Chapter 231: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty One
The polished, dark green carriage, a fine example of the Carson family’s immense wealth, stopped smoothly in the courtyard of the Ellington Textiles establishment.
Inside, Anne sat perfectly still, her hands clasped in her lap. She stared out the window but saw nothing of the familiar building or the busy workers. Her mind was a closed loop, replaying the last instructions her mother had given her.
"Delia hasn’t acquired all of Ellington’s assets yet," Augusta’s voice echoed in her head, sharp and urgent. "That old man still needs a doctor’s assessment to prove he is fine before the preparations for the transfer can even begin. That gives us time. Continue going to Ellington Textiles. You are still, in their eyes, a daughter of the house. Use that. Stash enough money, sell off the private fabrics, do whatever you have to do before everything is finalized and they throw you out, too."
A hard, determined look settled on Anne’s face. Her mother was right. This was not the time for tears or self-pity. This was a time for action. She would be the dutiful daughter, but she would be siphoning funds, building a war chest for the fight that was to come.
"My lady, we have arrived." The footman’s voice startled her, disrupting her thoughts. He had opened the carriage door and was holding out a gloved hand to help her down. Anne took his hand, her expression shifting from one of grim resolve to the polite a distant mask. She stepped down from the carriage and, with her head held high, walked into the entrance of the establishment.
"Lady Anne!" a senior salesperson spoke as Anne entered the main showroom, his voice a mixture of surprise and respect. He bowed his head slightly. "It is good to see you."
"I have come to look over the accounts in the study," she said, her tone cool and authoritative.
"Of course, my lady," the salesperson replied. "But... you have a guest."
Anne stopped, genuinely confused. "A guest?" She had told no one she was coming here today. "Who would want to see me?" Her circle of friends had dwindled to nothing since the first scandal with Evelin Pembroke till now. No one sought her out anymore.
The salesperson nodded, his expression a little uncertain. "He did not give a name, my lady. He simply said he was an old acquaintance of the family and would wait for you. He is in the Baron’s study."
A flicker of annoyance passed over Anne’s face. She disliked surprises, and she disliked people making themselves at home in her family’s private spaces. She gave the salesperson a curt nod and walked with a determined stride toward the study which was settled deep into the building. She would deal with this person quickly and then get on with her real work.
She opened the heavy oak door without knocking and saw a man sitting in the elegant armchair behind the Baron’s large, polished desk. He was leaning back casually, his worn boots propped up on the expensive wood, and he was eating a piece of bread, littering the pristine desk with a cascade of crumbs.
"Who are you?" Anne asked, her voice sharp with outrage at the sight of this audacious intruder.
The man finished his bite of bread, slowly licking a crumb from his lip before he answered. He looked her up and down with a lazy, familiar gaze. "You don’t remember me?" he asked, his voice a low, rough rumble. "I was the one who said hello to your mother, Augusta, right here in front of this establishment. Caused quite a stir, as I recall."
It was the man who had terrified her mother. Anne just stood there, bewildered by his sheer audacity. To show up here, to make himself at home in this room—it was an incredible insult.
Fredrick continued, ignoring her shocked silence. He gestured around the room with the piece of bread. "Wow, so it’s true. You actually do run the textile part of this establishment now. So, that means you can buy and sell textiles here, right? If you run this place?"
Anne’s shock quickly hardened into a cold anger. "Are you daft? You can’t just come in here and sit in that chair," she said rudely.
Fredrick took another slow, deliberate bite of his bread. "What?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
"Didn’t you hear me, or are you deaf?" Anne snapped, her patience gone. "Leave. Now. Or do you want to be dragged out by force?"
Fredrick finally swung his boots off the desk and stood up from the seat. "Damn," he said, a look of mock disappointment on his face. He began to walk slowly towards Anne. With each step he took forward, she instinctively took a step back, a primal fear beginning to bubble up beneath her anger.
"Wh-what are you doing?" she stammered, her retreat halted by the wall behind her.
He stopped just a few feet from her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of ale on his breath. "Girl," he said, his voice low and intimate, "your mother and I, we go way back."
"Go way back?" Anne asked, her mind racing. "What... what does that mean?"
"It means you should have some respect for your elders," he replied, a smirk playing on his lips. He looked her over again, his gaze lingering on her face. "You know," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "you look a lot like me. We have the same brown hair. The same brown eyes."
The insinuation hung in the air, a poisonous, unthinkable thought. Anne was confused, her heart pounding in her chest.
"I’m sure she didn’t tell you about me," he continued, enjoying the look of fear and confusion on her face. "She knows what I’m like."
He smirked as he walked past her, his shoulder brushing against hers. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, elegant perfume bottle made of crystal with a silver top. He placed it deliberately on a small table that stood close to the door.
Anne turned, her eyes fixed on the bottle. "What is that?" she asked.
Fredrick held the doorknob, pausing before he left. "It belongs to your mother," he said, his voice casual. "She left it at my house the other day. I thought she might want it back."
The implication that her fugitive mother was staying with this strange, dangerous man was another dizzying blow. "What is your name?" Anne asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He turned his head, giving her one last look. "Fredrick Garrison," he said. He then opened the door, closed it softly behind him, and was gone.