“That,” said Joshua, pointing to a large machine, “is a scutcher.”

The machine looked fearsome to Rebecca. As she watched, she saw how it worked. Men loaded the raw cotton into a spiked drum; the drum spun around very quickly; and a fan blew away the dust and the dirt, the twigs and the impurities, leaving the cotton very clean.

“This is one of the machines the Luddites complain about?” she asked.

“They are usually more interested in breaking looms,” said Joshua, “but in general they are against any kind of machinery that does the job of a man. I can see their point. But the scutcher does the job of purifying the cotton more quickly and more efficiently than a person, and besides, the job itself is dull, tedious and unpleasant.”

“But still, it is a job, and it would pay a salary and allow someone to earn their living,” Rebecca remarked.

“As you say, it would pay a salary and allow someone to earn their living,” said Joshua. “Although, don't forget, people are still needed to load the machine. Still, there are no easy answers to the problems facing the mills and the workers at the moment. But machinery is the future, Rebecca, and we must go forward if we want to survive.”

“What happens to the cotton next?” Rebecca asked, as they moved on from the scutcher.

“Next it's carded, and then turned into a single thread.”

“Mercy me!” said Betsy, as she followed Rebecca and Joshua into an enormously long, low room full of more machinery. “All this, just to make a bit of cotton material to sew a dress!”

Joshua laughed. “By the time you buy your fabric at the drapers it's been through any number of different processes,” he agreed.

They moved onwards and upwards, climbing the stairs to the higher storeys. “Here the cotton is spun,” he said, as they went into another enormously long, low room filled with machinery.

“I never realized it would be so noisy,” said Rebecca, finding it difficult to hear and make herself heard over the clacking of machines.

“You get used to it,” shrugged Joshua.

As if to underline his words, at that moment they walked past a man who was whistling. Although Rebecca found it hard to hear the sound over the noise of the machines, it was clear the man and his fellows were enjoying the tune.

“I'm glad there are no ridiculous fines in our mill,” said Rebecca, remembering that some mills fined men for whistling.

“No. Hill, the manager, is a decent man. He appears to have run the mill very well over the last few months, from what I can see. I haven't had a chance to check everything yet, but so far it all seems to be in good order.” Joshua stood aside to let the two ladies pass back out onto the stairwell in front of him. “Now that you've seen the mill, I thought you might like to take some refreshment in the office.”

“But we haven't seen the weaving,” said Rebecca.

“We don't do that here,” said Joshua. “This is a spinning mill. We sell the yarn to other mill owners who do the weaving and dyeing needed to turn it into a finished piece of cloth.”

“Ah! Very well. In that case, some refreshment would be most welcome.”

She smiled at Joshua, and was relieved and pleased to see him smile in reply: a real smile, not one that involved his mouth without his eyes. It seemed that, despite their disagreements, they could be friends — at least when talking about matters relating to their shared inheritance.

The office was a pleasant room, and was less functional than the rest of the mill. Wood panelling lined the walls and a thick carpet covered the floor. Opposite the door a barred window looked out onto the mill yard.

Rebecca looked at Joshua questioningly.

“After all the trouble with the Luddites over the last few years it seemed sensible to take a few precautions,” he said. “Extra locks were fitted on the doors, and all the windows were barred.”

Rebecca nodded. “It's unfortunate, but it makes sense.”

Joshua went over to a finely-carved mahogany table that was set within reach of the large, heavy mahogany desk. On it was a silver tray and a variety of bottles and decanters.

“Do you always keep ratafia and seed cake on hand?” asked Rebecca with a humorous quirk of the mouth, as she saw that beside the masculine bottles of whiskey and other spirits, more feminine refreshments had been laid.

Joshua smiled. “No. There is seldom any call for them. Ladies are not in the habit of visiting the mill. But I'm glad you've come,” he said, handing her a glass of the fruity ratafia, and kindly handing one to Betsy, who was hot and flustered from looking round the mill.

Rebecca was surprised but pleased. It seemed he had accustomed himself to the idea of her taking an interest in the mill. “I needed to see it for myself,” she nodded.

She took a sip of ratafia and ate a piece of seed cake.

“Is it what you expected?” Joshua asked.

“I'm not quite sure what I expected, but it is better than I'd feared,” she said thoughtfully.

Joshua sat down behind the desk. “Your grandfather knew what it was like to be poor, having been poor himself, and he did not let the desire for profit turn him into a monster. There are none of the worse sort of conditions here. The mill is not kept as hot as some of the cotton mills, and there is better ventilation. Water is always on hand for anyone who is thirsty, and children are not taken on too young.”

“However, I'm concerned about their living conditions,” said Rebecca.

“Strictly speaking, those are not our concern.”

“Nevertheless, I mean to make them my concern,” said Rebecca.

“Good.”

“Good?” She was startled. Again Joshua had surprised her, as he had done earlier in his attitude to the running of the mill.

“Yes. Good. Although they are not strictly speaking our concern I've been worried about it myself for some time, and Jebadiah, too, was concerned. He was starting to look into ways of providing cheap but clean accommodation for our workers but old age and infirmity unfortunately prevented him achieving anything. However, I will — we will,” he corrected himself, adding, “I have not forgotten we are partners, you see — look into it.”

There was an unexpectedly warm smile playing about his lips, and a softness in his eyes that sent a tingle down her spine.

“What is it?” he asked, seeing her shiver. “Are you in a draught?”

“No,” she said. “It's nothing.”

He looked at her curiously, but did not press her, for which she was grateful, because she did not want to reveal the cause of her shiver. And certainly not to him.

“But everything can't be done in a day,” he said, becoming business-like again. “We will have to take things one step at a time.”

She nodded thoughtfully. Yes, there was a lot to be done.

She finished her ratafia and put her glass down on the leather-topped desk. “And now I must be going,” she said. “You have given me a lot to think about. But before I do, I have been charged by Louisa to invite you to dinner.”

“And you, Rebecca?” he asked, his eyes looking directly into her own. “Would you like me to come?”

His question took her aback. She hesitated, but then said simply, “Yes.”

The visit to the mill had dispelled much of the coldness between them and she hoped their present harmony could last.

His face softened.

How melting his eyes are, thought Rebecca, wishing for a moment that she could have accepted his hand: that it had been offered because he loved her and not because he wanted to protect her reputation.

But what was she thinking? Such thoughts were ridiculous. He did not love her. And she did not love him, she reminded herself.

He gave a sigh. “I would like to come,” he said, “but unfortunately I have too much work to do here. I'm still going over the accounts for last few months. Hill, the manager, seems to be honest and efficient, but I have to be sure.”

Rebecca hid her disappointment. “Of course. Well, I must not keep you.”

She stood up.

Joshua stood, too. “I'll see you back to the carriage,” he said.

They walked together back down the stairs to the ground floor, out across the yard and through the gates to the waiting carriage.

Joshua bent and kissed her hand. And then he bid her farewell and she climbed into the carriage, with Betsy close behind her.

*  *  *

Arriving back at the house, Rebecca repaired to her room to tidy herself before joining Louisa in the drawing-room. She started to slip her reticule from her wrist when she discovered it was not there.

“Have you seen my reticule?” Rebecca asked Susan, who was about to help her off with her bonnet.

“Your reticule? Why, no, Miss Rebecca,” said Susan, looking first of all at Rebecca's bare wrist and then casting a glance around the room in case it had slipped off without her noticing.

Rebecca, too, cast her eyes around the room, but to no avail.

“It hasn't got caught up in your pelisse?” asked Susan.

Rebecca removed her pelisse and shook it out. “No. What a nuisance. Where can it be?” she asked, speaking more to herself than Susan.

“Are you sure you took it with you?” Susan asked practically.

“Positive,” said Rebecca. “I remember it distinctly.”

She frowned. She could not bear to think she had lost the reticule, particularly as it had originally belonged to her beloved mother.

“Perhaps it slipped from your wrist on your way upstairs,” suggested Susan.

“Perhaps.” Rebecca went out of her room and proceeded to search the staircase. But the search proved fruitless.

“Rebecca... Oh! Rebecca!” exclaimed Louisa, startled, as she came out of the drawing-room. “What are you doing?”

Rebecca gave a sigh. “It's too vexing. I have lost my reticule and I can't find it anywhere.”

“Oh, my dear, what a nuisance,” said Louisa sympathetically.

“Maybe it fell off in the carriage,” suggested Betsy, who was passing through the hall on her way to the kitchen. But a footman dispatched to search the carriage came back with the news that it was not to be found.

Rebecca was resigned. “There's nothing for it. I'll have to go back to the mill.”

“But my dear, it's dark,” protested Louisa. “Why not leave it until tomorrow?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I don't like to do that. The longer I leave it unlooked — for the less chance I have of finding it. I would hate it to be swept up and thrown out by accident. No, I’ll have to go back. It must have slipped from my wrist this afternoon. But don't worry, I won't be long.”

Louisa nodded, resigned to Rebecca's leaving the house again. “Very well. I understand. It would be a shame to lose it, particularly as it belonged to your mother.”

Having made up her mind Rebecca lost no time in dressing herself in her pelisse and bonnet once more. “I won't be needing you, Betsy,” she said to the elderly maid who had joined in the search. “I am simply going to the mill and then coming straight back.”

“Of course Miss Rebecca will be needing you, Betsy,” said Louisa, contradicting her. “You cannot possibly go back to the mill on your own, Rebecca. What would people think? In fact, you had better take Edward — Mr Sidders,” she corrected herself, “with you as well. I am sure he will not mind.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” said Rebecca, feeling she had already kept Louisa from her visitor for long enough. However, realizing that Louisa would not let her go unchaperoned, she agreed to take Betsy with her and before long the two of them went out to the carriage again. It had been freshly supplied with stone hot water bottles for their feet, and thick travelling rugs were once again piled on the seat.

Before stepping into the carriage, Rebecca searched the pavement outside the house, but the search proved fruitless. She stepped into the carriage and put her hope in finding her reticule at the mill.

The carriage was soon on its way, and before long it stopped in front of the large building. The step was let down, and Rebecca was about to get out when to her surprise she heard a loud snore coming from the corner of the carriage. Looking round she saw that Betsy was fast asleep! She smiled, then, tucking the travelling rug snugly round the maid and making sure the hot water bottles were nestling against her, she stepped out of the carriage.

“Don't wake her,” she said to Collins, the coachman. “I will not be long.”

“Just as you say, Miss Rebecca,” said Collins.