It was obvious Will had no thought for chivalry now as he had not helped her up nor offered her a ride. His anger was tangible. “Think about it. Let your conscience guide you. That will be novel to you, but you can try. Good day to you, Your Grace.” The use of her title dripping with sarcasm.
Before Rose could answer him, he was already riding off into the rain, his horse’s hooves hurling clods of mud up into the air. Watching his departing back, his shoulders hunched, his head down, reminding her of the last time he had left her, standing on the steps of her family home, feeling as if everything good in her life was over.
Rose sank slowly to her knees in the mud and let out an anguished howl of despair.
CHAPTERTHREE
William Browning flung open his office door and threw his gloves on his desk. He slammed the door behind him, making the wooden partition rattle.
“What is the matter with you?” A man was sitting in the corner of the vast office, with his stocking and booted feet resting on one of the oak desks. “And that is no way to treat a good pair of buckskin gloves.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Will barked.
“I might ask you the same,” said Will’s best friend, John Carney, seemingly not at all put out by such an unwelcome greeting.
“I am done there!” Will declared as he began to circle the office, picking up ledgers and perusing them. “Damnation, where is everyone?”
“It is not yet seven. You look shattered. Did you ride through the night?”
Will simply glowered.
“Are your mother and sisters quite well?” John asked.
“Well enough, considering.”
Will was violently skimming through ledger pages.
“Was it worse than you imagined it would be?”
“What are you referring to?” Will threw John another thunderous glare, but when he saw the look of sympathy on his friend’s face, he softened.
“He was old,” he shrugged. “It was time.”
He put down the ledger he was holding and sat in one of the captain’s chairs. “I just wish I could have done more for him. Spent more time with him, but also showed him what I am capable of.”
John smiled gently. “I don’t think old Ben was ever in any doubt of that. You are the owner of one of the most extensive canal boat haulers in the country and now the shipping line too. With the war over, the only way for your business is upward. He was immensely proud of you.”
“But he started it. I just followed in his footsteps. And I don’t actually make anything,” Will lamented.
“Manufacturing, believe me, is not as simple or as profitable as shipping. And I do notthink my family was overjoyed when I announced I was to make my fortune sewing gloves.”
Will smiled. John was a wealthy, very successful manufacturing business owner, making a product highly-prized by society, and better still, a consumable. His clients were guaranteed.
“I thought I might go into perfume,” Will laughed for a moment, breaking his gloom.
“You just adhere to shipping it, my good man, or you will have every woman in the country chasing you.”
Will stopped smiling.
“Is everything else in order?” John asked, noticing his sudden change of expression.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Will snapped.
“Call it intuition. Female problems, maybe?”
“No.” Will’s response was tetchy, irritated.
“So why the slamming of the door and the attempt to dismantle the rafters?”