fury, taking a quiet breath to steady her voice.

"But guess my surprise, when I saw the lazy young rogue lie down on his back, and gently pull down the girl upon him," Blair began to readstoically, keeping her voice without inflection, determined to remain unaffected by the story, "who giving way to his humour, stradled, and with her hands conducted her– ," she stopped at reading the next words, heat surging to her cheeks. She looked up at him uncertainly, and he, seemingly having expected her reaction, smiled wickedly.

"Please continue, Miss Waldorf," he said in an amused tone

Blair huffed loudly before continuing, "-and with her hands conducted her blind favorite to the right place," she enunciated the requisite word with extra care to let him know that she understood the double meaning. "And following her impulse, ran directly upon the flaming point of this weapon of pleasure, which she staked herself upon, up pierced, and infixed to the extremest hair breadth of it," as she pictured the image inside her head, she felt her fingers grew damp with embarrassment. From the corner of her eye she saw him shift in his seat, but when she looked up at him, all the former humor seemed to have left his face; his eyes were closed, his posture rigid. She continued to glance him as she proceeded, "thus she sat on him a few instants, enjoying and relishing her situation, whilst he toyed with her provoking breasts." She noticed him drawing a deep breath, his fingers clenching the glass in his hand tightly. She smiled to herself as she understood the effect her reading was having on him. Determined to make him suffer for his impudence, she added a deep, sultry tone to her voice as she carried on, "Sometimes she would stoop to meet his kiss: but presently the sting of pleasure spurred them up to fiercer action;" Blair quickened her breath for added measure, enjoying his growing discomposure, "then began the storm of heaves, which, from the undermost combatant, were thrust at the same time, he crossing his hands over her, and drawing her home to him with a sweet violence: the inverted strokes of anvil over hammer soon brought on the critical period, in which all the signs of a close conspiring ecstasy –

"Now, what do you think about it, Miss Waldorf?" he interrupted her suddenly, his voice sounding tense and breathless.

"That is really not a proper conversation topic –"

"To hell with propriety, Miss Waldorf," he growled. "I asked you what you think."

She cleared her throat, staring at the words before her. "Obviously, it does not seem to be a well written book," she began quietly, "it's quite sensational and –" she paused to open the first page, reading the author's name and book title, "it was written by a man, so I don't know how he can presume to give an accurate description of a woman's pleasure." She looked at up him questioningly, waiting to see his response to her words.

To her surprise, his features displayed no mockery or mirth. "So, you don't think that a man can know of a woman's pleasure?" he asked sincerely.

"Not that I know of, Mr. Bass," she said, surprised at her own frankness.

"Then your husband wasn't –"

"My husband, Mr. Bass, was a very considerate man. He always treated me properly, like a lady," she said defiantly, wanting him to know that her husband had not been an unkind man.

She watched as he took a deep gulp from his glass, his jaw set into a hard line. "Except when he threw you to the wolves after you almost died." He ran his free hand through his hair, before leaning forward in his seat. "Do you still love him?" he asked gently.

She remained silent for a moment, contemplating his question. If she were truthful with herself, she'd have to admit that she wasn't sure about her feelings for her husband. She could never bring herself to hate him, even after everything he had done. After all, he had been a part of her life since her early childhood. She had thought she loved him, but she had been so young and naïve then. Had that really been love, if she could now so freely converse with another man, allow him to touch her, and worse, take pleasure in it? Had that been love, if she so easily forgot the vows to the man she was still married to?

"Miss Waldorf, is everything all right?" she heard him ask through the haze of her thoughts.

She shook her head to clear her mind, focusing on his concerned face. "I'd rather not talk about him anymore. The past lies in the past and there is no use in reliving its pain," she said curtly.

He nodded his head slightly, his features betraying no emotion at her answer. "What shall we talk about then?"

"Well, you promised me an answer to my question, Mr. Bass."

"So much about not reliving the past's pain, Miss Waldorf," he said teasingly, a hollow smile stretching his face.

"You don't need to –"

"No, I guess it's only fair," he took a moment to sit up straight in his chair, taking another sip of his drink. "I suppose I could say that it was some sort of divine intervention, some kind of retributions for my sins," he said wryly.

"But?" Blair prodded.

He turned his face towards the heat of the fire, his profile glowing darkly against the hellish light. "I don't quite believe in God, Miss Waldorf; I only believe in human mistakes and cruelty," he stated, before turning his face back towards her, "I'm sorry if that shocks you."

She let out a small laugh. "No, I didn't take you for the religious kind anyway. But surely you can't be that cynical?"

"Why not?" he asked adamantly. "I thought you of all people might understand."

"Yes. I do," she stated heatedly. "But I refuse to wallow in self-pity." She rose from her seat to walk towards the shelves, letting the book fall onto the plush seat with a soft thud. She noticed leaning forward in his armchair and for a moment she thought he would follow her, but he only set down his tumbler on the side table, interlacing his fingers in front of his body.

"I don't seem to have your moral perseverance, Miss Waldorf," he said grimly before he rested his elbows on his thighs, imprisoning his head between his hands. He remained still for long moment, his body stiff and frozen like a marble stature. "I'm sure you have seen the old mill up at the Baizens' pompous palace and heard the story of its gruesome demise?" he continued quietly.

"Only that many people died and that the owner was –" Blair blanched, the truth now unfolding before her eyes.

"Yes, Miss Waldorf, that mill was once mine," he said coldly. "The day of the fire had been warm and clear, just as this one," he began, his voice low and throaty, his head still buried between his fingers. "It was just before sundown and I heard the workers getting ready to pack up their work for the day," he paused, his hands rubbing up and down the sides of face repeatedly. "Suddenly, I heard a commotion downstairs, and went to check on the lower floors. But when I got there the heat was already unbearable; the beams were crashing from the ceiling, people were screaming for help … but I just ran," he whispered, his fingers twitching restlessly. "The fire was so hot that it felt as if the skin was being torn from my face. I tried to shield it with my hands, but I needed to see… I remember thinking that my failing sight must be due to the smoke –" he stopped short suddenly, a humorless laugh escaping him. "I didn't even try to rescue one of my workers, I only wanted to rescue myself."

Blair's head spun, his honestly and anguish leaving her momentarily at a loss for words. "Do you regret it?" she asked cautiously.

"I'm sorry that so many people had to die, yes." He lifted his head slightly, turning his face in her direction. "But I do not regret my decision, Miss Waldorf. If I could do it all over again, I know I'd make the same choice." He smiled darkly. "Still, in the end it might have been better for me to die in that fire," he said, pointing to his eyes.

"Oh come now, Mr. Bass. You know you won't get any pity from me," she returned playfully, taking a few steps closer to the fireplace. "You are still a wealthy, reasonably well-looking man. I don't think any girl at The Lion would deny you if you offered to be their patron."

He chuckled lightly. "I'm sure you would have," he said, reclining back in his chair. "But the crux is that the fire did not only rob me of my sight, but also of a considerable part of my wealth. You see, most of my money had been invested in the machines. So, I'm not quite the fortuitous match you make me out to be." He paused before continuing in a low, mirthful voice, "As I'm sure you must have already noticed from the desolate state of my house, if not from my account books."

Blair walked alongside the mantelpiece, mulling over what he had just said. "You didn't have any insurance?"

He shook his head, bending forward once more to reach for his glass on the table. Blair, however, quickly snatched it away before he could grasp it. "You shouldn't drink so much, Mr. Bass," she said sweetly, making sure he heard her taking an ample sip of the strong alcohol. She snorted with laughter into the glass as his face turned into a displeased scowl.

He withdrew his hand from the empty table. "Maybe I should have left you on the floor in The Lion after all," he grumbled.

She laughed again, noticing a small smile play along his lips. "You still have not answered my question," she said warmly.

"I had no insurance because not one of those fine London agents would cover my mill. Insuring a whole factory full of easily inflammable material is fairly risky, you know," he sighed, lurching back in his seat. "And in contrast to your husband, I'm not quite as well connected to bend people to my will."

She ignored his jab, realizing that she was picking at a raw wound. For a moment she enjoyed the warmth of the fire caressing her legs, before taking a silent step towards his armchair. She walked around it slowly, letting her fingers trail along the timeworn leather of the backrest close to the dark tips of his hair. By the tilt of his head she could tell that he was aware of her presence, following her movements in the room.

Finally, she sat down on the armrest. "I think you can be very persuasive, Mr. Bass," she said mirthfully, setting the tumbler down on his thigh next to his outstretched hands. She watched in fascination as his lean fingers curled around the glass slowly as if enclosing the most delicate flower.

He smiled feebly. "Not persuasive enough to convince anyone in town to invest in this mill after the other one had burnt down." Letting out a ghostly chuckle, he gulped down the rest of the alcohol before setting the empty tumbler away once more. "The good people of Oldham all thought I had set the fire myself, and no one in their right mind would want to invest in the business of a maniac."

"And why would they think that?" she asked in confusion, eyeing him curiously.

However, his silence dissolved the atmosphere like acid. His features hardened, his face unmoving, lips pressed together in a painful line; telling her that he was unwilling to answer.

For a moment she stared at his stern profile in embarrassment before clearing her throat. "Just for the record, I would have made the same choice," she said quietly, attempting to break the tension.

He turned his face up to her, his brows knitted in question.

"I would have chosen myself too," she whispered. "But thank you for saving me. It seems you do care about others after all," she teased gently.

With his face so close, she could make out the wrinkles around his eyes and lips as he smiled at her response. Small white scars marred one side of his face where the fire had left its mark on his features, and impulsively, she reached up to trace them. As her fingers met his skin, she felt him withdraw from her touch as if jolted, his eyes wide and wild.

Ignoring his reaction, she once more lifted her hand to his face, grazing her fingers over the branded skin gently. She smiled to herself as she noticed him close his eyes, drawing a ragged breath. She let her fingers dance over his tense jaw, and without thinking leaned down to press her lips against his softly. She heard him groan in surprise and felt his rough hands move up to her face, holding it in place with tender force, as he began to move his lips under hers. They were warm, the sharp taste of alcohol still lingering on them. Fiery excitement spread along her spine as she felt the stubble on his skin graze her chin, the muscles in his jaw tightening under her palm, his fingers wandering along the column of her throat. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in this moment; however, stern faces swam before her closed eyelids, familiar voices filling her head, chastising and judging her for her wantonness.

Slowly, she drew her head back, keeping her eyes shut to relish the feeling of his uneven breath on her lips. She brought up her hands to cover his, which were still enclosing her face unyieldingly. Gently, she interlaced their fingers, lifting his hands from her skin. As she finally opened her eyes, she saw that his were still closed, his jaw muscles clenching and unclenching in an irate rhythm.

"Good night, Mr. Bass," she said breathless, but determined, untangling herself from his hands and the warmth of his body.

His eyes snapped opened, still as dark and infinite as before, but moving restlessly as if searching for something. "You can call me Chuck," he said with a self-assured smirk, belying the uncertainty in his eyes.

She smiled to herself as she returned to the sofa, lifting the discarded book and documents from the plush velvet with tingling fingers. "Perhaps tomorrow," she replied lightly as she hurried towards the door, his head following her steps.

AN: First, much love to my wonderful beta Robin, as always.
Second, I apologize for the long wait, but I hope the length of this chapter makes up for it. I decided not to split it because I didn't want to rob you of the end, but I hope you'll leave me a review in return. ;)