Her voice caught. “You will never let me live that down, will you?”
“No. I can’t believe it: We never did give you any firearm lessons, did we?”
“There were always more pressing concerns.”
“We’ll do it this year—make you a crack shot in no time.”
“I’m sure the grouse will happily disagree as I miss every last one of them.”
“Grouse isn’t the only thing to shoot. The seasons for partridge and pheasant don’t end until first of February. And that’s plenty of t…”
His voice trailed off.
Understanding came all too swift to Millie, like a tropical sunset that abruptly turned day into night. There was no next year for them. Come January he would go to Mrs. Englewood.
“It’s all right,” she said gamely. “Not all of us are meant to be crack shots.”
He looked at her as if he hadn’t seen her in a very long time. Or perhaps, as if he might never see her again, and must memorize her features one by one.
When he finally spoke, he said, “They are still waiting for us for tea, you and me. Shall we go?”
CHAPTER 9
The Partnership
1889 
Millie’s father died three weeks after Alice. But whereas Alice had given every indication that she was not long for this earth, Mr. Graves’s heart failed unexpectedly. He was forty-two.
Millie was stunned. Her mother was incoherent with shock. Thankfully, as he had done after Mr. Townsend’s passing, Lord Fitzhugh stepped in and took charge of the arrangements.
Mr. Graves’s will was simple enough. He settled a number of trusts on longtime retainers and employees, gave miscellaneous gifts to members of his extended family, provided generously for his widow, and left all of Cresswell & Graves Enterprises to Millie.
After the funeral, Mrs. Hanover, Millie’s aunt, suggested that Mrs. Graves, devastated by grief, would do well to spend some time in a bright and cheerful place. Millie and Mrs. Hanover together accompanied Mrs. Graves to Tuscany, to recuperate in a sun-drenched landscape of cypresses and vineyards.
They’d planned to stay for at least three months. But a month into their sojourn, a letter came for Millie from her husband. He dutifully wrote once a week—short missives that numbered not more than five sentences between greetings and salutations. But this letter was three pages, front and back.
He had performed an audit of the firm, from its accounts and records to its factories and other physical assets. He had also spoken with a number of retailers who sold Cresswell & Graves wares.
Mr. Graves, during his tenure, had been excessively cautious. The plum pudding and the mackerel had been the only new products added to the line during the past decade. His philosophy had been to produce few products and produce them well. With the ever expanding number of companies that daily introduced more varieties to the market, Cresswell & Graves still sold about the same number of products from year to year, but they were becoming a smaller and smaller percentage of the retailers’ stock.
Moreover, they could not even boast their wares as the best-made tinned goods anymore. Yes, their ingredients were still carefully sourced and thoroughly inspected, and the manufacturing process was clean and conscientious, but newer technologies and production methods had become available in the past ten years—means to make preserved foods taste fresher and last longer—and Cresswell & Graves had adopted none of them.
The company was stagnating. In Lord Fitzhugh’s opinion, they had not yet reached a point of crisis. But should things continue at the same sluggish pace, it might not be long before they were moribund.
Change must happen. If they didn’t initiate the change now, it would be forced upon them soon. He meant to convene a meeting of lawyers and managers and discuss a new, more energetic direction for the company. Would Lady Fitzhugh join him?
Millie was dumbfounded—almost more by his request than by the company’s declining fortunes. From birth she’d been trained to be a lady. She knew nothing about the business. She’d never set foot in one of Cresswell & Graves’s factories. And until her honeymoon, never eaten from a tin.
It seemed almost blasphemous for her to participate in the running of the business in any capacity. Her mother never had. Her father, were he still alive, would be scandalized by any involvement on Millie’s part.
“What should I do?” she asked her mother.
“What do you wish to do?” said Mrs. Graves. She still looked pale and fragile in her widow’s weeds, but her old strength of mind was returning.
“I’d like to do what I can to help Lord Fitzhugh—and myself. But I’m not sure what my presence will accomplish. I haven’t the slightest experience when it comes to matters of business.”
“But the firm belongs to you. Without your support, Lord Fitzhugh cannot take over the management of it.”
“I’m astonished he wants to.” Lordships didn’t involve themselves in the nitty-gritty details of how their money was made.
Mrs. Graves tilted her embroidery frame to better examine it in the light. “I approve. A young man should have ambitious tasks with which to occupy himself. Even with all the work that remains to be done at Henley Park, the majority of the improvements will finish sometime in the not-too-distant future. But an ongoing concern such as Cresswell & Graves will always keep the man in charge busy.”
Millie remained awake half the night, thinking. In the morning, before breakfast, she sent out her reply.
I will start by the end of the week.
Lord Fitzhugh was on the platform, waiting, as Millie’s train reached London. She had not expected his presence. When she arrived at a destination behind him, she could always expect that he’d have dispatched a carriage for her, but he’d never before come to collect her in person.
He nodded when he spotted her, her face very nearly pressed to the window. Ever so beautiful, her husband, but there was something different in his aspect today. He was dressed rather formally, gleaming top hat, a black frock coat, a mourning band on his arm—but that was not it.
Then she realized that for the very first time since she’d met him, he looked genuinely excited. Unlike the earldom, which he took on most reluctantly, he relished the prospect of remaking Cresswell & Graves.
He offered her his arm as she disembarked. “How was your trip, Lady Fitzhugh?”
“It was fine. I had to wait overnight in Calais—too much fog on the channel—but other than that, quite smooth.”
“And how is Mrs. Graves?”
“Much better. She sends her regards—and she approves of your ambitions.”
“Your mother, without a doubt, is the most forward-looking person I’ve ever met.”
“She would have been very gratified to hear of it.”
“Then, I will be sure to tell her in person next time we meet. What of you, Lady Fitzhugh, do you also approve of my ambitions?”
She was speaking to a different person. Lord Fitzhugh as she’d known him had been a stoic who carried out his duties because it was expected of him. But this young man next to her had something he wanted to accomplish.
Mrs. Graves had called their joint decisions the foundation upon which to build a life. But after the foundation they’d need a framework. And Cresswell & Graves just might prove to be that framework.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “I think taking over the company is exactly what you should do.”
He handed her into their waiting carriage and climbed in after her, taking the backward-facing seat. “Thank goodness—I was afraid you’d consider it too distasteful.”