Chapter Text
Manchester, England. March 1885.
The mill is filled with snow.
White clouds float around the rafters, breaking off into small pieces, no two quite the same. A coat of snow white cotton layers the workroom, lazy and gentle, directionless. It floats aimlessly until it lands, either on a whirring machine, a scratched, wooden work table, or in the thickly plaited hair of a young girl.
The day’s work finishes, and the workers leave for the evening. They go home to their families – to their wives or husbands, to their sons and daughters, to their mothers and fathers. The machines are quiet now, but the cotton still floats in the air.
The mill is empty, save for its owner.
Harry Styles sits in his office that overlooks the spinning room, books spread out across his large, oak desk. A quill rests in his right hand, the tip still wet with black ink. His emerald green eyes run along the lines of his accounts book, numbers whizzing through his brain as he counts higher and higher.
The most recent annual reports had arrived that afternoon, just as work for the day was finishing. The temptation to stay late and review them had proved too great. Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to go home that evening without calculating the final numbers. He would have been able to think of nothing else as he dined and prepared for bed. He would have driven himself mad with the desire to know, to calculate the profit, to plan for the future. He would have inevitably climbed out of bed well after midnight to come to the mill and find out the results.
Slowly, a satisfied smile spreads across his pink lips.
He’s counted the numbers thrice over and has reached the same conclusion every time.
Hampton Mills has exceeded its previous year's revenue by sixteen percent.
Harry knew that the mill has flourished in the past year. The demand for cotton is at its greatest, the workers at their most efficient, and the mill producing its highest daily capacity since Harry took charge six years ago.
Harry’s success is evident by the numbers in front of him. His profits have increased, and he was able to hire twenty new workers in the past year to keep up with the rising demand.
With one final pleased smile at the numbers, Harry closes his books and stands from his desk. He walks to the large window opposite, overlooking the spinning room.
The large spinning mule machines glisten in the flicker of the fading daylight, bright metal surfaces shining proudly. The cotton lingers in the air, peaceful, calming. It coats the floors and covers the machines in a white, woven blanket.
Harry has no noble blood, but he imagines this is how a great monarch must feel. A king surveying his kingdom. A great empire that provides the livelihood for countless people. A realm that was passed to him by his father’s father, but that he himself has built into something magnificent.
Without his mill, five hundred people would be without work, without a way to provide for themselves and their families, without a way to fill their empty stomachs. They would have to find work elsewhere, if that work was even available. But his mill is here, and they have work. His mill and his success provide them with the opportunity to live.
The mill is his kingdom. His home. His pride.
His grandfather would be proud of how Harry has not only continued his legacy, but made it greater.
But the hour is growing late, and he has duties elsewhere that require his presence.
Unsavory, monotonous duties such as attending society parties hosted by Mrs. Humphreys, the busybody wife of a dull yet prominent Manchester banker.
With a sigh, Harry glances at the clock in his office. If he leaves now, he will have just enough time to go home and change before heading to the Humphreys’.
Regardless, Harry lingers at the window for a moment longer.
With only his reflection in the glass to see him, Harry smiles again as he looks out at the workroom. 1884 was a roaring success for Hampton Mills, and Harry resolves easily and firmly that in 1885, he will achieve even greater success. His mill will produce more cotton than any mill in Manchester. He will discover new ways to increase his workers’ efficiency. He will seek out the most modern and innovative techniques to maximize production.
Hampton Mills is great, but Harry will make it even greater.
Harry takes one final, proud and satisfied look at his mill, before collecting his coat and top hat from the coat rack and stepping out into the spring twilight.
Lively music and bright light spills out of the Humphreys’ five story townhouse.
The gas street lamps flicker dully in the fading twilight, providing an illuminated path for the Humphreys’ visitors to follow.
The Humphreys live only four blocks from Harry’s home, so he chose to walk. His butler Jones had asked if Harry had wanted the carriage, but Harry had waved a hand in dismissal. He always prefers to walk, but that never stops Jones from asking.
As he draws closer, Harry fights the urge to return home. He only accepted the invitation to the Humphreys’ party at the insistence of his sister. Gemma’s wife Isobel works in banking with Mr. Humphreys, and Gemma assured Harry that the party was to be a small dinner of close friends.
As Harry watches a group of young women enter the Humphreys’ home, his suspicions about the party are confirmed. It’s not a small dinner of close friends, not at all.
It’s a poorly disguised attempt at matching alphas and omegas. It’s a mating party.
Mating parties have been out of fashion for the past fifty years, but that doesn’t stop the more old-fashioned generation from throwing them.
Before Queen Victoria ascended the throne, mating parties were the only acceptable way to find a mate. Alphas and omegas would attend large, extravagant parties where they would be paraded before one another. Or more accurately, the omegas would be paraded before the alphas. If an alpha found an omega pleasing, they could introduce themselves. Omegas were not permitted to approach alphas, so the omegas could only hope that the alpha that caught their eye felt the same.
Then, partnered alphas and omegas would spend the evening together, and if at the end of the party the alpha had sufficiently enjoyed the omega’s company, the alpha could ask the omega to become their mate. Omegas did not always accept this offer, but it was usually wise that they did. At the time, the government denied omegas the right to work due to their supposed delicate nature. An omega needed to accept an alpha’s offer to mate before they were no longer of age, no longer attractive or appealing enough to marry, for then they would be doomed to a life of spinsterhood and reliance on familial charity.
All of this changed in 1837 with the ascension of Queen Victoria.
Queen Victoria had kept her presentation to herself for the first eighteen years of her young life, but as soon as she became monarch, she shocked the nation by revealing that she was an omega.
In eight hundred years of monarchy, Britain had never had an omega monarch. The country was baffled.
When Queen Victoria married her alpha cousin Prince Albert, she refused to let Albert take over her responsibilities as sovereign, despite the insistence of her advisors. She intended to rule solely, and most of all she intended to improve circumstances for omegas.
One of the first things she did away with was mating parties. The queen was vocal in her distaste for the spectacle, believing omegas should have more choice in their partner. Before Queen Victoria’s reign, it was impertinent and socially disastrous for an omega to approach an alpha. Now, almost fifty years after the queen ascended the throne, alphas and omegas mingle freely. Either can approach the other, and either can propose mating. And no longer is being unmated as socially disastrous as the queen also granted omegas a right to work.
But quite easily, Queen Victoria’s greatest achievement for not only omegas, but for alphas too, was creating more accessible suppressants.
Before the queen’s reign, suppressants were only available for the upper classes. The ones who could afford them. They used the suppressants to dilute their smell, keeping their presentation private. And most significantly for omegas, suppressants also functioned as contraception.
Suppressants were not available to the lower classes, the people’s whose wages went entirely towards providing food and a home for their families. Their smell, and therefore their presentation, was available to anyone who dare sniff the air. Omegas lived in fear of accidentally being outside when their heats began, lest a cruel and selfish alpha smell them and decide to take advantage of them.
When Queen Victoria made suppressants universally available, any of the public’s lingering reservations towards her disappeared. Because of their queen, alphas and omegas alike now felt safe to walk the streets. No longer were they subject to unwelcome scenting and no longer felt unsafe in the days before their heat or rut.
The queen was adored, and the longer her reign has lasted, the more the country has grown to love her.
But that doesn’t mean some of the older alphas and omegas, the ones who remember how it was before Queen Victoria, don’t enjoy throwing mating parties anyways. The parties are not illegal, just unfashionable, and Harry loathes them.
He loathes them because he is an alpha, yet he still feels like he is the one on parade.
Harry has incredible wealth and enviable status. His name is respected across England. He is the owner of one of the most successful mills in Manchester.
And he is unmated.
At parties like these, Harry can feel all eyes on him. The eyes of the wealthy parents who want their omega sons or daughters to charm him, to captivate him, so that he will want to mate them.
For the entirety of the evening, he has young men and women pushed at him, their attributes and high qualities spouted off in a well-practiced list. They want to dance with him, they want to dine with him, but they will not ask him out of respect for absurd and outdated traditions. At mating parties, only he can ask, and he refuses to do so.
Harry is not uninterested in mating, but he is uninterested in this old-fashioned process. He has asked his fair share of omegas to dance before, and even courted a few, but he would not be opposed to an omega asking him to dance for a change.
Harry is an innovator, and he must constantly be one step ahead if he wishes to succeed in his business. He does not rely upon decades old methods to produce cotton, but the newest, the best methods.
Likewise in his romantic pursuits, Harry does not wish to participate in outdated mating etiquette. He does not desire to find his mate because they were paraded in front of him and then he deemed them acceptable after a single evening.
No, Harry wants to find a mate because they fall in love.
And Harry is damn well sure that he will never find a mate to love, and one who loves him in return, at one of these old fashioned, shallow society parties.
But he promised Gemma he would attend, and it has been several weeks since he has seen his sister and he misses her terribly.
With a sigh, Harry crosses the street and arrives at the Humphreys’ doorstep.
“Good evening, sir,” the butler greets, offering Harry a polite smile. “May I take your coat and hat?”
“Yes, thank you,” Harry replies, removing his top hat and coat with practiced ease. His right hand twitches with the desire to run his fingers through his now free hair, but he remembers with frustration that he slicked back his hair tonight for the dinner. As much as he wants to indulge in his nervous habit, he keeps his hand resolutely at his side and his hair annoyingly kempt.
Harry hands the items to the butler with a polite nod and another expression of thanks before moving into the house. He has barely passed the butler when his name is called in an over-excited, performative voice.
“Mr. Styles!”
His hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Humphreys, stand just inside the entry hall, looking every bit as sophisticated and wealthy as they are known to be. They are one of the most powerful and established families in Manchester, and everything about them – from their home to their speech to the way they carry themselves – affirms that fact.
Mr. Humphreys has been a senior member of Floyds Bank for fifty years now, one of the most prominent banks in Manchester. He’s a stuffy, old-fashioned sort of man, who prefers his cigars and horse racing to hard work and business sense. He prefers others to do the work for him while he counts his coin, while Harry prefers to do the work himself and reap his own benefits. Harry always tries to steer the conversation away from business when speaking with Mr. Humphreys, because the elderly banker does not hesitate to criticize Harry’s modern business techniques.
Mrs. Humphreys surely must be in her mid-sixties now, but she acts as young and flirtatious as a twenty-year-old newly introduced to society. She socializes with everyone, always knowledgeable of the latest gossip and eager to share to anyone’s half-interested ear. However, she still manages to maintain an undeniable air of sophistication and superiority. Her grey hair is curled precisely and her sparkling jewels – too large and glaring for Harry’s taste – perfectly match her violet, silk dress. Her brown eyes are sharp, and no detail about her party or interactions between her guests goes unnoticed.
“Mrs. Humphreys,” Harry returns the hostess’ greeting. He accepts her proffered hand and places a fleeting, dry kiss to her knuckles. When he releases her hand, he turns to her husband. “Mr. Humphreys.” He inclines his head towards the gentleman, receiving a nod in return before he turns to address both. “Thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Certainly, Mr. Styles,” Mrs. Humphreys exclaims, smile so wide it appears painful. “But heavens, we were worried you weren’t going to come.”
Mr. Humphreys makes a non-committal noise that Harry takes to mean that he experienced no such worry.
Harry affects a polite smile. The falsities of the upper classes are a necessity, and fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately – Harry learned the role he must perform many years ago. “Apologies. I had some pressing business to see to at the mill that kept me longer than I intended. But I left as soon as that was taken care of so that I would not miss your dinner.”
Mrs. Humphreys’ smile is self-satisfied. “Oh, that’s quite alright, Mr. Styles. I hope your business at the mill was nothing troublesome. Hampton seems to keep growing and growing for you.”
Harry smiles to himself. The numbers from the year’s report that prove just how much his business is growing rattle around in his head. Still, he responds modestly, “I am fortunate that business is well. My mill is producing substantially more cotton, my workers are happy, and demand is high.”
“Very good, very good,” Mr. Humphreys responds, voice gruff. “Mr. John Kingston of Hammersmith Mills came to the bank this week to ask for a loan to pay off a new order of machines. When I heard that, I worried all the mills in Manchester would be struggling. I am glad to hear yours is not.”
Harry fights the flash of irritation to hear another man’s business – a man he knows well and has worked with over the years – discussed so openly. He is sure John would not like to know Mr. Humphreys is freely discussing his loan which should be a private matter between him and the bank.
“We are doing well,” Harry repeats, voice slightly stiff.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Humphreys seems to notice; instead, they smile at him inanely.
“I am very glad to hear it,” Mrs. Humphreys responds. “With that mill of yours prospering so, it only makes you even more of a catch!”
Harry’s irritation now settles in his gut. He resents the implication that his mill’s success is so that he can entice an unmated omega with his wealth and status. His mill’s success is for himself and for his family. To provide for his widowed mother and give her every possible comfort. To support Gemma if she ever needs it. And most of all, his mill’s success is for Harry’s pride and satisfaction that he created something great.
But Harry can say none of this to the Humphreys without being impertinent; so instead, he just smiles politely. “Thank you, Mrs. Humphreys.”
She nods, clearly pleased. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Styles.”
Grateful for the dismissal, Harry bows quickly to the Humphreys before heading upstairs to the drawing room.
Harry arrives at the top of the stairs and glances around the drawing room. His eyes search until they fall on his sister Gemma and her wife Isobel standing on the other side of the room. Harry feels an immense sense of relief at spotting familiar faces, and cuts through the crowd towards them.
Gemma and Isobel stand near the piano, talking with several other guests. Gemma looks stunning in a light green silk dress. Her long, brown hair is fixed in a tight bun on top of her head, diamond pennants sparkling in her hair. Isobel, Gemma’s newly wedded wife, looks equally as beautiful. She stands at similar height to Gemma, and her short blonde hair is also in a sophisticated up do. Her dress is a deep blue muslin, fitting her slim figure elegantly. They are easily the two most beautiful women in the room.
Gemma and Isobel married two months ago on the first day of the year after a six month courtship. They met when Gemma took her class to the bank for a lesson about finances. Even though the students were only ten years old, many were in poor economic situations, and Gemma had wanted to introduce them to the idea of savings while they were still young. Isobel, a junior associate at the bank, had taught the lesson, and the young omega immediately caught Gemma’s eye. Of course, Isobel was just as entranced by Gemma, and the two began a courtship very soon after.
They married on the first of January and mated on their wedding night. Gemma has never seemed so radiant.
As Harry approaches Gemma, she seems to him like a light shining on a dark street.
Harry does not recognize the other guests, but Gemma smiles in greeting as soon as she sees him.
“Harry,” Gemma greets fondly, turning the group’s attention to him. She offers her cheek, and Harry bends to give her an affectionate kiss.
“Gemma,” Harry replies, grinning at his sister. Even though he’s only been at the Humphreys’ party for barely five minutes, it is the first expression of genuine emotion he has shared so far this evening. He feels himself relax in Gemma’s presence, aware that she finds mating parties just as frivolous and archaic as he does.
Harry turns to his sister-in-law next, giving her cheek a kiss as well. “Isobel. How beautiful you both look this evening.”
Isobel laughs, saying to the group, “My brother-in-law, the charmer.”
Gemma then steps in to make the introductions. “Harry, this is Mr. Edward Wellington and his wife Elizabeth. Mr. Wellington works at the bank with Isobel.” Harry nods to the couple who only look slightly younger than Harry’s twenty eight years. “And this is Mr. Bernard Everton. Mr. Everton works at the school with me.” The man looks about the same age as Gemma and Isobel, and a flush appears high on his cheeks when he smiles politely at Harry. Then Gemma gestures towards Harry. “And everyone, this is my brother, Mr. Harry Styles, the owner of Hampton Mills.”
“Hampton Mills?” Mr. Wellington exclaims, tone clearly impressed. “My brother has stock in your mill, and he’s said it’s made him a very rich man. He’s entreated me to invest myself.”
Harry grins, always pleased to hear others talk well of his mill. “That is very kind of your brother. We always welcome new investors.”
“Yes, but will it make him his millions, Mr. Styles?” Mrs. Wellington teases, tone light.
The group laughs, Harry’s mood easing. “Well, there’s no guarantee,” Harry says practically, but then jokes, “But if I say yes, will that mean I can submit your name as a new investor?”
Everyone laughs, atmosphere growing comfortable.
The group makes small talk as they wait for dinner to be announced. Harry learns Mr. Everton teaches year four while Gemma teaches year five at the school, so they work closely together in helping students transition from one year to the next. Mr. Everton speaks highly of Gemma’s work as a teacher which makes Harry beam with pride.
Mr. Wellington is a junior associate at Floyds like Isobel, so they share several humorous stories from the past few weeks at the bank that have the group chuckling. Harry is pleased at both Isobel’s and Mr. Wellington’s tactfulness, neither mentioning any private financial matters, unlike Mr. Humphreys.
Harry learns that Mrs. Wellington is an artist with a private studio on the high street. She sells many of her paintings to prominent families in London, and Harry expresses genuine interest in coming to see her work. Mrs. Wellington tells him of a show she’ll be putting on in several months’ time, and she promises that Harry will receive an invitation.
Dinner is soon called, and as Harry heads to the dining room, Gemma walks by his side, slipping her arm through his.
“Why were you running late tonight?” she asks, voice low, concerned. They walk slowly, lingering behind the rest of the party for a moment of private conversation. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” Harry answers, exhaling in happy relief. “Gemma – it was the accounts.” Her eyebrows swiftly rise to her hairline, but Harry quickly continues, “The past year’s revenue was so much higher than I expected. It’s substantial, and the reports only came in this afternoon so I needed to stay late and look over them. I just couldn’t wait until morning.”
“Oh, Harry,” Gemma exclaims, but keeps her voice quiet. “That is such wonderful news! You work so hard, and I am so thrilled that it has amounted in such a grand reward.” She leans up to kiss his cheek. “I am happy for you. You deserve this great success.”
“Thank you,” Harry responds, and the siblings share a momentary, private smile, before following the remaining guests into the dining room.
Harry moves to follow his sister, but Mrs. Humphreys immediately intercepts him.
“Mr. Styles, there is someone I want you to meet who I think will prove excellent company to you this evening,” Mrs. Humphreys’ voice is scheming, mischievous, as she guides him to the opposite end of the table.
“Oh, that’s quite alright, Mrs. Humphreys,” Harry protests, despite the tactlessness. He had hoped to sit by Gemma or Isobel this evening, but it is clear Mrs. Humphreys has other plans.
“Nonsense,” she dismisses, stopping at the table in front of an empty chair. “Mr. Styles, have you had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Louis Tomlinson?”
“No, I haven’t, but I –”
The words die on Harry’s tongue as the man seated next to the empty chair blinks up at him. Harry’s throat turns dry, language forgotten, as he gazes upon the man before him.
Elegance and sophistication are a requirement of the upper class, but it seldom is naturally affected. Both gentlemen and ladies are dutifully taught from a young age how to be polite, how to act refined, and how to possess an air of superiority. But it is all performance, unnatural and contrived.
But Mr. Louis Tomlinson surely is the exception. As he sits in the plush, velvet chair, back straight, expression neutral, and appearance impeccable, it is clear Mr. Tomlinson innately possesses elegance and sophistication. Those qualities emanate from him, commanding and captivating Harry’s attention.
Mr. Tomlinson is beautiful.
Harry never received a classical education, but he thinks one hundred poems could be written about Mr. Tomlinson. The man before him possesses beauty so exquisite, all the Greek gods and goddesses would be envious of him.
Mr. Tomlinson’s crystal blue eyes shine brightly even in the dim candlelight of the room. His eyes hold polite interest as he holds Harry’s gaze, long eyelashes sweeping gently across his cheeks as he blinks. Mr. Tomlinson’s light brown hair is not styled as is the most recent fashion, instead lying softly across his forehead. However his beard is trimmed precisely, sharp lines accentuating the devastating cut of his cheekbones. His lips are a light, flower petal pink with a delicate shine to them, as if he had been running his tongue lightly over them only a moment before.
Mr. Tomlinson’s three piece suit is clearly made from the finest material. Even though Mr. Tomlinson is seated, Harry can tell that the cut fits him perfectly. Harry’s suit suddenly feels slightly too big on him, fitting him in an unshapely manner, as he ordered it without a precise measurement. Mr. Tomlinson undoubtedly had his suit made specifically for him, the best tailors in London working to create such a fine piece.
Mr. Tomlinson is beautiful, and Harry is going to spend the evening making his acquaintance.
“Mr. Harry Styles, this is Mr. Louis Tomlinson,” Mrs. Humphreys formally introduces them.
Mr. Tomlinson stands to bow, and as Harry returns the perfunctory greeting, he can’t help but notice how right he was about Mr. Tomlinson’s suit. It clings to him as if it never wants to let go.
“Mr. Styles, it’s a pleasure,” Mr. Tomlinson smiles kindly at him, and Harry feels his knees weaken at the sound of his voice. It’s soft and high pitched, not exactly what he imagined falling from the man’s lips, but it suits him better. His voice is clear like a bell, a lovely thing to listen to.
“And you, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry returns, aware that his words are an understatement.
“Mr. Styles is the owner of Hampton Mills,” Mrs. Humphreys continues, tone smug as if to convey how impressive she finds Harry’s business. “And Mr. Tomlinson has been living in New York for the past few years studying the cotton mills there.” Harry’s eyes pop in surprise, having assumed Mr. Tomlinson to be a lord or of some other high rank, but Mrs. Humphreys doesn’t seem to notice, too pleased at the potential match. “I thought you two would have much to discuss.”
Without another word, Mrs. Humphreys walks away, greeting her other guests around the table.
Mr. Tomlinson and Harry stand there for a moment, neither sure how to begin the conversation. Harry clears his throat awkwardly, but Mr. Tomlinson gives him an understanding smile and Harry chuckles. He holds out a hand, gesturing for them to sit.
“New York, Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry asks as he takes his seat. “I have heard many wonderful things about the city. Growing even more rapidly than London or Paris. What did you think of the city?”
Mr. Tomlinson smiles, body inclined slightly towards Harry as he speaks. “I enjoyed it greatly, Mr. Styles. You are correct that it is growing rapidly. Sometimes it felt like it was changing day to day. A relentless pace, but one I found myself enjoying.”
Harry nods, understanding the appeal of the fast pace of business and growth. “I can imagine so. The countryside has its merits, but I always prefer city life. So much excitement. So many people to meet.”
“Yes,” Mr. Tomlinson nods, smiling. “My family lives in the country, and while I enjoy the quiet on occasion, I quickly find myself growing bored of it after not much time at all. Returning to the city is always a breath of fresh air.”
Harry smiles, chuckling slightly. While no one could ever say that Manchester has fresh air, the constantly billowing smoke stacks are a sign of the city’s progress, its growth. Harry prefers it to the open country skies anytime. “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Tomlinson. Manchester is an exciting place to be. But I imagine New York also has its own excitement.”
“Of an incredible caliber,” Mr. Tomlinson agrees adamantly. “Although I was there for business, I spent much time taking advantage of the city. The museums in New York are some of the world’s finest. And I am an avid fan of the theatre and found the shows there so engaging. I never wanted for something to do.”
“That sounds like an unforgettable experience,” Harry says kindly. “I would love to visit New York someday.”
“Have you never been?” Mr. Tomlinson enquires.
“I have not,” Harry replies. “I have not had the fortune to travel often. My business keeps me in Manchester primarily, but I travel to London on occasion. Were you in New York for long?”
Before Mr. Tomlinson can respond, a footman appears at Harry’s side to start the first course. Glancing around the room swiftly, Harry hadn’t even realized that dinner had begun. Other guests have already begun eating, sipping their soup as they chat quietly with their dinner companions.
Harry quickly serves himself, ladling soup into his bowl, as Mr. Tomlinson replies, “I was in New York for five years.”
“Five years?” Harry exclaims, accidentally sloshing a bit of soup from his bowl. “That is quite a substantial amount of time!”
Mr. Tomlinson chuckles. “It was, but it went by very quickly. I was sorry when it was time to come back to England, for I knew I would miss it greatly.”
“After living in a place for five years, that is certainly understandable,” Harry remarks. He finishes serving himself and the footman moves on to Mr. Tomlinson.
Mr. Tomlinson nods his agreement, taking the ladle from the bowl and serving himself. “However, the same could be said for England. I lived here my whole life before going to New York, and I found myself missing it while I was gone.”
“I can’t imagine what that would be like,” Harry says honestly. “The furthest from home I’ve ever been is London, and that’s never for a very long time. I’m afraid I would miss my mother and sister too terribly.”
A hint of sadness flashes in Mr. Tomlinson’s eyes. “I have six younger siblings, and I did miss them each horribly while I was away. Even though I wrote to them constantly, it’s nothing like having them right by your side.”
Harry nods while sipping his soup. He does so blindly, not even recognizing it as French Onion until the taste is on his tongue. “I imagine they missed you as well.”
“So they say,” Mr. Tomlinson replies, but then a hint of mirth flashes in his eyes, his lips twitching to a smile. “My family visited me twice during my time in New York, and I think my two eldest sisters were disappointed when I moved back, because they no longer had an excuse to have transatlantic holidays.”
Harry chuckles, hiding his smile in his napkin. “That sounds like something younger siblings would do.”
Mr. Tomlinson laughs in agreement. “Undoubtedly.”
Harry smiles. “Have you spent much time with your family since your return?”
Mr. Tomlinson nods, a fond smile on his face as he sips his soup. “Yes. As soon as the ship docked at Southampton, I was on the first train north. I was very happy to spend some time with my family before coming to Manchester.”
“I can imagine so,” Harry replies. “Which part of England are you from?”
“Doncaster.”
“What brings you to Manchester, then?”
“My father is the appointed member of the House of Lords for Manchester, so it is nice being close to him,” Mr. Tomlinson replies as he finishes serving himself, the footman moving on.
“Mark Tomlinson?” Harry asks, the name familiar to him despite his aversion to politics.
“Yes,” Mr. Tomlinson confirms, taking a sip of his soup. “I’m quite interested in politics, so he has been keen to teach me.”
“Politics?” Harry repeats, confusion saturating his voice. “Were you not in New York to learn how to operate your own mill?”
Mr. Tomlinson chuckles quietly to himself, brows pinching together. He places his soup spoon down as he says, “No, Mr. Styles. I studied the mills in New York so that I could learn about their conditions.”
“Their conditions?” Harry parrots, still perplexed.
“Yes,” Mr. Tomlinson nods. “I wanted to learn about the conditions of the cotton mills in New York, so that I could introduce their health and safety measures to Britain. The mills in New York are exceedingly safer and have much better conditions for their workers than the mills here. I want to help implement new safety measures for the workers so that they will be better protected.”
Any response dies on Harry’s tongue, unable to believe what he’s hearing. Harry has been running Hampton Mills since he was twenty-two years old. His grandfather began preparing him to take over at the mill when he was eight years old. In addition to his reading and arithmetic, Harry had to meet with his grandfather twice a week to learn about the machines – how they ran, what they did, and how they produced the cotton that Harry would someday be able to sell and make himself rich.
Running a mill is in Harry’s blood, and to have it implied that his mill is anything other than top condition is an insult to Harry himself.
When Mr. Tomlinson looks at him in challenge, Harry regains his voice.
“The mills here are perfectly safe,” Harry protests, unable to keep himself from sounding insulted. “I have been running my mill for six years and have never had any serious accidents. No fires or deaths…”
“Cotton mills are prone for disaster,” Mr. Tomlinson cuts in firmly. “If you haven’t experienced a serious accident at your mill yet, then it is surely only a matter of time.”
“We have a safety check once every six months,” Harry continues, any former friendliness in his tone now absent. “One was conducted at the start of the year and Hampton Mills passed every check.”
“How about the health of your workers?” Mr. Tomlinson presses. “Is that a concern?”
“Mr. Tomlinson, you are being impertinent,” Harry responds coldly, hoping to end the conversation.
However, Mr. Tomlinson is undeterred. “In New York, each mill is required to have a great wheel in their spinning rooms. It blows away all the cotton in the air to keep it from settling in the workers’ lungs. Many workers in Britain have respiratory problems because of all the cotton they inhale. The wheels help eliminate that problem, and in New York, workers are living longer.”
Harry is about to respond, when a footman appears at his side to collect their soup bowls. Harry has hardly touched his, too caught up in his conversation with Mr. Tomlinson. Harry and Mr. Tomlinson fall silent as the footman clears away the half-empty bowls.
Harry glances around the table at the rest of the guests. Everyone else seems to be chatting amicably, cheery conversation and light laughter filling the room. Harry and Mr. Tomlinson have kept their voices low during their debate, but Harry doubts that no one has noticed how their friendly discussion has now turned tense.
He is annoyed at the mention of the great wheels. They were first introduced about two years ago in England, having been popular in New York as Mr. Tomlinson has confirmed, but their reception was lukewarm in England. Harry had balked at the price, so substantial for something that would bring him no profit. He had not debated much before deciding against acquiring one of the wheels.
Once the bowls have been cleared away, Harry asks, “How can one be sure of the direct correlation? Between the wheels and the workers living longer?”
“In the past five years since the wheels have been installed, there has been a significant decrease in workers dying of lung complications which were a result of inhaling too much cotton, since the sorting rooms are so filled with it in the air. It is impossible not to inhale. I am sure I have some cotton in my lungs, and I am sure you do as well, and we have only spent the fraction of the time the workers do in the rooms. With the wheels blowing it away, the workers can breathe much easier.”
“And you have seen this for yourself?” Harry returns, disbelieving.
“Yes,” Mr. Tomlinson replies, but his voice suddenly goes softer, no longer on the attack. “I made the acquaintance of many a worker in the mills while I was in New York. They told me themselves how much easier they breathed after the wheels were installed.” He looks up at Harry, blue eyes burning as he says, “You may not believe me, Mr. Styles. You may call me impertinent, and maybe I am. I do not wish to offend you, or claim to know more about your business than you do. But I have studied these mills very closely, and I have seen the grave effects they have on the workers. I do not only refer to your mill, but to all the mills in Britain. I wish to improve all of them.”
“That is quite an ambition,” Harry remarks neutrally, feeling the fight drain out of him at Mr. Tomlinson’s change in tone.
Mr. Tomlinson offers a small smile as the main course is brought out.
The smell of roast beef fills the room, and Harry’s stomach grumbles. He had barely eaten today, and having hardly indulged in his first course, the smell of the main is all too tempting.
Mr. Humphreys carves the roast, a dignified duty for every host. Both Harry and Mr. Tomlinson turn their attention to him, everyone praising the fine cut.
As the meat is served to each guest, Harry takes a moment to observe the room. Gemma and Isobel are seated by Mr. and Mrs. Wellington with Mr. Everton on Gemma’s other side. The other guests, one man and four women, are vaguely familiar, and Harry wonders if he’s met them before at a party such as this. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Harry experiences a brief moment of thanks that the blonde woman next to him doesn’t seem to mind that he has thus far ignored her all evening. She seems too wrapped up in conversation with the dark headed woman next to her to notice Harry’s rudeness.
Once Harry has received his portion of the main course and a mixture of roast potatoes, baby carrots, and peas, he returns to his conversation with Mr. Tomlinson. “So how do you propose to achieve your great ambition then, Mr. Tomlinson?”
Harry cuts a piece of his roast beef, chewing methodically as he waits for Mr. Tomlinson’s response.
If Harry expected Mr. Tomlinson to flounder under his question, to not have a feasible plan to match his grand ideas, Harry is sorely disappointed.
“Since my return to Manchester six months ago,” Mr. Tomlinson begins. “I have founded the Manchester Mill Improvement Committee.”
Harry pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. It appears he won’t be eating much of this course either.
Over the past few months, he has heard about the Manchester Mill Improvement Committee, or MMIC for short. He and the other mill owners had laughed at the establishment of such an organization, unsure which liberal hothead had formed it, but certain it would amount to nothing.
“You founded the MMIC?” Harry asks in disbelief.
Mr. Tomlinson nods, clearly proud. “I did. And we already have over fifty members. Many of them are workers at mills, but also local patrons who have heard the horror stories about mill conditions and wish to create safer environments for workers.”
“And what does the MMIC do?” Harry genuinely does not know. Even when he and his colleagues discussed it, they were unsure the committee’s intentions or abilities.
“Recently, our primary activity has been canvassing for a new law that would require mills to install fire alarms,” Mr. Tomlinson explains. “Fires at cotton mills are incredibly common and absolutely devastating both for the workers who lose their livelihood and the mill owners who lose their life’s work.”
Mr. Tomlinson gives Harry a pointed look, but Harry does not need to be told about the dangers of fire in mills. He is fortunate that he has never experienced a fire at Hampton Mills, but he has seen the total destruction that they can cause. Only last year, Greenwood Mills on the other side of the river burned down in seven minutes. The fire claimed the lives of everyone inside, including its owner.
“Well, I am in support of that,” Harry remarks. “I’ve relieved many a worker I caught smoking inside the mill. Believe me, Mr. Tomlinson. I am no keener than you are to have my mill burn down.”
A sharp, surprised laugh falls from Mr. Tomlinson’s lips. He lifts his napkin to cover his smile, and Harry notices with a flurry in his stomach that Mr. Tomlinson’s eyes have crinkled in delight.
“I do believe, Mr. Styles,” Mr. Tomlinson says through his laughter, “that is the first time you have agreed with me all evening.”
Reluctantly, a smile forms on Harry’s lips as well, a low chuckle escaping them. “I’m afraid I must disagree with that, Mr. Tomlinson. I agreed with you that New York seems enjoyable.”
Surprisingly, an even louder, more joyful laugh comes from Mr. Tomlinson. Harry sees a guest or two turn to look at him, but Mr. Tomlinson pays them no mind. Harry can’t help it as his smile grows, pleased to see Mr. Tomlinson so amused.
“I will concede that, Mr. Styles,” he says, laughter still in his voice.
They laugh quietly to themselves for a moment as they eat. Harry takes several bites of his roast beef, determined not to leave this evening without eating anything.
“What other reforms are you looking to propose?” Harry asks, curious now that he has found that he agrees with one of Mr. Tomlinson’s changes.
Mr. Tomlinson doesn’t reply for a moment as he finishes chewing a bite of his roast beef. “Over the past several weeks, we have been compiling a list of local mills to visit.” When Harry freezes at this, Mr. Tomlinson chuckles quietly. “Do not look so frightened, Mr. Styles. We simply plan to visit the mills and offer an inspection to the owners at no charge. We would produce a report of health and safety measures that could be implemented at the mill that would improve the conditions for not only the workers, but also the owners. We would provide the report, and then it is up to the owner what they wish to do with it. We will gladly assist with any changes they wish to make, but they are under no obligation to do so. However, we do encourage it, of course.”
Harry nods, contemplative. It is an interesting proposal, and Harry isn’t against improving health and safety at his mill, as long as it’s financially feasible. His frustration at Mr. Tomlinson does not stem from his lack of willingness to change, but at the implication that his mill isn’t already functioning at anything other than the highest standards.
“We have Hampton Mills on our list to visit,” Mr. Tomlinson continues. “As it is the largest in Manchester, we are very keen to come by.”
Harry blanches, feeling cornered into accepting, but Mr. Tomlinson continues before his fears can manifest.
“I will not ask you here if we may conduct a report for Hampton Mills,” he says. “As forward as I have been with you this evening, I am also aware this dinner party isn’t the place to conduct business.” Mr. Tomlinson chuckles quietly to himself, shooting a subtle glance across the table towards their hostess. “And besides, I am sure our hostess would be horribly disappointed to learn that we went away this evening with a business agreement and not a mating one.”
Harry, who had been sipping his wine, coughs harshly at this. He splutters, unaccustomed to such blatant statements about mating.
Mr. Tomlinson continues to laugh quietly, clearly pleased at Harry’s reaction.
“Mrs. Humphreys promised that there was an alpha attending the dinner tonight that I would certainly get on well with,” Mr. Tomlinson continues, voice teasing. “She assured me that we would have much in common since we both work with mills.” Mr. Tomlinson glances at Harry, eyes flashing with mirth. “Little did she know that would be where our mutual interests began and ended.”
Harry can barely understand what Mr. Tomlinson is saying, struggling to process his words.
Mr. Tomlinson is an omega. And while Harry does not like to assume a person’s presentation, Mr. Tomlinson’s manner could easily be perceived as one of an alpha. He is undeniably confident and assertive, not afraid to speak his mind even at the risk of offending his companion. Omegas are usually considered much more docile and withdrawing; at least the ones Harry has met at these kinds of parties have been.
Mr. Tomlinson continues to shock him.
However, he misinterprets Harry’s silence for horror. “Do not worry, Mr. Styles,” Mr. Tomlinson says, but his smile is not as bright as before. His eyes do not crinkle at the corners, and the corners of his lips struggle to stay upright, as if they wish to downturn. “I did not accept Mrs. Humphreys’ dinner invitation because of any desire to mate with you tonight. She only told me of you after I had accepted, and unfortunately, I could not decline when I realized her intentions. I have not known her for long, but have since learned of her determination to match every unmated alpha and omega in Manchester.” He chuckles dryly. “She and my aunt Agatha are good friends, and they both have made it their mission to find me an alpha, despite my disinterest in their meddling.”
Harry is unsure of how to respond, has never had an omega directly declare their lack of desire to mate with him. Primarily because he has never proposed mating to any omega. And before tonight, he had never met an omega bold enough to decline any potential offers before they could even be proposed.
Eventually, Harry decides to make light of the situation. They have argued enough for the evening. “As long as you don’t tell Mrs. Humphreys you have no desire to mate,” Harry teases. “Otherwise you’ll be invited to every party of hers from now until her last breath.”
Mr. Tomlinson snorts, a rather unsophisticated sound, but Harry finds it oddly charming.
Even though societal standards have been changing ever since Queen Victoria took the throne, Harry is still surprised at how vocal Mr. Tomlinson is about his status and his disinclination to mate. Most omegas, and even most alphas for that matter, seem to be focused solely on finding a mate to share their lives with. Harry finds the change refreshing.
The main course soon finishes, and the footmen clear away the empty plates and bring out the dessert, a chocolate meringue.
However, as they eat their dessert, Mr. Tomlinson broaches the topic of Hampton Mills again, ending any friendly discussion.
“You seem resistant to the idea of your workers’ unhappiness,” Mr. Tomlinson begins without introduction, “but I have heard rumors of a strike since my return to Manchester.”
Harry’s back stiffens, blood turning cold. It is his natural reaction to the mention of a strike, innate and immediate. Harry attempts to keep his voice neutral as he says, “There are always rumors of a strike.”
Mr. Tomlinson makes a non-committal noise. “That may be so, but the mills in Manchester seem to only be growing. I’ve heard about the workers’ increasing unhappiness that the mills are improving while their wages remain the same.”
Once again, Harry feels any friendliness towards Mr. Tomlinson slide away at the probing questions. He sits up straighter, voice becoming hard as he says, “If my workers are unhappy, I’ll thank you to let me handle it.”
“I do not wish to upset you, Mr. Styles,” Mr. Tomlinson says, “but it doesn’t seem that you have been handling it.”
“Pardon me?” Harry’s grip on his dessert spoon tightens, his knuckles turning white.
“Part of the MMIC’s mission is to speak with workers about how they themselves would improve the mills. Everyone who we have spoken to voices higher wages as the most imperative.”
Harry grits his teeth. “I would thank you not to speak with my employees.”
Mr. Tomlinson is undeterred. “We do not speak with them while they are on the clock. Once they finish their work day, they are free to do as they wish. Including speak with my committee. And their testimonies are completely anonymous, so I won’t give you any names even if you ask.”
Harry sighs, releasing his grip on his spoon and placing it on his napkin. He feels a migraine coming on, and aches to rub his temples. He resists however, because he feels that that would give Mr. Tomlinson some sort of victory. Proof that he is getting under Harry’s skin.
“Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry begins slowly. “If you wish to discuss this further, you are welcome to come by Hampton Mills with your committee and we can speak professionally. Until then, I no longer wish to discuss the topic.”
Even that feels like a concession, but Harry no longer wishes to participate in this invasive discussion.
“I will,” Mr. Tomlinson agrees, determination rich in his voice.
Harry does not doubt he will see Mr. Tomlinson at Hampton Mills within the fortnight.
The dinner ends soon after, and Mrs. Humphreys directs the guests back into the drawing room for a nightcap.
Harry walks quietly by Mr. Tomlinson’s side as they enter the drawing room, but Mr. Tomlinson breaks from his side, crossing the room to speak with Mr. Everton. Despite their intense conversation and Mr. Tomlinson’s relentless questions, Harry can’t help but feel a flash of disappointment that Mr. Tomlinson abandoned his side as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
Harry chooses to join Gemma and Isobel and accepts a glass of sherry from a servant.
He struggles to engage in Gemma’s and Isobel’s conversation, eyes repeatedly flitting to Mr. Tomlinson on the other side of the room.
Mr. Tomlinson faces him as he speaks with Mr. Everton, and his manner is so much more relaxed than how he was with Harry at dinner. It seems that Mr. Everton is constantly making Mr. Tomlinson laugh, his head thrown back and eyes shut with the force of his merriment.
Harry scowls at the floor, taking an aggressive sip of his drink.
“You and Mr. Tomlinson seemed quite taken with each other,” Gemma observes, bringing Harry’s attention away from the man in question and back to his sister.
Gemma and Isobel look at him with raised eyebrows.
“I hardly believe we were taken with one another,” Harry denies. “He’s a social activist who wants to reform the mills and had many thoughts about how I should run Hampton.”
Gemma’s mischievous expression falls into one of disappointment. “Well, that’s tactless. I could tell you two were discussing something rather intensely, but I didn’t think it was one of such impertinence.”
Despite himself, Harry feels a rush to defend Mr. Tomlinson. Even though he was impertinent, some of his suggestions about improvement were well founded, such as installing fire alarms.
Instead, Harry makes a noncommittal noise, downing the rest of his sherry in one sip.
The evening soon ends, and Mr. and Mrs. Humphreys bid their guests farewell at the door.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Harry says to his hosts, kissing Mrs. Humphreys’ hand and bowing to her husband.
“It was our pleasure,” Mrs. Humphreys simpers. Harry can see in her eyes that she wishes to ask how his evening with Mr. Tomlinson went, but fortunately the remaining guests are within hearing distance so she doesn’t bring it up.
Harry accepts his top hat and coat from the butler, and with a thank you, Harry steps into the night.
Gemma and Isobel wait for him by the lamppost; both bundled in their coats to keep out the early March chill.
“Good night, dear sisters,” Harry says, kissing both Gemma’s and Isobel’s cheeks. “I want both of you to come around for dinner sometime next weekend. It’s been too long since we’ve spent the evening together.” At Gemma’s raised eyebrow, Harry amends, “An evening without Manchester society’s elite.”
Gemma and Isobel agree, and with another farewell, they step into their waiting carriage and head home.
Harry watches the carriage go, and when it disappears around the corner, he crosses the street.
A sharp peal of laughter has Harry turning his attention back to the Humphreys’ home. Harry stops beneath the streetlamp as he watches Mr. Tomlinson leave the Humphreys’, calling a kind farewell and thank you to the host and hostess.
Harry can’t help but watch as Mr. Tomlinson places his top hat on his head and pulls his coat tightly around his waist. He walks towards the waiting carriages, head bowed slightly to fight off the sharp March chill.
But right as he reaches the carriages, Mr. Tomlinson looks up, gaze immediately falling on Harry.
In a flash, Harry wishes he were standing back in the shadows, unseen and unobserved. But the street light illuminates him, subjecting him to Mr. Tomlinson’s piercing gaze.
However, the distance between them is just great enough that Harry cannot read the expression on Mr. Tomlinson’s face. They study one another, standing on opposite sides of the street, but Harry does not know what Mr. Tomlinson’s verdict is. He is unsure whether he even wishes to know.
After a suspended moment, Mr. Tomlinson nods, short and perfunctory, but undeniably kind.
Surprise rushes through Harry at the simple gesture, and he nods politely in response.
Mr. Tomlinson stands there only a moment longer before disappearing into the carriage.
Harry watches as the carriage rolls away, wheels clicking against the cobblestones. Then he turns around, and with his hands buried in his pockets, walks home.
Harry’s prediction of Mr. Tomlinson’s mill visit proves correct barely a week later.
The first order from a new contract arrived earlier that Friday morning, and Harry has spent the past few hours making the necessary arrangements to fulfill it. He’s hardly left his desk, lunch forgotten, too determined to secure the new business to think of anything else.
However, Harry is forcefully pulled from his thoughts after an indeterminable amount of time by a sharp, confident knock on his office door.
“Come in,” Harry calls distractedly, feeling a twinge of annoyance at being interrupted.
Harry doesn’t look up as the door opens, quill scratching against the paper.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Styles. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Harry starts, attention swiftly shifting from his work to the man standing in front of him.
“Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry replies, dropping his quill and rising quickly to bow. Mr. Tomlinson returns the bow, an amused smile on his lips. “Apologies. It is easy for me to become lost in my work. Please,” Harry gestures towards the chair opposite his desk. “Take a seat.”
Mr. Tomlinson nods, stepping into the room and shutting the door.
Harry steals a glance at Mr. Tomlinson as he moves across the room. Over the past week, Harry had been able to convince himself that he had imagined the confident and authoritative air that Mr. Tomlinson possessed.
Only moments again in Mr. Tomlinson’s presence and Harry is easily aware of how wrong he was.
Since the dinner party, Harry has found Mr. Tomlinson frequently occupying his thoughts. His dinner companion had been opinionated and forthright, and did not hesitate to question Harry’s management style and concern for his workers. Harry had never before experienced such invasive questioning about his business.
Although Harry had expected Mr. Tomlinson to come by the mill (he did invite him, after all; even if it was a poor attempt at silencing Mr. Tomlinson’s interrogation), he does not relish hearing whatever Mr. Tomlinson wishes to discuss.
However, Mr. Tomlinson surprises him when Harry asks, “What can I do for you today, Mr. Tomlinson?”
Mr. Tomlinson glances up at Harry through his eyelashes, gaze almost hesitant before it grows in confidence. He raises his chin, blue eyes burning into Harry’s as he holds his gaze. “Mr. Styles, I would like to apologize for my behavior at the dinner party last week.”
Harry’s lips make an audible pop as they part in surprise.
Mr. Tomlinson continues, “I tend to speak my mind, and my mother always told me that could come across as impolite. I did not intend that, so I apologize if it felt that way. I did not mean to insult you or your work as a businessman; that was never my intention. You are a well-respected mill owner, and from what I hear, a fair one. I hope you will accept my apology.”
Mr. Tomlinson never breaks eye contact, and Harry doesn’t feel like he could look away if he wanted to. He searches Mr. Tomlinson’s gaze for any hint of mirth or sarcasm, but all he can see is a genuine, heartfelt entreaty. Harry is left stunned.
Harry runs a nervous hand through his hair, scratching idly at his scalp. “Well, thank you, Mr. Tomlinson. I will admit I was surprised at your straightforwardness at the party, but I hope I am not so childish as to be incapable of bearing criticism. I appreciate your apology, and of course I accept.”
Mr. Tomlinson’s serious expression softens, smiling kindly at Harry. “Thank you, Mr. Styles.” He visibly relaxes, but still maintains a controlled, confident air. “I will be quite honest with you. I had been keen to meet you professionally, so I was surprised when you were seated next to me at dinner. I will admit I became overexcited at the prospect of discussing business with you, and could not resist speaking to you of such matters. I know now I should not have brought up the subject of our professional endeavors in an environment that was intended to be one of pleasure.”
Harry can’t help but feel a rush of his own pleasure at Mr. Tomlinson admitting his eagerness to make Harry’s acquaintance.
“I understand, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry responds. “And I thank you again.”
Mr. Tomlinson smiles. “I must say, Mr. Styles, despite our disagreements that evening, I thoroughly enjoyed our conversation. It made for an exciting evening, when I was expecting to be bored out of my mind all during dinner while some witless alpha tried to charm me.”
Harry barks a laugh, finding Mr. Tomlinson’s candor amusing when it’s not a criticism of him. “I greatly enjoyed them, too, Mr. Tomlinson.”
A beat passes between them in which they simply chuckle, atmosphere in the room growing light.
“I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Tomlinson says, still smiling but tone turning professional, “for I wish for us to put aside any awkwardness from that encounter and start afresh. Today I approach you as the director of the MMIC, not as your dinner companion.”
“Alright then,” Harry agrees. He closes the ledger on his desk, placing it carefully in the desk’s bottom drawer. Shutting the drawer with a firm click, Harry twines his fingers together, leaning forward on the desk. “How may I help you, Mr. Tomlinson? I suppose you want to conduct your report on the mill?”
Mr. Tomlinson smirks, but shakes his head. “No, Mr. Styles. The MMIC will not conduct a report without your consent. No, today I was going to ask for a tour of the mill.”
“A tour?” Harry questions, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
Mr. Tomlinson nods. “Yes, a tour. And I would like you to be my guide, Mr. Styles.”
Harry’s brows furrow together. “I am very busy. I don’t have time to take you around my mill.” When Mr. Tomlinson does not respond, Harry continues defensively, “Surely you saw many mills in New York. Why would you need to see mine?”
“The tour would not be for me,” Mr. Tomlinson explains, voice gentle yet confident. “But for you.”
“For me?” Harry questions, tone dismissive. “I do not need a tour of my mill. I know the layout of Hampton better than my own home.”
Mr. Tomlinson nods, expression contemplative. “Yes, I do not doubt you know the mill’s layout very well. But I would like to show you the mill from my perspective.” He raises his eyebrows expectantly at Harry, and any protest dies on Harry’s tongue. “Please, Mr. Styles?”
Harry should say no. He still needs to complete the new order, and he needs to review the week’s expense reports as well as meet with his overlooker for the weekly report about any troublesome behavior with the workers. His work is already expected to keep him late this evening, and Gemma and Isobel are coming over for dinner so he cannot stay overtime.
But when Mr. Tomlinson looks at him with a mixture of hope and challenge, with the sweet addendum of “please” on his lips, all reasons to say no leave Harry’s head as quickly as the bread from the baker’s shop on a Monday morning.
“Very well, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry concedes, rising to his feet.
Mr. Tomlinson’s expression shifts from one of professionalism to delight, and Harry can’t help but hide his own small smile as he rounds the desk. Putting off his work for the day only seems like a minor inconvenience when it makes Mr. Tomlinson smile so brightly.
Harry leads Mr. Tomlinson out of his office, but instead of heading down the stairs into the spinning room, Harry directs him to the raised walkway overlooking the room. Other than the window in his office, the raised walkway is Harry’s favorite place to observe the work being done in the spinning room. The walkway follows along the northern, eastern, and southern walls of the room, giving Harry an excellent view of everything happening below him.
Harry holds the door open for Mr. Tomlinson, and together, they step onto the walkway.
Immediately, the heavy whirring of the spinning mule machines meets their ears. The spinning mules harmonize, whistling and humming and whizzing together as they methodically spin the cotton thread into sheet after sheet of cloth.
Row after row of spinning mules fill the long, wide workroom. Each mule is operated by a worker, some glancing up nervously at Harry as he steps out onto the walkway, others so consumed in the laborious task that they don’t even notice the mill owner’s presence.
The cotton fluff clouds the air, thick and heavy along the walkway as it rises towards the rafters. Harry ignores it, walking through the fluff as easily as cutting through air.
Mr. Tomlinson’s pace is slow as they walk along the southern walkway. His eyes are fixed on the room below, contemplative yet observant. Harry wonders what he sees.
They walk in silence down the southern walkway, turning left at the far end to the shortest walkway, before turning left again to walk along the remainder. During the whole of their journey, Mr. Tomlinson does not say a word.
When they reach the center of the northern walkway, Harry turns towards Mr. Tomlinson, but abruptly stops.
Pieces of cotton fluff have landed in Mr. Tomlinson’s chestnut colored hair, painting it with spots of white. A piece catches on his eyelashes, clinging to the long lashes as Mr. Tomlinson blinks at Harry.
Harry has seen countless people with cotton fluff in their hair – his workers, his family, and even his own reflection. But the cotton fluff in Mr. Tomlinson’s hair makes him look strangely and wondrously ethereal. As if the cotton is a halo that has been gently rested upon his head by some greater, invisible being.
Harry swallows roughly, forcing his attention back to the spinning room.
“Your spinning room is one of the largest I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Tomlinson remarks, awe filling his voice.
Harry beams, a wave of pride washing through him as he admires the bustling workroom. “We have one hundred and two spinning mules here at Hampton,” Harry brags. “That’s more than any other mill in Manchester. The next closest is Hammersmith Mills and that one has seventy-four.”
Mr. Tomlinson lets out a low whistle. “That is very impressive, Mr. Styles. I believe the average in New York is about sixty.”
Harry makes a smug noise. “I suppose New York doesn’t do everything better than England, then, does it?”
He chances a glance at Mr. Tomlinson and finds him already looking back. Mr. Tomlinson’s expression is controlled, contemplative. Harry forces himself to look away, filled with the impossible feeling that Mr. Tomlinson is able to see right through him.
Mr. Tomlinson’s voice is thoughtful when he replies, “The mills in England have higher production; I will grant you that.”
Harry doesn’t respond, knowing that Mr. Tomlinson has more to say.
He doesn’t have to wait long before Mr. Tomlinson questions, “What are your fire safety regulations?”
“What?” Harry asks, not expecting the question.
“Your fire safety regulations,” Mr. Tomlinson nods towards the room. “I noticed at least four potential fire hazards as we were walking, and I’m just curious if you have a plan in place in case the mill goes up in flames.”
Harry splutters, eyes darting around the room to find the alleged fire hazards. “What are you talking about?” Harry demands, feeling the irritation he experienced so keenly during dinner at the Humphreys’ rising to the surface. “What are the fire safety hazards?”
Mr. Tomlinson gestures across the room, tone unperturbed as he explains, “You’re using gas lighting in the spinning room, which is the most modern way to provide light, but not all of the lamps are properly protected.” Mr. Tomlinson points to a light opposite them. “The glass for that light has broken off,” Mr. Tomlinson points towards another lamp by the main door, “as has that one. So not only are they more susceptible to cotton fluff catching flame because of them, it also means that there are shards of glass on the spinning room floor, and I know many of the children tend to work barefoot, which is a horrible injury just waiting to happen.”
Harry grimaces, able to see the flames flickering in the broken glass. The cotton fluff seems to dance around it, teasing the flames.
“As well,” Mr. Tomlinson continues, “you have two lamps in precarious positions.” He points towards the far end of the room, where two extra spinning mules were added several months ago despite the lack of space. “Those mules are too close to the walls and the lamps. If the lamps were to fall, they would land right on top of the cotton and catch fire instantly.”
Harry frowns, brow pinching together. He stands a considerable distance from those two mules, so Harry cannot judge whether or not Mr. Tomlinson is correct. However, he is simultaneously confused and impressed that Mr. Tomlinson was able to spot such seemingly minor fire hazards from such a distance.
When Harry turns back to Mr. Tomlinson, there is a knowing look in Mr. Tomlinson’s eyes. “This is what I trained for five years to do, Mr. Styles,” he explains evenly. “I know how to evaluate a room with a mere glance. I know what to look for – the placement and protection of the lamps being first and foremost in terms of fire safety.”
Harry nods, still undeniably impressed.
“Shall we go to the floor?” Mr. Tomlinson suggests. “We can look more closely at the troublesome lamps if we do.”
Again, Harry simply nods.
Silently, Harry follows Mr. Tomlinson downstairs to the spinning room. Above the door is the first faulty lamp, and as Harry studies it, he can see the broken, jagged shards of glass leaving the flame exposed. Harry’s brow furrows, feeling irritated that such a hazard has been left unfixed.
Harry doesn’t say anything to Mr. Tomlinson as he studies the lights, counting figures in his head to estimate how much the repairs to the fixtures would cost. The glass should be easily replaceable, and Harry resolves to find out how the fixtures broke to prevent it from happening again.
Harry’s eyes then scan the scratched wood floors, looking for any trace of the broken glass. He scrapes his boot through the cotton that has clustered on the floors, but he can see no glass. The sweepers come in twice a week, so maybe they had been able to sweep up the broken glass before it could cause any harm.
Without a word, Harry begins to cross the room to check the positioning of the new spinning mules underneath the lamps. Mr. Tomlinson easily matches his stride.
“The sanitation is not of the highest quality either,” Mr. Tomlinson remarks as they walk along the row. He gestures towards the floors which are damp with water and oil. “Many workers have to work barefoot because of how slick the floors are; their shoes don’t have enough grip.”
“Yes, I know this,” Harry huffs, quickening his strides.
Mr. Tomlinson is undeterred. “Damp floors can lead to infections and illness,” he continues. “The poor sanitation makes them more susceptible. When your workers can’t come to the mill because they are too ill, you lose their amount of work for the day, and that makes you lose profit.”
“How do you propose to resolve the damp floors?” Harry asks, not attempting to mask the irritation in his voice.
“There are several ways,” Mr. Tomlinson muses. “You could place buckets under the machines where they leak and have them collect the excess liquid. At the end of the day, the buckets could be emptied and washed and placed back under the machines.”
Harry frowns at the suggestion. He would have to either hire new workers solely to manage the buckets, or have workers stay later in the day to do the job, but if he did that, he would have to increase their pay. Neither option is financially ideal.
“You could also forego the buckets,” Mr. Tomlinson suggests, “and have someone regularly mop the floors throughout the day.” As if reading Harry’s mind, he adds, “That would be the more financially viable option, I would imagine.”
They reach the end of the spinning room, stopping in front of the mules placed too close to the wall. The spinner at the mule glances towards Harry nervously, clearly worried that Harry has come to reprimand him for some infraction.
Harry ignores the worried looks of the brunette, bearded man and walks to the small sliver of space between the mule and the wall.
The space is too narrow for Harry to fit – a child maybe, but not a grown man – so he stands by the side and looks up at the light fixtures.
Harry feels another flash of annoyance when he sees that Mr. Tomlinson is right. The lamp extends from the wall just far enough, that if it were to drop, it would land on the cotton. He wonders why no one noticed this when the mules were being installed, or if it was simply that no one thought to be concerned.
“The mules could either be moved,” Mr. Tomlinson says, “or the lamps could be repositioned.” When Harry glances over at him, he’s studying the lamps as well, a thoughtful furrow to his brow. After a moment, he adds, “Of course, I would imagine moving the lamps would require less exertion and expense.” He looks down from the wall, gaze landing on Harry. “A fairly simple solution for a problem that could be potentially devastating.”
Harry opens his mouth to respond when he’s cut off by someone walking through the thick cotton fluff to appear at Harry’s side.
“Mr. Styles,” the man greets.
“Robertson,” Harry says, nodding at his overlooker. Mr. James Robertson is a burly man with a thick, red beard. He’s been the overlooker at Harry’s mill for the past two years, but Harry wouldn’t describe their relationship as friendly. Robertson is excellent at his job – being Harry’s eyes and ears in the workrooms – but that doesn’t make him a pleasant man to be around. “May I introduce you to Mr. Louis Tomlinson?”
“How do you do,” Robertson greets, Northern accent thick, only giving a short nod of his head. He doesn’t give Mr. Tomlinson a chance to return the greeting before he continues, “Everything alright, Mr. Styles?” He eyes Mr. Tomlinson warily. “Doing some kind of inspection today?”
“In a way,” Harry replies, tone blank, authoritative. Robertson’s eyes flash to Harry in a moment of panic. Harry continues, “Robertson, two of the lamps at the front of the spinning room by the door are broken. The flames are unprotected, which creates a potential and very serious fire hazard. Do you know how this happened?”
Robertson’s brow furrows together. “The lamps at the front?” Harry nods. “No, sir. I’m not sure how they broke.”
“They will need to be repaired,” Harry states. “I will order the supplies to do so, and you can see to it that they are fixed.”
Robertson’s nod is more of a twitch. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Harry replies, tone clearly one of dismissal. “I will speak to you further at our meeting this afternoon.”
It is only when Robertson has walked away that Harry looks at Mr. Tomlinson. He’s watching Harry, amusement in his eyes, and a pleased smile on his lips. Harry’s lips twitch with the desire to return the smile, but he can’t let Mr. Tomlinson think that just because he is following some of his advice that he will request all of it. “Mr. Tomlinson, I’m afraid I need to return to my work. I don’t have the time to show you the rest of the mill. May I show you the way out?”
The smile on Mr. Tomlinson’s lips falls, expression shifting back to one of neutral professionalism. “That is alright, Mr. Styles. I’ve taken up enough of your time already.”
Harry nods, not trusting his voice to respond.
The point is moot anyways since the only exit is through the door they entered. The two men cross the spinning room silently, side by side.
The whirring of the machines quiets as Harry and Mr. Tomlinson step through the door, closing it behind them. To the right are the stairs leading to Harry’s office; to the left is the corridor that will return Mr. Tomlinson to the streets of Manchester. They pause, and Harry wonders if Mr. Tomlinson is as reluctant to go as Harry is, despite his rude and abrupt ending to their tour.
“I hope you will think about what I told you,” Mr. Tomlinson breaks the silence. There is only one lamp in the corridor, flickering weakly. Mr. Tomlinson is backlit, making his expression difficult for Harry to read. “I wish to help you, Mr. Styles, not criticize you. Hampton Mills is already a great mill; I would like to help make it even greater.”
Harry’s brow pinches together, the words echoing the promise he’d made to himself on the night he first made Mr. Tomlinson’s acquaintance. To constantly improve Hampton Mills. To make it more efficient, more productive. Simply, to make it greater.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Styles.” The words are said quietly, a soft exhale, and then Mr. Tomlinson retreats, walking swiftly down the corridor, opening the far door, and exiting into the sunlight.
Harry watches him go, standing in the same spot long after the door has shut.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tomlinson,” Harry responds quietly, even though no one can hear him but the flickering flame on the wall.
Harry can hardly concentrate on his work for the rest of the day.
He finishes the new orders mechanically, and only half listens to Robertson’s report from the workrooms. He’s heard more whispers of a strike, but even that can’t capture Harry’s attention.
Harry leaves as soon as five o’clock comes, joining the sea of workers leaving Hampton Mills, heading home for the weekend.
As Harry walks home, he can’t stop thinking about Mr. Tomlinson’s visit.
Every point that Mr. Tomlinson had made during the tour had been one of practicality. He had pointed out problems that were necessary to fix, not imaginary problems that would only hurt Harry’s wallet. He’s a businessman, and he needs to do what is financially beneficial. He will not spend money if it will not bring him a greater profit.
Safety regulations bring little profit.
That has always been Harry’s belief. Factories are unsanitary because the work is messy and dirty. They do not exist to be places of cleanliness, but to be places of growth and industry.
As Harry walks home, he wonders if it’s possible for his factory to be both.
He thinks of the year’s reports, the increased profit that Hampton Mills has made. Harry has not yet decided how to spend that money – maybe investments, maybe increasing workers’ wages. Now he wonders if he could use it to create a safer workplace.
The mill only has one fire alarm, and that’s in the spinning room where the potential for a fire is the greatest. But other parts of the mill also possess potential for fire, not to mention how quickly a fire can spread past its origin, and Harry knows it’s long overdue to install alarms throughout the mill.
It is possible for him to increase the safety of the mills without having to engage with Mr. Tomlinson and the MMIC. Harry could install the additional fire alarms, fix the dangerous light fixtures, and then have Robertson do regular monitoring checks on the lights.
Yes, that would work well.
Harry will consider Mr. Tomlinson’s suggestions, but he won’t ask him for a full report. Despite Mr. Tomlinson’s clear knowledge, Harry is uncomfortable with another person so clearly seeing the flaws of his mill that Harry was blind to. He doesn’t want an outsider inspecting his mill; no, if any improvements are to come to Hampton Mills, they will be from Harry himself.
Harry does not need Mr. Tomlinson’s assistance.
Harry frowns, pulling his coat tightly around his waist as he thinks about Mr. Tomlinson further inspecting the mill. All of its flaws, its weaknesses, unnoticed by Harry, would be discovered by Mr. Tomlinson. His mill would be vulnerable to Mr. Tomlinson’s criticism, which by extension, would make Harry the recipient of that criticism.
Any flaws in the mill are a result of Harry’s oversight. He is fastidious in making Hampton Mills the greatest mill in Manchester, so whatever shortcomings Mr. Tomlinson finds, he would also be discovering them in Harry.
As a proud businessman, Harry does not relish having his vulnerabilities realized. As an alpha, Harry can’t help but feel a primal sense of failure at not having built a flawless business – at having his imperfections pointed out by an omega. Especially when those primal instincts guide him to provide for and protect omegas, to have one so closely examine his mill makes Harry feel as if he isn’t a good enough alpha.
It’s a ridiculous thought that Harry tries to dismiss, but yet it lingers.
At the dinner party, Harry had never been challenged in such an intelligent and carefully considered manner. Despite his initial annoyance at Mr. Tomlinson’s challenges, Harry undeniably finds himself drawn to him. Drawn to his intellect and his straightforwardness.
Harry had been challenged but not undermined. He had been argued with, but not insulted.
Those distinctions, as insignificant as they may seem, continue to draw Harry towards Mr. Tomlinson.
The fact is that Mr. Tomlinson is an attractive omega, and a primal part of Harry wants to prove to Mr. Tomlinson that he is a worthy, successful alpha.
That cannot be done if Mr. Tomlinson pokes and prods around Hampton Mills.
Harry cannot engage Mr. Tomlinson at the mill, but he nonetheless wants to make the improvements that he can.
By the time Harry arrives home, he feels quite satisfied with himself. He can improve the safety of Hampton Mills without the assistance of Mr. Tomlinson, thus maintaining his reputation as a businessman and an alpha, and he intends to do just that.
“What’s on your mind tonight, Harry?” Gemma asks, sipping her wine. “You’ve been very quiet.”
Harry pauses mid-chew of the roast chicken. He glances over at his sister, who is looking at him expectantly. Harry swallows hastily. “Apologies. I’m afraid my mind is elsewhere tonight.”
“He’s probably hiding a lover in the attic,” Isobel teases. “He’s just dying to kick us out so that he can return to them.”
Gemma snorts into her drink, and Harry smiles. “Yes, that’s exactly it, Iz. However did you figure it out?”
“You’ve looked like you were in pain through the entirety of the first course,” Isobel observes. “And I know you love tomato basil soup, so I assumed that it must merely be the expression of a man in love.”
Harry laughs as Gemma scoffs indignantly.
“A look of pain is a sign of love? Aren’t you supposed to be in love?” Gemma fires back at her wife, tone playful. “Barely two months in and you’re out of the honeymoon phase?”
“To be fair, Gems,” Harry adds, “I’m surprised the honeymoon phase lasted that long.”
Isobel cackles, winking at Harry, as Gemma grumbles something about grounds for divorce.
Growing up, Harry always had to endure his older sister’s teasing nature. But now that Gemma has married Isobel, who Harry also loves as a sister, he must endure double the amount of teasing. They are an unstoppable force when they join together to torment him.
On the other hand, Isobel and Harry also make quite a good team when it comes to teasing Gemma. So maybe it balances out.
However, Gemma doesn’t forget her original topic of inquiry. “Is something going on, Harry?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Harry says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s just,” he sighs, “Mr. Tomlinson came by the mill today.”
“Mr. Tomlinson?” Gemma repeats, annoyance in her tone. “What did he want? Didn’t he bother you enough at the Humphreys’ dinner party?”
Harry gives a small smile at his sister’s rush to defend him, especially considering she originally thought Harry and Mr. Tomlinson had flirted all evening. “Today he came by for professional reasons. To discuss the mill.”
“I don’t see why it’s any of his business,” Isobel adds, sipping her wine.
Harry shrugs. “He had some interesting points about the mill’s safety regulations. I decided there was no harm in listening to what he had to say.”
“But he was so rude to you at the party,” Gemma pushes.
“He wasn’t rude,” Harry defends, voice thoughtful. “He was forward and unafraid to say what was on his mind, but he was never rude.”
Gemma and Isobel don’t respond, clearly unsure what to say.
“He apologized,” Harry adds, cutting a slice of his chicken breast and placing it in his mouth. He chews and swallows his food, taking a sip of his drink before continuing. “When he came by today, he told me that he was sorry if he came across as rude. I didn’t relish having Hampton criticized, but I understand that he has professional interest in the mill. So I forgave him. We walked around the mill, discussed its safety regulations, and he made some suggestions. I’ve been distracted this evening because our conversation has just weighed so heavily on my mind.”
Gemma and Isobel don’t say anything for a moment, but then Isobel smiles mischievously at Gemma.
“I was right, Gems,” Isobel smirks. “He does have a lover in his attic. It’s Mr. Tomlinson!”
Harry snorts as Gemma guffaws with laughter. He sips at his drink, feigning annoyance, but Harry can’t help the small smile on his lips or the small voice in his head wondering what it would be like if Mr. Tomlinson was waiting upstairs for him.
Harry cannot deny that the idea holds a certain appeal to him. Despite their disagreements, Harry is undeniably attracted to Mr. Tomlinson. His sharp cheekbones and even sharper wit. His blue eyes and opinionated thoughts. His small, curvy figure and soft, lilting voice.
Harry may not desire to have Mr. Tomlinson at Hampton Mills, but to have him in another way, well, Harry cannot say he is opposed.
However, Harry hastily dismisses the idea. It is not proper to have such thoughts about someone he hardly knows. Just because he is an alpha, and Mr. Tomlinson is an omega, does not make it acceptable to entertain such thoughts.
Gemma, Isobel, and Harry say nothing more about it for the rest of the night.
The following night finds Harry at another dining table, but with entirely different company.
Harry idly swirls the whiskey in his glass, cigar smoke thick as the men around him indulge in an after dinner drink and smoke.
Every few months, the five most prominent mill owners in Manchester have dinner together. The evening is filled with shop talk – comparing new methods and machines, bemoaning the inability to find good workers, and bragging about new wealth.
These nights are tedious to Harry. While he enjoys hearing about what may or may not be working for the other owners, every other discussion is the same. Lazy workers. Impending strike. Alpha mill owners looking for eligible young omegas. They’re conversations Harry has heard one hundred times, and he has nothing to contribute.
The main topic of tonight’s conversation is installation of the wheels. Several mills in Lancashire have installed them recently, and the Manchester owners have been disparaging the foolishness of such an unnecessary expense that will produce no profit.
It’s a point Harry has often agreed with, but with his meeting with Mr. Tomlinson still fresh on his mind, the callousness of the other men’s words grates on him.
“My friend Elliott installed one of the wheels,” Sebastian Fullworth of Irwell Mills informs his companions. “And he told me he’s already regretting it.”
“No surprise there,” Charles Edgeware of Bridgewater Mills chuckles.
“Bloody great expense, and what for?” John Kingston of Hammersmith Mills adds. “A little less cotton in the spinning room?”
Sebastian nods adamantly. “Precisely. It doesn’t even clear up the air completely, just a little bit. And now the wheel’s gone and made the workers greedy.”
“What do you mean?” Oliver Guildford of Victoria Mills inquires.
“Some of the workers began demanding more money for working in a place that has a wheel.”
“What?” Oliver, John, and Charles exclaim simultaneously.
“They got it into their heads somehow that the wheels make them hungry, so they’re saying Elliott should pay them more for food.”
Charles laughs loudly. “They’re just hungry because their bellies aren’t as full of cotton!”
The other men laugh uproariously, glasses clinking and smoke swirling in the air.
“Such a bloody waste,” Oliver shakes his head. As he laughs, his eyes fall to Harry, who has remained quiet during the exchange. “Oh, come on, Harry. Surely you agree that the wheels are a needless expense?”
Harry smirks, sipping his drink as he contemplates his response. When Harry responds, he’s surprised to hear himself echoing Mr. Tomlinson’s words. “I agree that they are a great expense, but I am unsure if they are needless. They can keep workers healthier. Help them breathe easier. Help them live longer. It may not be a profit to count in pounds, shillings, and pence, but it is a profit nonetheless.”
“Harry, you’re not serious?” John asks, huffing a confused laugh.
Before Harry can respond, Charles grumbles, “He sounds like one of those damn MMIC members. Constantly spewing shit about health and safety.”
“Oh that reminds me!” Sebastian jumps in before Harry can respond. “I was walking by Town Hall on Wednesday and someone from the MMIC was handing out bloody leaflets. Can you believe it?”
“Leaflets?” Charles exclaims, smoke exhaling as he laughs. “What in the hell could they put on a leaflet? Do they think they’re revolutionaries or something?”
“Going to storm the mill yard with torches and pitchforks,” Oliver adds.
The other men laugh. Harry sips his whiskey quietly.
When their laughter subsides, Harry lowers the glass from his lips, wrist flicking lazily as he swirls his drink. “Actually, the director of the MMIC came by Hampton this week,” Harry says casually.
He is met with stunned silence. After a beat, Harry glances up to see the four other men gawking at him. The cigar hangs from Sebastian’s lips precariously.
“And?” Oliver prompts. “Did you kick him out? Tell him what you think of outsiders who come in and try to run our business?”
Harry shakes his head. “No, I listened to what he had to say.”
“No wonder he’s extolling the installation of a wheel!” Sebastian says accusingly. “Those bastards have brainwashed him.”
Harry’s hand tightens imperceptibly around his whiskey glass. “I’d watch your tone, Sebastian,” Harry responds coolly, unable to help a bit of an alpha growl seep into his voice. “You’d be best to remember who you’re speaking to.”
Sebastian glares at him for another charged moment, mustache twitching, before dropping his gaze and aggressively puffing on his cigar.
“I listened to what he had to say,” Harry repeats, firmly locking eyes with each man as he speaks. “Mr. Tomlinson was very observant and made some very wise suggestions about how to improve the safety of the mill at little expense. It will only benefit my mill to listen to what he had to say.”
“What kind of things did he say?” John asks, tone curious.
Harry smiles at his friend. Of the men in the room, Harry finds John the most open-minded, the most agreeable. “He had many ideas about fire safety.” John sucks in a breath, and Harry remembers how Hammersmith Mills had a minor fire two years ago, which was thankfully stopped before it could devastate John’s mill entirely. “Mr. Tomlinson pointed out several different hazards in the spinning room which had escaped my notice. I plan to resolve them immediately to decrease the risk of fire.”
The four men nod simultaneously, all understanding the dangers of fire despite their varying degrees of stubbornness.
“Will you engage him further?” Charles asks, tone cautious but still judgmental. “Allowing an outsider come into your mill and tell you how to run it?”
Harry smirks, finishing the remainder of his whiskey. “No. I won’t.”
The room seems to release a collective sigh of relief, tension releasing as Harry confirms that he won’t be encouraging an outsider to come into their midst.
The conversation winds down after that, and Harry finds himself relieved that he can go home. He bids the men good night before stepping outside into the brisk night air, thankful that no matter how successful his mill has become, he has not acquired the greedy and callous nature that is so prominent in the other Manchester mill owners.
Harry keeps his word.
The broken glass is replaced; the lamps too close to the machines are moved. Harry puts in an order for two new fire alarms and is promised by the manufacturer that they will be installed immediately.
Two weeks have passed since Mr. Tomlinson’s visit to Hampton Mills, and Harry hasn’t heard a word from him since. He tries to find it in him to be glad that he hasn’t had to deal with the frustrating omega’s constant challenges and sharp words, but he does a poor job of convincing himself.
The first Thursday in April finds Harry at his desk reviewing his books when there’s a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Harry calls, closing the ledger and putting it to the side. As the door opens and the visitor enters, Harry smiles. “Ah, Mr. Wellington.” Harry stands, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “How good it is to see you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Styles,” Mr. Wellington replies, shaking his hand firmly. Harry hasn’t seen him since the Humphreys’ dinner party, but he looks well. Suit impeccable. Hair neatly styled. “It’s good to see you, as well.”
“Please, have a seat,” Harry gestures for him to sit. The two men take their seats. “How are you this afternoon? How is your wife?”
“Very well, both very well,” Mr. Wellington replies, taking his hat off and placing it on Harry’s desk. He gives Harry a friendly smile. “Actually, we recently received news that Elizabeth is expecting a child.”
Harry returns the smile, genuine excitement bubbling inside of him at the mention of a baby. “My sincerest congratulations. How very wonderful for both of you.”
Mr. Wellington nods excitedly. His expression is bright and hopeful, and Harry is struck by how young he looks. When they first met, Harry had imagined Mr. Wellington to be about his age. But now seeing him, Harry wouldn’t think him older than twenty-five. “Thank you so much. The baby – it’ll be our first.”
“The first of many, I presume?” Harry teases.
Mr. Wellington laughs jovially. “We certainly hope so. I want a house filled with children.” He pauses, smile still on his lips, before it turns to a slightly more serious expression. “Actually, that’s the reason I came to see you today.”
Harry’s brows pinch together, confused by the segue. “What can I do for you?”
Mr. Wellington looks at him, and while hope remains in his expression, a hint of nervousness also gleams in his eyes. “Elizabeth and I have always discussed having a large family, and now that we’re beginning, it was as if I suddenly realized how expensive that could be.” He huffs a laugh. “And I’m by no means financially wanting with my position at the bank, but I would like more security. An alternate form of income.” Harry raises his eyebrows, understanding making his lips twitch. “We briefly spoke at the Humphreys’ dinner party about the potential of an investment. We didn’t discuss it in very serious terms, but I would like to do so now.”
Harry nods, easily switching into a business mindset. He feels a thrill in his stomach at the potential of a new investor, at the potential of a new source of financial support for his business.
They discuss Mr. Wellington’s potential investment – the amount of money he would give, the risks, and then his eventual profit. Some investors take a fair amount of persuading, and Harry knows every trick in the book to convince them to hand over their money. But Mr. Wellington seems quite keen to invest and takes little convincing. It’s as if he had already made up his mind before he even entered Harry’s office. Nevertheless, Harry assures him that all his other investors have only ever benefited from their decisions, Mr. Wellington agreeing as he mentions his brother’s profit from the investment.
“This is a personal investment, yes?” Harry clarifies as he draws up the paperwork. “Not through Floyds bank?”
Mr. Wellington shakes his head. “No, this investment is separate from Floyds. I’m investing as a private citizen.”
Harry nods. “Excellent.”
The paperwork is drawn up, Mr. Wellington agreeing to buy ten shares in the mill. Harry gives him a price, and Mr. Wellington agrees immediately. They sign.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Wellington,” Harry says as he shows him the door. “I can assure you that your money is in good hands.”
Mr. Wellington laughs, placing his hat back on his head. “I believe you, Mr. Styles.”
“Please give your wife my best,” Harry says. “And offer her my congratulations. I’m so very happy for both of you.”
Mr. Wellington smiles, bids Harry farewell, and then disappears out the door.
Harry’s smile stays on his lips as he returns to his desk, fingers running over the newly signed document promising him five thousand pounds over the next six months.
Figures are whirring in his head, already planning which ways he could use the money to make Hampton Mills even greater, when an agonized, horrible scream slices through the air.
An overpowering, immobilizing sense of dread washes over Harry, his gut clenching, his heart plummeting.
He’s moving before his mind can even register it, scrambling towards the door and racing down the steps into the spinning room. The screams continue, and Harry hears shouting over the clanging of the machines.
Harry stumbles into the spinning room, eyes wide and heart in his throat as he takes in the sight before him.
Mayhem. Screaming. The workers are running down the center aisle towards the noise, calling for help, fear and concern saturating their tones.
Harry joins the mob, shouting, “Out of my way!” as he charges down the aisle. Workers move hastily to the side, curious as to what happened, yet still afraid to get too close.
The screaming is only more wretched the closer Harry gets, sobs mixing in so that the noise shakes the whole spinning room.
Harry slows as he comes to the huddle of workers, panicked yet immobile. He hears cries of “Oh my God!” and “We need a doctor!” rising from the mass of workers. Harry shoves his way through them, not even bothering to apologize.
As he shoves through the last layer of people, Harry freezes at the sight before him.
Blood. Blood everywhere.
A woman lies on the ground, face contorted in agony, tears pouring down her ashen face, cradling something crimson and gushing against her chest. For a moment, Harry doesn’t even know what he’s looking at, too horrified and shocked to understand the scene in front of him. A sick understanding dawns on him as he realizes that the woman is cradling her arm to her chest, the blood gushing from the open wound where her hand should be.
Two other women are next to her, trying to take her arm and wrap it in dry clothes. The woman just screams louder as they try to touch it, her body shaking uncontrollably with the force of her sobs.
Through her tears, her eyes suddenly land on Harry. They stare at one another for a moment, Harry frozen by the sight in front of him. The woman continues to cry, gasping for breath, but she doesn’t look away. On a harsh sob, she exhales in an agonized rasp, “Help me.”
Her words release whatever restraints were holding him back. Turning to the crowd behind him, Harry demands, “Someone go fetch the doctor.” Several people scramble away as Harry continues. “Bring me dry linens from the storage closet. Fill up a basin of water and bring it here. Hurry! And everyone back away – we need to give her space.”
Given tasks to do, the crowd quickly disperses, everyone willing to help or at least remove themselves from the gruesome scene.
As Harry turns back to the injured woman, he only then notices Robertson standing nearby, watching on uselessly.
“What the hell happened?” Harry demands of his overlooker, crouching down next to the woman. Robertson doesn’t respond, clearly stunned by the gore before him. To the woman, Harry says, “You’re going to be alright; you’re going to be alright. Can you tell me your name?”
The woman is hyperventilating so strongly, body writhing in such anguish that Harry is unsurprised that she doesn’t respond.
“Her name is Christine Payne,” the blonde woman holding her responds, gently wrapping Mrs. Payne’s arm as a brunette woman tries to hold her still. The blonde woman’s hand trembles as she wraps Mrs. Payne’s arm in her own apron.
The blonde woman’s clothing is saturated with blood, hands and arms covered. Wisps of hair have fallen from her bun, hanging down in front of her eyes as she works.
Mrs. Payne continues to cry, shaking. Her right arm, the one not being tended to by the blonde woman, is fisted in her dress, clawing and tearing at the fabric as she tries to release some of the tension. Desperate to help, Harry grabs her hand, giving it a firm squeeze so that Mrs. Payne knows to squeeze back. Her eyes are shut, so Harry doubts she’s even aware of what is happening, but she squeezes his hand back tightly, blunt fingernails digging into his skin.
“What happened?” Harry demands, unable to keep the anger out of his tone. Anger that such a horror has happened under his command. “How did this happen?”
“She – she,” the brunette woman begins, voice trembling. “She wasn’t doing anything –” the woman gasps, choking on a sob “–unusual. She was just working. I was at the mule next to her, and all of a sudden I heard a thud, like she’d fallen, and then she started screaming and I saw all the blood.” Tears run down her face, rubbing Mrs. Payne’s shoulders soothingly as the blonde woman finishes wrapping her arm.
“Did you see anything?” Harry asks Robertson, voice harsh and undeniably authoritative.
“No,” Robertson replies gruffly. “I was at the south end of the room by the watering station. I heard the screaming and came as quick as I could. I only got here moments before you did.”
Harry nods, turning his attention back to Mrs. Payne.
“Can we move her somewhere more comfortable?” the blonde woman asks, blood soaked hands twisting together.
“We shouldn’t move her until the doctor arrives,” Harry decides, giving Mrs. Payne’s hand a gentle squeeze. Her grip has gone fairly lax, eyes drooping even as she continues to cry. She’s probably about to faint from blood loss and emotional turmoil, but Harry knows she needs to stay awake for the doctor. “Keep her awake,” Harry orders to the two women.
Harry looks around him, realizing that other workers have brought the basin of water he asked for without informing him it had arrived. “Why did no one tell me this was here?” Harry barks. He snatches a cloth and dampens it, handing it to a scrawny man standing closest. “Dab her face. Cool her down. We need to keep her awake for the doctor.”
The man nods, accepting the cloth and quickly kneeling by Mrs. Payne. The group works in silence, watching and holding the injured woman for several tense minutes before someone calls across the room, “The doctor is here!”
A short, middle aged man with a brown beard appears through the crowd, black bag clutched in his hand. Harry idly remembers that his name is Dr. Clark, having seen him come to the mill before to tend to workers with less serious injuries or illnesses.
Dr. Clark freezes at the sight before him. “Good God,” he breathes, before dropping his bag and kneeling down next to Mrs. Payne. “What happened?” Dr. Clark asks, taking Mrs. Payne’s face in his hands. Her head lolls, eyes half closed as he pats her cheek, trying to keep her awake.
The two women shakily recount the story as Dr. Clark examines Mrs. Payne, slowly unwrapping the makeshift bandages to examine the horrific wound.
“Thank you,” Dr. Clark says as the women finish their account. “If you all could please give us some space,” he requests.
The women nod. The brunette woman presses a trembling kiss to Mrs. Payne’s forehead before standing up and backing away. Harry stands as well, the two women stepping around Mrs. Payne carefully.
As they reach Harry, he stops them. “Go home for the day,” Harry gently instructs. “Thank you for helping Mrs. Payne, but please. Go home and rest. Come back tomorrow.”
The two women don’t protest, simply nodding. They are covered in blood and dirt, faces grimy and hands red. “Thank you, Mr. Styles,” they both say quietly.
Harry nods, and that’s all the permission they need to leave. Both women hastily exit, the crowds parting easily for them.
Once the two women have left, Harry looks back at where Dr. Clark is examining Mrs. Payne. She seems to have fainted, but Dr. Clark is carefully redressing her wound with fresh medical dressing. Harry’s stomach still turns at the sight.
He steps towards Robertson, head throbbing. “We cannot let this happen again,” Harry says lowly.
Robertson doesn’t respond; Harry is glad. He wouldn’t listen to any protests anyways.
Harry and Robertson stand to the side without saying anything else, waiting for Dr. Clark to finish.
When he does, he turns to Harry. His eyes flit to the group of workers still watching from behind them. “Someone come lift her,” Dr. Clark orders. “We’re going to take her home.”
Several of the stronger looking men step forward, gingerly picking Mrs. Payne up, careful of her bandaged hand.
Dr. Clark walks up to Harry, gesturing him to the side. In a low voice, Dr. Clark says, “You’ll need to clean out the machine that she was working at. If you find…” Dr. Clark trails off, raising his eyebrows expectantly at Harry “…anything that shouldn’t be in there, please wrap it up and bring it to me. I’ll be able to dispose of it properly.”
Harry’s stomach churns at Dr. Clark’s words, but he nods regardless.
“Do you think she’ll be alright?” Harry can’t help but ask, knowing he sounds foolish.
Dr. Clark fixes him with a pained look, and Harry knows he won’t receive the answer he wants. “She’ll never be able to work here again,” Dr. Clark says tonelessly. “She will be in a lot of pain for a long time, but it will eventually heal. I will instruct her on how to keep it from getting infected. That will help prevent it from getting any worse. Does she have any family that can help her?”
“I don’t know,” Harry responds, feeling queasy. He wonders if Mrs. Payne has a partner, a husband or wife, who doesn’t yet know how brutally she’s been mutilated. How terrified and heartbroken they’ll be when Mrs. Payne is brought home, carried by a group of men because she has lost too much blood to stand on her own. He wonders if Mrs. Payne has any children. Children who will cry at seeing their mummy so hurt, in so much pain. He wonders if they’ll have enough income without Mrs. Payne’s hours at the mill now. How many mouths does she have to feed? How has this family’s life been destroyed by only a moment of error at the hands of the unforgiving machines?
“I’ll see to it that she gets home safely,” Dr. Clark says, noticing Harry’s distress. “I will do everything in my power to ease her pain as much as possible.”
Harry nods. “Thank you.” Just as Dr. Clark steps away, Harry reaches out a hand, halting him. Quietly, Harry says, “Please send the bill to me.”
Dr. Clark studies him for a moment, clearly not expecting Harry’s instruction. After a moment, Dr. Clark nods. “As you wish, Mr. Styles.” Without another word, Dr. Clark turns away, the men carrying Mrs. Payne following him.
“Be careful with her,” Harry calls, voice sounding strained even to his own ears.
“Yes, Mr. Styles,” comes a chorus of soft replies.
Harry watches as they go, the men walking carefully with Mrs. Payne, keeping her elevated and making sure they don’t run into any machines. Their pace is slow and cautious, but Harry still feels as if they are moving too quickly, recklessly. Worried that any step will send Mrs. Payne plummeting to the ground.
Once they’re gone, Harry releases a shaky breath. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling his stomach turn when he realizes his fingers are sticky with blood, catching on his short curls.
Harry is about to return to his office, when he notices something out of the corner of his eye. Turning slowly, Harry gasps at the sight before him.
Snow covered in blood.
The fresh, white cotton, caught in sheets on the spindle, is splattered with dark red blood.
The stain is like red wine on a white carpet, and Harry could almost convince himself that’s what he’s looking at. But instead of the strong smell of alcohol, he can smell the thick, metallic scent of the blood. Gruesome and deep and smothering the cotton.
Harry turns sharply from the sight of the bloodied spinning mule.
The remaining workers look at him silently, expectantly. Some have terror in their eyes, tears dampening their cheeks.
“Everyone go home for the day,” Harry instructs, voice shaking only slightly with emotion.
Murmurs of confusion rise up from the crowd, everyone looking at Harry quizzically.
“Go home,” Harry repeats. “We’re not running the machines for the rest of the day. If anyone wants to stay, you can clean out –” he gestures jerkily towards Mrs. Payne’s machine “–the machine, but then you can go home. We’ll start back tomorrow. But until then, go home.”
The workers disperse, some staying to clean the damaged machine. Harry doesn’t spare them a glance, striding towards his office, thinking he’ll also go home for the day.
“What are you doing?” Robertson comes along Harry’s side. “You’re sending everyone home before the end of the day?”
Harry grits his teeth. “I don’t want any more injuries today.” He speeds up his pace, but Robertson matches him.
“The mill is already going to lose profit by having one worker out for the day,” Robertson continues. “You want to lose the whole day’s work?”
“If it will prevent any other injuries today, then yes.”
“But they’ll be working again tomorrow. It’s just as likely they’ll be injured then, too.”
“I’ll not have them work immediately after watching a woman be mutilated by one of our machines,” Harry snaps. “They’ll be more nervous, more liable to make errors. They are in no state to work, and I will not have any more injuries today.”
Harry reaches the end of the spinning room, stepping out and heading upstairs to his office. Robertson follows.
As Harry steps into his office, he walks over to his bookshelf and pulls out the record book of his employees. He thumps it onto his desk, sitting heavily down onto his chair and begins to thumb through it.
“Do you know if Mrs. Payne has any family?” Harry asks. “Spouse? Children?”
“I don’t,” Robertson replies, voice gruff. “That’s not one of my duties, sir.”
Harry ignores him.
As Harry scans the list of workers, his eyes land on Mrs. Payne’s name. Next to her name is her date of hire, and then what Harry paid her per hour last month. Harry’s brow furrows, doing a quick calculation in his head.
The sight of the bloodied cotton flashes through his mind, and Harry clenches his eyes shut, fighting a wave of nausea rocking through his stomach.
The stain on the cotton is like a lamb led to slaughter. The lamb’s innocent blood spilling over its soft, full coat. Unnecessary and cruel. A sacrifice made by selfish, more powerful beings, willing to slice and cut and bleed and kill an innocent for their own salvation.
Except Harry is the selfish, powerful being. Disregarding the welfare of his workers for his own financial profit. And now Mrs. Payne has paid the price.
Harry opens his eyes, stomach settling, and mind determined.
“We will pay Mrs. Payne compensation,” Harry decides.
“What?” Robertson demands, horror in his tone.
Harry’s voice stays cool and steady as he looks up at his overlooker. “Mrs. Payne lost her hand today, Robertson, or did you not notice? She lost her hand and now she can no longer work. We will provide her with compensation to offset the financial losses that will undoubtedly hurt her family.”
“But, sir,” Robertson protests, flustered. “If you do that, everyone with so much as a scrape from work will demand money. They’ll be sticking their hands in the machines for an extra shilling. It’s a horrible idea.”
“We will pay her compensation,” Harry repeats firmly.
“You can’t –”
“I can,” Harry cuts in, standing up. “And I will. I don’t believe that is your decision to make, Robertson.”
They stare at each other for a moment, anger radiating off of Robertson. Eventually, he backs down, looking away. “No, sir.”
“Good,” Harry replies. “Now, I advise you to go home, too. We’ll be back again tomorrow at the same time as always.”
Robertson nods and then hastily leaves Harry’s office.
Alone, Harry slumps in his chair, only now realizing how his hands are shaking. He looks down at them, stained with blood.
The nausea Harry has been fighting since arriving at Mrs. Payne’s side finally overtakes him. Harry hunches over and empties his stomach onto the floor, gagging and spluttering. The sickening smell of spilled blood is still pungent to him, and he heaves again as the smell invades his senses.
Harry’s chest rises and falls quickly as he catches his breath, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He feels disgusting, covered in blood and vomit and guilt.
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, resolve settling over him. Nothing like this will ever happen again. Not while he can control it.
With a resigned sigh, Harry sits up, grabs a quill and a piece of paper, and begins to write. He knows exactly what he has to do.
Harry is the first at the mill the following morning.
He had barely slept at all the night before, mind too busy and distracted to provide him with any rest. He had bathed thrice over before bed, feeling as if his skin was still covered in blood. He only ceased the baths for the sake of his poor servants who had to heat each bucket of water before carrying it up three flights of stairs for Harry’s use.
Regardless, as he dressed in his white nightclothes, he couldn’t help but think of the bloodied cotton, convinced that he could still see a reddish tint stained on his hands.
The night had seemed endless, Harry unable to stop hearing the screams that had shaken Hampton Mills. They played as fresh in his mind as if they were happening in that moment, as if Mrs. Payne was lying on the floor of his bedroom, bleeding all over his carpet.
Constant waves of nausea washed over him as he thought about how much pain Mrs. Payne must have been in. The horrible, intolerable, blinding agony of having a limb ripped mercilessly, jaggedly from one’s body.
Harry’s only consolation was thinking of the note he had sent before he left the mill for the day. The note would make things right. The note would insure that nothing like this ever happens again at Hampton Mills.
Harry’s mix of restlessness, anticipation, and guilt has him at the mill even earlier than usual. None of the workers have arrived yet, the mill strangely quiet.
Harry lets himself into the spinning room, and his hands tremble as he returns to the place where he witnessed such a gruesome event only the day before.
Slowly, deliberately, Harry walks through the spinning room. He approaches the mule where Mrs. Payne had been working, nearly halfway down the long, narrow workroom. The blood has been cleaned off of the gleaming metal surface, the ruined cotton disposed of. Harry can hardly even think about what happened to the dismembered hand, imagining nothing more of it exists, demolished in the spinning mule’s unforgiving rotations.
Harry examines the machine, but feels no desire to get too close to it. He is satisfied that it is clean, and will hire someone new to work at it. None of the current workers would want to use it purely out of superstition. Harry doesn’t blame them.
Glancing down, Harry studies the wooden floor where Mrs. Payne had lain. Dark stains mar the floorboards, swirling in a gruesome pattern. Harry idly remembers Mr. Tomlinson’s words about the floors – always wet and dirty. They need to be cleaned immediately. The blood stains need to be removed immediately. Harry will set someone to that as soon as the workers arrive.
Taking one last look around the empty spinning room, Harry returns to his office.
In an attempt to remove the previous day’s disaster from his mind, Harry opens his books. These books he can trust, can rely on. Numbers are factual, straightforward. They are consistent and do not lie. He finds comfort in them, comfort in how they grow.
Harry loses himself in them, calculating the amount to set aside for Mrs. Payne. In part because of his new investor, he should be able to give her a comfortable amount without damaging his own finances. Hampton will not suffer, and Harry will still have more than enough to insure that nothing like this ever happens again.
A gentle knock on the door pulls Harry from his thoughts. He calls for entry, and the door opens to reveal exactly who he requires.
“Mr. Tomlinson, good morning.”
It’s been almost two weeks since Harry has seen Mr. Tomlinson, and Harry forgets for a moment the seriousness of their situation, too stunned by the man in front of him. That is not to say Harry had forgotten how striking Mr. Tomlinson is during their time apart, but it is a powerful, fresh reminder that Harry had not imagined Mr. Tomlinson’s beauty.
However, Mr. Tomlinson gives Harry a sad smile, his eyes tired. He takes a seat across from Harry. “Mr. Styles, good morning. I am so sorry to hear about what happened yesterday.”
Harry’s stomach clenches, shutting his eyes for a moment before speaking. “Yes, it was truly horrific. I’d never seen anything like that before.”
Mr. Tomlinson nods. “I’ve witnessed injuries in mills before, but none so violent. None so disturbing. I cannot imagine what that must have been like to witness.”
Harry is quiet for a moment, considering his next words. “It was immobilizing,” Harry confesses. “To feel as if I could do nothing to help. To feel as if I could do nothing at all. To wonder how it could have been prevented. It is a terrible feeling.”
“Mr. Styles,” Mr. Tomlinson’s voice is soft, leaning forward in his chair. “You mustn’t blame yourself. What happened yesterday was a horrible accident, but it was exactly that – an accident. It was no one’s fault. Not yours, and not the young woman’s. I hope you know that.”
Harry quirks a brow. “I am surprised you would say that, Mr. Tomlinson. After everything you’ve told me about mill safety and the owners’ responsibility, I figured you would berate me from here to heaven about how much at fault I was.”
Mr. Tomlinson’s smile is sad. “I am not the cruel man you must think me who would do such a thing.”
Harry deflates, internally berating himself for lashing out at the man whose help he requires. “I apologize, Mr. Tomlinson. I am considerably upset from the incident yesterday, and that was unfair to you.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Tomlinson says. “But I hope you believe me. What happened was not your fault.”
Harry nods. “Thank you for saying that. How did you hear of the incident? Was it through my note?”
“Partially,” Mr. Tomlinson replies. “I was in my office, and my secretary brought me your note when it arrived. Before I had a chance to open it, she said that she’d heard the Hampton Mills workers had been sent home early because there was an accident at the mill.” Mr. Tomlinson pauses, glancing down. “I was very worried, Mr. Styles. I didn’t want anything to happen to your mill.” Mr. Tomlinson looks at him, blinking through his long, dark eyelashes. “I was worried something had happened to you,” he confesses in a quiet voice.
Harry’s lips part audibly in surprise. His heart twists funnily at the thought of Mr. Tomlinson worrying about him. Harry doesn’t respond, can’t respond, unsure of what to say.
“I am glad you’re alright,” Mr. Tomlinson continues, giving Harry a small smile. They stare at one another for a moment, air around them thick. Then Mr. Tomlinson looks away, saying hastily, “But of course, I am horrified for that young woman. What a terrible tragedy.”
“Yes,” Harry agrees, also coming out of his momentary stupor, lost in the mesmerizing blue of Mr. Tomlinson’s eyes. “It was a tragedy, and I want nothing like that to ever happen again. And that’s why I asked you here.”
Mr. Tomlinson’s lips quirk, understanding in his eyes. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Harry nods. “Ever since I took over Hampton Mills six years ago, I have wanted nothing more than to make it the greatest mill in Manchester. To make it the greatest mill it could possibly be. Until yesterday, I believed I had done that.” Harry sighs, shaking his head. “But I cannot ignore what happened yesterday. I cannot ignore that it may have been prevented.” Harry looks up, eyes locking with Mr. Tomlinson’s as he says, “Mr. Tomlinson, I ask for your help. I would like the MMIC to do an inspection of the mill. I would like you to tell me the ways I can create a safer workplace. I do not wish for yesterday’s accident ever to repeat itself.”
Mr. Tomlinson’s smile only grows as Harry speaks. But surprising to Harry, his smile is not one of smug satisfaction, but one of grateful relief.
“Mr. Styles, the MMIC would be honored to do an inspection of your mill,” Mr. Tomlinson replies. “We want so much to help, and to make the mills in Manchester a safer place. Simply by asking us for assistance, you’re already doing so much to help your workers.”
Harry nods. “That’s what I want.” Harry pauses. “Now, how will you go about this?”
Mr. Tomlinson chuckles. “There is a team of us at the MMIC who have worked at or studied the mills closely. There are six of us who will conduct the inspection. We would like to come on a day when the mill is operative, because many safety hazards are only apparent when the machines are working. We will not disrupt any work; we will not disturb your workers. To that, I give you my word. The MMIC’s mission is to help improve mills, not shut them down.”
“So your team will go through the mill, and then what?”
“We will conduct a report,” Mr. Tomlinson continues. “It will take several days, because my team will need to meet and discuss our findings, but we strive to return our reports within a week. I’ll deliver the report in person so that we can discuss it further. Then, it will be up to you what happens next. If you wish to disregard it, then that is your choice. If not, we will be happy to assist in whatever way we can in helping make Hampton Mills as safe a workplace as possible.”
“Excellent,” Harry replies. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for. But, I would actually like you to speak with several workers about the incident yesterday. I would like you to discern how the accident happened and what can be done to prevent it from happening again.”
Mr. Tomlinson nods. “We will do it.”
“Thank you,” Harry says, shoulders relaxing as he feels his guilt ease ever so slightly.
Mr. Tomlinson smiles. When he speaks, his tone is no longer formal, but kind and gentle. “Thank you, Mr. Styles. I realize we didn’t get off to the friendliest start, and I was afraid my forwardness would prevent you from ever seeing the value in what the MMIC can do. I thank you for giving us a chance.”
Mr. Tomlinson’s words remind Harry of the frustration he felt at their first meeting, and Harry knows he must make himself very clear. “I don’t wish to be undermined,” Harry says slowly but confidently. “I wish for us to work together as a team, Mr. Tomlinson. I have asked for your help, and you are kind to do so. But this is not me giving you free reign over my mill. You will not make any changes without my approval, and you will not challenge me in front of my workers.”
Mr. Tomlinson nods slowly, considering. “Yes, Mr. Styles, I can agree to that. I wish for us to be a team as well.”
Harry smiles, relieved that those boundaries have been established. “I am glad, Mr. Tomlinson. Then a team we shall be.”
Mr. Tomlinson returns his smile, eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “Agreed.” He glances down at his lap for a moment, and when he looks up again, there is something akin to bravery in his eyes. “Then since we will be working together, I wish for you to call me Louis.”
Impossibly, Harry’s smile seems to grow. He knows his dimple must be carved deep into his cheek, but he cannot help express the genuine thrill he feels at those words. “Alright, Louis. Then please call me Harry.”
Louis huffs a gentle laugh, smile still on his lips. “Harry.”
Harry nods. “I am confident we will make an excellent team.”
“We shall be.” Louis’ eyes sparkle with mirth. “Should it be you or me who tells Mrs. Humphreys that we’ve finally formed a partnership?”
Harry barks a laugh which falls easily and abruptly from his lips. Louis laughs in response, eyes crinkled in delight. Harry remembers with amusement how he and Louis joked about the exact same thing at the dinner party. “I think we should share the task. Would hate for either of us to miss her reaction.” Louis nods, laughing, as Harry continues, “Should we neglect to mention that it’s a business partnership, not a romantic one?”
Louis laughs, posture relaxed. “No, no. I definitely think she needs to know that we’re in business together. She’ll be absolutely furious.”
“We’re picking out fire alarms instead of wedding flowers,” Harry laughs. “We should ask for her opinions on them, just to see what she says.”
“She’d probably knock us both over the head and refuse to let us leave her house until we became engaged.”
“Or better yet, she’d have us mate right in front of her.”
Louis cackles, laughter warm and light. He wipes at his eyes, and when he catches his breath, waves his hand lazily through the air. “We shouldn’t joke about such things,” Louis says, but the way he’s still breathless with laughter suggests he doesn’t really mean it. “She’s a sweet woman even if she is a meddling busybody.”
Harry makes a noncommittal noise, shrugging. “I suppose. Still, I don’t think it would matter how much she threatened to hold me hostage. I would never mate just to satisfy her need for gossip.”
As soon as Harry says it, he wishes he could take it back. It was all well and fine to joke about mating, but with those words, Harry has just shifted the conversation into a serious discussion. Especially considering his attraction to Louis, and his unbidden thoughts about the potential of Louis being his, it is a conversation Harry knows would be better to avoid.
The atmosphere feels slightly charged in the room, Louis watching Harry carefully, gaze a bit heavy.
“And pray tell, Harry,” Louis says, voice slow and syrupy. Harry wonders absently if it’s intentional. “What would be a cause for you to mate?”
Harry shouldn’t answer. The question is inappropriate. It is improper to discuss mating with someone unless, well, they are considering mating one another.
That is not what this is.
Nevertheless, Harry finds himself answering, voice also slow and thick, “I would mate because I fell in love.”
“And you haven’t yet?” Louis asks.
Harry shakes his head.
Louis studies him for a moment, and then lets out an uneasy laugh. “I am surprised. With how many omegas Mrs. Humphreys has surely paired you with, I would imagine that you would be spoiled for choice.”
It’s a flimsy attempt to lighten the mood, but Harry ignores it, answering seriously, “I will not mate simply because she or society desires it. I will mate when the right person comes along. When I fall in love with them and they love me in return.”
Louis nods, motions slow. When he responds, his voice sounds slightly breathless. “I have no doubt you will find someone who you love and who loves you just as greatly.”
Harry gives Louis a small, genuine smile. “Thank you for saying that. I wish you the very same.”
Louis smiles, and for a moment, they just look at one another, lips upturned.
Harry eventually breaks their gaze, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. “And besides, I don’t have time to worry about a mate right now. I have my mill to worry about, and she is a devilish enough mistress.”
Louis laughs, but it still sounds a bit far away.
“I am glad we have met,” Harry says, in an attempt to dispel the thickened atmosphere around them and bring them back to the topic of business while still keeping the conversation friendly. “Before yesterday, I was convinced that I didn’t need anyone to help me improve my mill. I was confident I could do it by myself.” Harry huffs a laugh. “Well, Louis, it looks like I need you after all.”
When Louis doesn’t reply, Harry glances up at him. The smile has disappeared from Louis’ face; instead, his lips are parted, expression relaxed as he stares at Harry.
Harry’s brow pinches, confused at the abrupt change in Louis’ reaction, when suddenly, it hits him.
The most lovely, intoxicating smell of flowers has suddenly filled the room. The smell is so thick and cloying, so sudden, that Harry imagines he can see a fog surrounding him, pushing into every corner of the room. His brain turns to white static, his heart begins pounding, and his mouth suddenly feels very wet. All he can smell is flowers, and Harry wants to drown in it.
Absently, he remembers when he was a child and went to London for the first time with his parents. They’d taken him and Gemma to Hyde Park on a lovely summer day, and Harry had loved the rose garden. He remembers how the pink, red, yellow, and white roses had blossomed bright and brilliant. How the vibrant petals had caught the weak London sun, glistening. But mostly he remembers how the smell of the roses had created a blanket through the garden. Lovely and floral, it had smelled just like summer. The freshly cut grass and the bees buzzing nearby, and most of all, the roses. The powerful, consuming smell of the roses.
Harry feels as if he is back in Hyde Park’s rose garden, not in his office at Hampton Mills in Manchester. He forgets himself, too wrapped up in the suddenness of the heavenly smell to wonder where it’s coming from, to wonder what’s happening.
He’s jarred abruptly from his thoughts by the sound of Louis’ gasp.
Harry’s eyes fly open; he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them as he lost himself in the smell.
Louis’ eyes are wide with fear. His mouth opens and closes several times as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Harry aches to reach across the table, to put a hand on Louis’ knee and still him. To calm him.
“Louis –” Harry begins, unsure of what he is even going to say.
“I must go,” Louis cuts in abruptly. “Forgive me, Mr. St – I mean, Harry.” He’s out of his chair in a moment, pulling on his coat and hat. “I must go.”
Louis stumbles to the door gracelessly before wrenching it open. He steps through, but throws a glance over his shoulder at Harry.
So quietly, Harry wonders if he imagined it, the smallest whine falls from Louis’ lips.
Then the door shuts firmly and he’s gone.
The sharp click of the door jars Harry from his stupor.
“What the hell just happened?” Harry asks aloud, rubbing a hand over his face. The smell isn’t nearly as strong anymore, just lingering faintly in the air. But still present, still strong enough that Harry’s body feels warm, his mind hazy.
Harry shifts in his seat, and suddenly freezes. He was so lost in the smell that he hadn’t noticed how heavy his cock had become. How full and aching.
With a jolt, Harry realizes what had happened.
Louis overpowered his suppressants. He had been wet.
Louis had been wet for Harry.
The smell was Louis.
That lovely, overpowering, mesmerizing smell that had captured Harry’s senses was Louis.