He stepped back hastily as a tall, burly man strode past him, almost knocking him over. He glared at the back of the man as he thought of his stolen carriage. He had no idea where it was, and it would never be retrieved now. He had placed a report with the local constabulary, but the bored Bow Street Runner had told him the chances of recovering the carriage were next to nothing.
London was always seething with crime, and the recovery rate of stolen property and goods wasn’t high. Most likely, the carriage had been repainted and wouldn’t be able to be identified as belonging to Ambrose anyway.
Porter, his carriage driver, hadn’t been able to book him on a stagecoach that night. All the coaches to Bradford were booked solid for three days. The only seat he could secure was one leaving Thursday.
Of course, that had been totally unacceptable for him. He had sent Porter out on a furious search to buy a new carriage, while putting in a report for his stolen one, hoping perhaps it might be recovered. Neither option transpired in time.
Apparently, every man and his dog in London had back-ordered carriages, and there were none instantly available. It turned out that his quickest way of getting home was still to get on the public stagecoach leaving Thursday.
So now here he was, waiting for the late coach, cursing under his breath. This day wasn’t going to plan just like every other since he had reached London. He hoped he never had to journey south again. London was a cesspit. He had also stepped in horse dung as soon as he had reached Piccadilly, and it had taken ten minutes to scrape the offensive matter off his left boot.
Gritting his teeth, he checked his pocket watch again, even though he knew that only five minutes had passed. This was intolerable. He strode to the ticket office, where he had to queue, before finally being seen by a harassed-looking man with a drooping handlebar moustache.
“Where is the coach to Bradford?” he barked. “It is forty minutes late!”
The man gave a painful sigh. “That’s nothing to do with us, squire. The coach left Surrey at the right time. We have no way of communicating with the driver. You’ll just have to wait until it gets here.”
Ambrose shook his head in disgust, striding away. He knew it wasn’t the man’s fault at all, but he was at the end of his tether. Hemustget home. He had put Gilbert, his factory manager, in charge during his absence, but it wasn’t the same as being on site himself. He thought he could trust Gilbert, but anything could have gone wrong during these days away. The manager was competent but easily rattled, and the pressure might be too much for him. The factory might have burnt down, for all he knew.
In a small corner of his mind, he knew he was overreacting. The factory would probably have run smoothly, and all would be well by the time he finally got home. But he couldn’t help it. He had built his factory up from the ground. It was like his baby. It had always been extremely hard for him to delegate responsibility. He felt like if he took his eye off the ball for even a moment, all his sweat and toil might come crashing down around him, leaving him with nothing.
He found a seat, still thinking about his factory. He had opened the Hartfield Wool Mill five years ago, after finally securing enough money to purchase the factory. It had taken him seven long years to save for it, working three jobs around the clock. He still recalled the exhilaration and sense of achievement when he signed the contract of sale. And the wonderful day when he had opened it. He could still hear the sound of the looms when they had been switched on for the very first time.
The factory was doing very well indeed. He was a wealthy man now, producing some of the best wool in the country. Two years ago, he bought his grand house. He had moved up in the world at a dizzying speed. As a leading industrialist, he was invited to many splendid society events around Bradford. He rarely attended, being married to his work, but when he did, he always left feeling small and slightly despised.
It seemed thetonof Bradford didn’t like self-made men like him, even if they liked his money. They were always patronising towards him once they found out who he was. The grand lords and ladies clearly despised him, and all men like him. He knew they probably just felt threatened that common men could now climb the social ladder and attend events that were once exclusively their domain. But that didn’t stop him from feeling inferior, as if he were masquerading as something he was not. Deep down, he still felt like a poor baker’s son from the tenements.
The grand ladies of thetonwere very refined, of course, but haughty. They refused to give him the time of day. He would watch on the sidelines as they danced with their peers, their expensive gowns swirling around the floor. He had made the mistake once of asking a particularly beautiful lady to dance. She had scoffed at him. He had never asked again.
Ambrose clenched his hands, thinking of that exclusive world which was denied him. He didn’t care. Now, when the invitations arrived for those events, he just threw them in the fire. He didn’t have to prove his worth to those people. He was doing just fine without them, thank you very much. He had his factory. He had more money than he ever wanted or needed. He had no desire to ascend into high society as well.
He despised thetonas much as they despised him.
He had everything he wanted or needed. Sometimes he got lonely, thinking it might be nice to marry one day, but generally, he pushed that thought away. He didn’t have time for marriage. He was so busy that his wife would be utterly neglected. And he didn’t have any idealistic notions about falling madly in love and being unable to live without a woman.
That was just romantic twaddle. He understood desire, and that was all. If he everdidfind the time to marry, he would choose his wife carefully. A practical woman who could run his household without caring too much if he couldn’t pay her much attention.
It was so far down on his list of priorities that he wouldn’t be surprised if he never married. And that was fine, as well. There were always women who were willing to have discreet affairs with him and not pressure him for anything else. He knew his needs could always be very well met.
It had just been a while since he had found the time to pursue them. He barely had time to do anything besides work. His one outlet was chess, which he sometimes played at a club he went to from time to time. But it had been a while since he had done that, as well.
He was so deep in his reverie that he failed to notice the stagecoach drawing up at first. When he did, he jumped to his feet, running towards it. The driver was a squat man with a scowling expression, dressed entirely in black.
“Is this the coach to Bradford?” he called.
The man nodded curtly. “Aye, it is. Do you have luggage?”
Ambrose nodded, gesturing to his trunk, which had been placed near the bay. A younger man climbed down, hauling it up onto the top of the carriage.
“Ticket,” barked the driver, holding out his hand impatiently.
Ambrose produced it. The man barely glanced at it, before grunting, handing it back.
“Climb aboard,” he said tersely. “We ain’t got all day. I am already behind schedule. Damn cow on the road just outside London.”
Ambrose didn’t need to be told twice. Quickly, he opened the carriage door.
The stench hit him first—a quite overpowering smell of body odour. He almost gagged. It was going to be hard coping with this for such a long time. Once again, he cursed silently that he had to do this, thinking longingly of his private, now stolen, carriage with only himself within it.