Right Place, Right Time (The Pilsdale

Chronicles Book 1) H.L Day

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Right Place, Right Time
Pilsdale Chronicles #1
H.L Day
 Copyright

All Rights Reserved:

This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic or photographic reproduction,
in whole or in part, without express written permission.

Right Place, Right Time is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination
or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.

Warning

Intended for an 18+ audience. This book contains material that may be offensive to some and is intended for a mature, adult audience. It
contains graphic language, explicit sexual content, and adult situations.

Cover Art by Samantha Santana at Amai Designs https://www.amaidesigns.com/

Right Place, Right Time © 2023 H.L Day

 Contents

Blurb
Other books by the same author
Foreword
Thanks
Keep in touch with HL
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three

Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
Thanks
More MM romance books by H.L Day
If you like this book, you might also like
 Blurb

Sometimes the path to true love twists so much that you end up right back where you started.

Ben Sutcliffe’s teenage crush on his best friend’s dad burned hotter than a forest fire. Jasper Bennet
was sexy, kind, and caring—the perfect man. He was also straight and off-limits. The wrong man at
the wrong time. So when tragedy sent Ben running for the hills, he never looked back… until now.
The sleepy village of Pilsdale is exactly how Ben remembers it, and so is Jasper. Only this time,
there’s a glint in Jasper’s eye that says Ben might not have known everything about him.
The key to overcoming Ben’s past can be found in Jasper’s arms. But he can’t stay. He has a whole
life waiting for him outside Pilsdale. But the longer he stays, the more he thinks it’s finally the right
time to be with the right man.

Right Place, Right Time is a low angst contemporary, small town, best friend’s dad, age gap,
M/M romance. It features a main character who had good taste even as a teenager, a main
character who always puts others first to his own detriment, an animal sanctuary, not-so-secret
admirers, meddling villagers, a massage or three, and a sprinkling of humor.
Other books by the same author

The 13 Kingdoms series

The Reluctant Companion (#1)
The Stubborn Accomplice (#2)
The Wandering Prince (#3)

EagerBoyz series
Eager To Try (#0.5)
Eager For You ( #1)
Eager For More (#2)

Too Far series

A Dance too Far (#1)
A Step too Far (#2)

Temporary series
A Temporary Situation (Tristan and Dom #1)
A Christmas Situation ( Tristan and Dom #1.5)
Temporary Insanity (Paul and Indy #1)

Fight for Survival series

Refuge
Rebellion
 Standalones
Time for a Change
Kept in the Dark
Taking Love’s Lead
Edge of Living
Christmas Riches
Exposed
The Longest Night
Not So Silent Night
Five Night Stand
The Beauty Within
Demon Inside
Scoring Points

H.L Day’s darker alter ego H.L Night

Twisted Web series

Shai
Elijah
 Foreword

Please note that Pilsdale is a fictional place that exists solely in the author’s brain.
 Thanks

Huge thanks to my beta readers, Barbara and Sherry.

 Keep in touch with HL

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Visit H.L’s website or Amazon page to see her other books and audios
 Chapter One

The winding country roads with their tree-lined verges managed to be both achingly familiar and
completely alien as I drove along them. I’d grown up in this area, where sheep outnumbered the
people by three to one; my formative years spent with the Peak District on my doorstep and all the
weekends hiking and exploring nature that came with it.
A car came in the opposite direction and I slowed. The narrowness of the road and the sharp bend
meant that oncoming traffic needed to be treated with the utmost respect. We exchanged nods as we
passed each other without incident and continued on our way.
The closer I got to the junction ahead and the decision that needed to be made, the more tightly my
fingers curled around the steering wheel. Go left? Or go right? Left took me to my whole reason for
being here, the house I’d inherited from my aunt, and that I needed to empty of personal possessions
before putting on the market. Whereas, right took me to the cemetery. The house was nearer, and
easier. There was no judgment to be found in bricks and mortar.
Dead people don’t judge, Ben. I grimaced at my brain’s attempt to bring rational thinking into the
equation. Okay, it wasn’t judgment I feared. It was guilt. The guilt that came with having walked away
four years ago, and not having come back since. Not even for my aunt’s funeral. I’d thought about
coming back, but there’d always been something else that I could convince myself took precedence. A
party I’d been talked into going to. Work that I’d convinced myself couldn’t wait. A weekend spent in
bed with Evan instead, while I conveniently pushed away the real reason for not wanting to return.
My lip curled at the thought of Evan. He’d played a huge part in the excuses that had kept me from
returning to Pilsdale, and now he was responsible for me being back, even if I’d told him otherwise. I
doubted he’d believed me, anyway. My aunt Eileen’s house had lain empty for close to a year, so my
sudden need to deal with everything immediately really hadn’t held water.
 But then he should have thought of that before falling into bed with his best friend, shouldn’t he?
There’d always been a frisson of something between the two of them. I’d tried not to see it, had tried
my hardest not to play the jealous boyfriend when they’d been off somewhere together, but there was
no denying that it had been difficult, the odd barbed comment slipping from my lips when I couldn’t
help myself. And what had Evan done? He’d laughed and told me that there was nothing but
friendship between him and Anthony.
And I’d accepted it. Because what was the alternative? Giving him an ultimatum? Making him
choose between us? So I’d put up with it, and I’d silenced the inner voice insisting that Evan’s
closeness with Anthony could only lead to trouble. And the three of us had rattled along in a
semblance of peace and tranquility.
Until Evan had slept with Anthony.
The amusing thing was that I’d probably have been none the wiser if Evan himself hadn’t sat me
down and confessed what he’d done in a cloud of snot and tears. He was very sorry, he’d said. It
shouldn’t have happened. They’d both been drunk. Anthony regretted it just as much as Evan himself
did. It meant nothing, and it would never happen again.
Did I believe him? I wasn’t sure. So instead of dealing with it, I’d run, hoping that time and space
would give me the answers that had seemed so lacking in London. And here I was, back in the rural
sticks that I’d been so keen to get away from. I supposed there was a certain irony in there
somewhere.
I did a double take as the high iron gates of the cemetery loomed in front of me. Shit! I’d been so
busy thinking about Evan that my subconscious had decided for me. I parked and then sat there, staring
at the gates. The last time I’d been here had been my parents’ funeral, painful memories threatening to
rise to the surface if I didn’t keep a tight control on them. I pushed them down as I got out of the car
and slammed the door behind me.
The cemetery was deserted, and I was glad. This was hard enough without bumping into any faces
from the past. I went to ‘see’ my aunt first, her grave still looking pristine, which I supposed it would
after less than a year. I stood awkwardly at the side of the grave, skimming the words on the
headstone. I might have chosen them, but it was the first time I’d seen them with my own eyes. I
glanced both ways to check I was alone before opening my mouth to say something. “Hi Eileen.”
Silence. Of course there was. It wasn’t like she was going to answer. And if she had, I would have
got out of there pretty damn quick, and probably driven all the way back to London without stopping.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your funeral. I was busy with work.” I cringed. At the very least, dead
people deserved honesty. “That’s not true.” I let out a sigh. “And I guess you wouldn’t believe it,
anyway. I’m a masseuse, not a paramedic. The only emergency I’m going to get is if Mrs. Smith has an
attack of anxiety and needs to chill out a bit.”
Mrs. Smith was an actual client. One who’d been a regular for close to two years, the woman
telling me lascivious stories I’d much rather not have known during our twice-weekly sessions. No
one wanted to be the confidante of a wife cheating on her husband with another man, but I hadn’t had
a lot of choice in it. Not when Mrs. Smith hadn’t taken the hint from my lack of response, and
continued to regale me with lurid tales of her and Jonathan, and how he understood her much better
than her husband did. “The truth is,” I told Eileen, “That I found it difficult to come back here. You
know after…” I let my gaze wander to the opposite side of the graveyard without focusing in on what
lay in that direction.
I imagined Eileen tipping her head to one side and scrutinizing me the way she used to, a reluctant
smile tugging at my lips. “So, yeah, I admit it. I was a coward. But now that Evan and I are… You
remember Evan, right? Well, not remember him, because I know you never got to meet him, but I
talked about him a lot. He was my boyfriend.” I stopped short at the word was. It had slipped out so
easily. Since his confession two weeks ago, we’d existed in a strange state of limbo, continuing to
share a flat, because where else was I supposed to go? We hadn’t shared a bed, though, Evan
magnanimously offering to sleep on the sofa. And we hadn’t discussed where his actions had left us
because it was just easier not to.
Except, apparently my subconscious already knew, and had filed him away in a box neatly labelled
ex-boyfriend rather than a current one. Which was all kinds of messy when it came to my return to
London. It would mean having to find somewhere new to live that I could afford. Then there was the
fact that we had mutual friends. What would happen with them? Would they be forced to pick sides?
And what did being single mean in the long-term? God, would I have to date? That sounded
horrifying. But it wasn’t like I was prepared to be left on the shelf at the ripe old age of twenty-five.
“Thanks for leaving me the house. I thought you might leave it to that cat charity that you always
supported. I’m assuming you realized that I’d sell it. It’s not like I’m going to move back here. I’m just
here for a couple of months while I sort out your belongings and organize any repairs or
improvements it might need to make it more attractive to buyers.” Regret at talking about Eileen’s
house as if it was nothing more than a commodity sank in. “Not that it’s not a lovely house. It is. Or at
least it was the last time I saw it. Just… yeah…” I lifted my head and breathed in the silence for a
few seconds. “I’ve grown used to London. That’s my home.”
 Eileen said nothing, but in my head, she fixed me with that judgmental stare once more. “It is.
London’s a huge place. It’s not like I can’t put some distance between us without leaving the city. He
lives in North London. I could move to South London if I wanted to, as long as it’s not too far for me
to commute to work. And yes, there are some areas to avoid in South London, but there are some nice
places as well. It will be fine.”
I lifted my gaze, this time focusing on the headstone in the distance, a solid lump settling in my gut.
“I need to go and see them, Eileen, but I’ll come again before I go home, I promise. I’ll take good
care of your house, and I’ll bring flowers next time. Irises, your favorite.”
The next headstone was harder to approach, my parents’ names staring back at me in bright gold
lettering from the shiny black background. Just like I had at my aunt’s grave, I stood in silence for a
few moments. Here, it was more about forcing down the gamut of emotions that threatened to burst
free. There was a reason I hadn’t been back in Pilsdale for a long time, and this was it. I took a deep
breath. “Hi Mum. Hi Dad. Long time, no see. I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit you since the funeral.” I
didn’t even bother trying to lie this time. “It was too difficult for me. It’s still difficult.” I swallowed,
the memory of the car accident that had stolen my parents away from me well before their time as
vivid as the day it had first happened.
“I’ve got a lot to tell you…” I lowered myself to the grass bank and for the next however many
minutes I brought them up to speed, stopping a time or two to wipe away a stray tear when I found
myself wishing that this conversation was taking place at a kitchen table, where my mum could pat me
on the back of the hand and tell me everything was going to be okay like she always had, and my dad
—while not getting involved in the conversation—would nod understandingly and show me he was
there for me with his presence, rather than words. God, I missed that. Missed them.
My phone rang just as I reached the end of my story, the harsh chimes of my ringtone completely out
of place in the quiet solitude of the graveyard. I grimaced at the name on the screen. “Really not the
time, Evan.”
Except, it kind of felt like it was. Like in some weird way, I had my parents’ support. It was for that
reason that I answered the call. “Hey Ben,” said Evan. “I just wanted to check you’d got there safely.”
“Not yet.”
“No?” Evan sounded surprised. “You didn’t have car trouble, did you?”
“I stopped off at the graveyard to see my parents and my aunt. That’s where I am now.”
“Oh.” There was a world of embarrassment in that one word. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have called if
I’d known you were there.” Why did Evan have to be so nice? It just made his fuck-up that much more
uncharacteristic and put whispers in my head that maybe if I gave him a second chance, things could
work things out between us. “I’ll call you later, Ben.”
“Wait!” It was better to get this over with.
“Yeah?” Evan’s question was laden with caution.
I imagined my mum reaching out and squeezing my hand. “You know we’re done, right? That I
wouldn’t have left if I’d thought there was still something left between us worth fighting for.” There
was a long silence, long enough that I checked my phone to make sure we were still connected. “Ev?”
“You’re upset. This isn’t the right time. When you’re back in London, we can sit down and have a
proper discussion.”
“When I’m back in London, I’ll be collecting the rest of my things and moving out.”
More silence. “Where will you go?”
I couldn’t decide whether Evan sounded more hurt or confused. Perhaps both. “I don’t know. At the
moment, I need to concentrate on things here.”
“You won’t be able to afford rent in London on your own.”
“That’s hardly a reason to stay in a relationship where my boyfriend cheated on me, is it? I need to
keep my self-respect.”
“It was a mistake, Ben. Albeit a big one, but it was a mistake. What if I agree not to see Anthony
anymore?”
A bitter laugh escaped from my lips. “So… in other words, you were planning to keep seeing him.”
“He’s a friend. I don’t just dump my friends.”
“No. You sleep with them instead.” I refused to feel guilty for the sharp retort. Not when it was
unmistakably true.
Evan sighed. “I don’t know how many more times I can say I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to say it anymore. That’s the beauty of us being done. You might have said it, but
that doesn’t mean I have to accept it. I can’t get past what happened, and now the two of us can go our
separate ways. Hey, you and Anthony can be together.” I waited for a twinge of regret to hit, surprised
to find it never materialized. If ever there was proof that this was the right thing to do, then there it
was.
“I don’t want to be with Anthony.”
I laughed. “Well, obviously you did. Your dick didn’t accidentally fall into him.” I offered the
headstone an apologetic glance for my language. “Or maybe it was the other way round. Don’t tell
me. I really don’t want to know.”
 “If I’d said nothing, you’d never have known.”
“I’m sure I would have worked it out, eventually. But… I am grateful that you told me. If I’d found
out six months down the line, it would have been worse.”
There was another long silence, Evan the first to break it. “When will you be back in London?”
I squinted as the sun came out from behind a cloud to bathe me in bright light, my sunglasses back
in the car. “I don’t know. One month. Two. However long it takes. Sheryl is expecting me back at
work in two months, so I guess that’s my deadline.”
“You’ll die of boredom.”
I pulled my knees in and rested my chin on them. “Probably. I brought my massage table, so I’m
hoping to pick up some work while I’m here.”
“Who are you going to massage?” Evan sounded wildly amused by the idea. “Sheep?”
“You think no one up north gets a massage?”
“I think there’ll be a lot fewer people who would even consider it.”
Personally, I suspected he was right. Particularly out here in the middle of nowhere, but I wasn’t
about to admit that. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here to do what needs to be done on the house. It would be
nice to pick up some massage clients for a few weeks, but if I don’t, I don’t.”
“Call me, Ben, if you get lonely and need someone to talk to. As a friend, I mean.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure.” I wouldn’t. It would just muddy the waters when I’d meant what I’d said.
“I better let you go, then.” The pause said that there were things that Evan wanted to add, but I was
grateful when he left them unsaid.
“Bye Evan.”
“Bye Ben.”
I hung up and then lifted my gaze back to the headstone. “So, I guess I’m single.” In my mind, my
mother patted my hand again. “I don’t know whether you would have liked him.” Which was a weird
thought to have about the man I’d been with for over two years. Why had I never pondered that
before? “Evan’s nice, but…” I frowned. “I don’t know. I think you would have thought he was too…”
Too what? Too London? What did that even mean? “Too city, I guess. You and Dad always loved the
countryside.” A smile hovered on my lips. “I remember when we used to drive to Sheffield and Dad
didn’t stop grumbling until we were back in the car.” I scanned the graveyard. “I can’t imagine Evan
here. I mean, not in the graveyard, but in the countryside. He’d be looking for an escape route five
minutes after arriving.”
 I spent another half an hour sitting at the side of my parents’ grave before clambering to my feet and
making my way back to the car. While the combination of facing my fears and ending things with Evan
might not have put a spring in my step, I was more upbeat than at the start of the day.
 Chapter Two

The tiny village of Pilsdale hadn’t changed much since I’d left. It still comprised one village shop
cum post office, a few other shops, a pub, a church, a doctor’s surgery where I’d spent three years as
a receptionist between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one while still living with my parents, a large
village hall that when I’d lived here had been used for everything from a library to an exercise space,
and a large duck pond at the center of the village green. It was the feathered inhabitants of the latter
that offered me a sideways glance as I parked in front of the village shop and climbed out of the car.
I was in no rush to reacquaint myself with the not-so-bustling center of Pilsdale. Unfortunately,
though, if I wanted to avoid starving to death, there was only one place to pick supplies up from, until
such a time as I could drive farther afield, and this was it.
The doorbell jangled at a horrendously loud volume as I pushed the door of the shop open. A
familiar head of curly gray hair immediately popped up from behind the counter in a way that
suggested surprise that someone had entered the shop. Perhaps I should have made an appointment.
From the look on her face and the way her eyes went wide, I guessed she recognized me too, her
greeting confirming it. “Benjamin Sutcliffe, as I live and breathe. Is that really you, sweetheart?”
I gave a nod as I let the door swing shut behind me, fighting the bizarre urge to turn tail and run.
“Mrs. Beasley. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Oh, you,” she said, as she came barreling toward me in a frankly impressive turn of speed for
someone her age. I barely had a chance to blink before I found myself engulfed in a jasmine-soaked
embrace and pressed to her ample bosom. She even went as far as to stroke my hair. I vacillated
wildly between it being uncomfortable and kind of nice, deciding in the end that it didn’t really
matter. Not when there was no escaping the hug until Mrs. Beasley decided she was done. More hair
stroking followed. “You poor child.”
 I wrenched my head to the side, managing to find an inch of breathing space before I passed out.
“I’m twenty-five, Mrs. Beasley.”
She gave me a pat on the head. At least, I assumed it was a pat. Although, a gentle slap was also an
option. “Like I said, you’re nothing but a child.”
Given that she couldn’t have been a day under seventy, I guessed I was. She’d been old back when
I hadn’t been tall enough to see over the counter, and here we were at least twenty years later. “I was
so worried about you when you up and left straight after your parents’ funeral.” She punctuated her
words with a few more strokes of my hair. “And your aunt Eileen said you’d gone to London, of all
places. London!” She said it how someone else might say Mars. “Why did you want to go there?” I
opened my mouth to answer, but apparently it had been a rhetorical question. “Horrible place. Not
that I’ve ever been. Why would I? But I’ve seen it on the TV. All traffic and smog and protests. And
far too many politicians roaming the streets like they’ve got nothing better to do with their time.”
I frowned, wondering whether it was worth pointing out, that in my four years living in the capital,
I hadn’t bumped into a single politician, either roaming the streets or in any other capacity. I decided
against it, but couldn’t stop myself from defending my adopted home. “It has some nice parks and
museums.”
She let out a huff that said she didn’t find my argument convincing, but at least she let go at long
last. Only for long enough to grasp me by the shoulders and scrutinize me, though. “And you’ve got
even handsomer since you left.”
Heat immediately rushed to my face. “Thank you.”
She cupped my cheeks and cackled. “There’s enough heat in your face, Benjamin, to heat my shop
for the next week. Does no one give compliments in London?”
I ignored the question and concentrated on her use of my name instead. “Everyone usually just calls
me Ben.”
“Do they?” She pulled a face. “Why? When Benjamin is such a lovely name.”
“All those extra syllables, I guess.”
She raised an eyebrow. “If they don’t have time for two extra syllables, then they need to take a
long hard look at their life. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess. I haven’t really thought about it.”
Mrs. Beasley crossed her skinny arms over her chest and tipped her head to one side. “What does
your wife call you?”
“My wife?”
 She reached out, the speed of her fingers as she delivered a quick pinch to my biceps, putting a
striking cobra to shame. “Virile young man like you. You must have one.”
“Erm… no, I don’t.” Should I tell her I was gay? I wasn’t sure how that would go down with
someone of Mrs. Beasley’s generation, though. Better to keep it to myself for the time being until I
worked out the lay of the land, just as I’d done during my teenage years, where only those closest to
me had been privy to the truth of my sexuality. Thinking back, it had been nothing short of a miracle
that in a village as small as this, it hadn’t been common knowledge. But if it hadn’t reached the
always wagging ears of Mrs. Beasley, it was likely that no one else had known either.
Mrs. Beasley turned away and grabbed a basket. It was one of three, a rush on her goods
apparently not expected anytime soon. She hooked her other arm through mine and gently tugged me
toward the nearest shelf. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to trouble yourself. I can sort myself out. I only came for a few things.”
“Pfft… and when you find yourself missing essential items, then what will you do? I’ll tell you
what. You’ll be back here tomorrow, and we’ll just have to do this all over again, so we may as well
do it right the first time.”
I frowned as she plucked a white loaf off the shelf and deposited it in the basket. “I don’t eat white
bread.”
She sighed as she retrieved it from the basket and swapped it for a brown loaf. “Of course you
don’t. You’ve picked up fancy London ways. Don’t be asking me for any of that grandmary bread. I
don’t stock it.”
“I think you mean granary.”
“Whatever it’s called, I don’t have it. You’ll have brown or you’ll do without.”
“Brown is fine.”
“Good boy.” She dragged me over to a fridge, her hand hovering over the full-fat milk before she
let out another sigh and settled on the semi-skimmed instead. She added four pints to the basket before
handing the basket to me and making me carry it. This rather strange method of shopping went on for
some time, with various food items added—all of which I had no say over apart from if I protested
there being a better option. And to think that I’d spent years in Sainsburys just wandering around on
my own and making all my own decisions.
“I assume you’re staying at Eileen’s house?” Mrs. Beasley asked. “God bless her soul.”
“I am,” I agreed.
 She tugged me down another aisle. “The house has been empty for a year. You must have lost the
map to get back here. Either that or someone stole your tires.” She nodded to herself. “You were in
London. Of course, it was the tires.” She pointed at the shelf we’d stopped in front of. “You’ll need
cleaning products.” She added a stack of bottles and sprays to the baskets. A more cynical person
might have assumed that Mrs. Beasley had seen the opportunity to put a decent lump sum through her
till. She topped it off with a packet of cloths, and a pair of rubber gloves, and then she escorted me to
the counter where she perused the display behind the counter. “Batteries?”
“Erm… I don’t think I have anything that needs them.”
“A lighter?”
“I don’t smoke.”
She added a packet of headache tablets without bothering to ask me. I let it go. They could prove
useful. Especially if every local shopping trip was going to be like this one.
“Condoms?”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“Condoms. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.”
“I don’t… I…” Heat was back in my cheeks.
“What size?”
I let out a sound that was halfway between a strangled squawk and a cough. She looked me over.
“Let’s go for medium.” My face grew fierier as she added them to the basket. Who did she think I was
going to be using condoms with in Pilsdale? It was tempting to ask, but given that my chances of
liking the answer were probably slim to non-existent, I decided against it.
As she started ringing up all the items she’d decided I needed, my gaze strayed over to the window,
where just as there’d been when I was a child, there was a notice board. “Can I put a card in your
window?”
“Of course you can, sweetheart.” She gestured to the end of the counter, where there was a pen next
to a stack of colored card rectangles. “Knock yourself out.”
“Thanks.” I could feel her gaze on me as I moved to the end of the counter, selected a plain white
rectangle, and started to write.
“What are you advertising?”
I answered without looking up. “I’m a massage therapist. I want to see if I can get some clients
while I’m here. I don’t know if there’ll be any call for it, but I guess if you don’t try, you’ll never
know.”
 “A massage therapist!” She said it like I’d announced I was a rock star. “Ooh, fancy.”
I stifled a smile as she turned her attention back to scanning my items. “Not really.” I finished
writing the card and positioned it carefully in the window where there was a blank space, before
going back over to join Mrs. Beasley at the counter.
She lifted the pack of condoms and waved it at me. “I tell you who needs a massage.”
It took great willpower to stop following the swooping path of the condoms to focus on her words.
“Who?”
“Jasper. Jasper Bennet. Do you remember him?”
The name may as well have been a ten-ton truck appearing out of the mist to slam right into me,
given the impact it had.
Mrs. Beasley carried on, oblivious to having stolen the breath from my lungs. “Of course you do.
You and young Finnian Bennet were as thick as thieves as children. I never saw one of you without
the other. It was like you were glued together.” I smiled at the memory. She wasn’t wrong. Finn and I
had been inseparable growing up. Hot on the heels of fond memories came guilt.
When I’d left Pilsdale, Finn had tried to stay in touch but grief, work, new experiences, Evan, and
probably a hundred other things I could name, had meant he’d put a lot more effort in than I had. And
eventually, just like anyone would, he’d given up. Top of my list of things to do while I was back in
Pilsdale was to reconnect with Finn. I was hoping he’d forgive me for being a dick and throwing
away our friendship like it had meant nothing. Because it had. It had meant the world. “Why does
Finn’s dad need a massage?”
Mrs. Beasley stuffed the last of the items into a carrier bag and pointed at the cash register where
the price was on display. “Because he works far too hard. Have you watched his Tube You videos, or
whatever it is they’re called? He’s always lifting things and lugging things around.”
“YouTube,” I said with a smile.
“Whatever. I can’t be doing with all these names at my age that mean absolutely nothing.”
I handed over the money to pay for the shopping. “And no, I haven’t watched any of them. I didn’t
know he made YouTube videos.”
“Well, he does.” She reached over the counter and grabbed hold of my hands, turning them over to
scrutinize my palms. I had no idea what she was looking for. Massage calluses? Was that a thing?
“You need to get your hands on him. Don’t take no for an answer.”
I swallowed down the sudden lump in my throat. “I usually like my massage clients to be willing.
All that wriggling around as they try to escape from the table makes it too difficult, if not.”
 Mrs. Beasley let out a surprisingly girlish laugh. “You know what I meant. You’ll get me into
trouble, you will. I don’t want anyone accusing me of being the ringleader of some sort of dark
massage ring, and I’m too old to be strip-searched by the police. I can’t take that kind of excitement at
my age. Although…” A thoughtful look settled on her face. “The new police constable is all kinds of
pretty, so it wouldn’t be a terrible way to go. There are worse ways.”
I pulled my carrier bags off the counter before I was forced to visualize the scenario that Mrs.
Beasley had just painted for me. “Well… thanks for your help, Mrs. Beasley, and for letting me put a
card in your window. It’s been lovely to see you again.”
Her face split into a genuinely happy smile. “The pleasure was all mine. I don’t get enough
handsome men coming in here. Only you and Jasper. Oh, and Archer now.”
Jasper. That name again. That same thunderbolt hitting me in the chest once more.
Mrs. Beasley waved as I reached the door and turned back to say goodbye. “Don’t be a stranger,
Benjamin. Come back when you need more condoms.”
More condoms? She’d given me a pack of ten. Unless I was going to make balloon animals out of
them, I couldn’t envisage any scenario where I’d need more. “I will.” Not for condoms, obviously,
but she was certainly the most convenient place for bread and milk.
“And I’ll make sure that everyone who comes through that door knows about your card. I’ll tell
them you’ve got good hands, and they should give you a try.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
And then I was back in the cool air, bags full to the brim with items I didn’t really need, and still
pondering what Mrs. Beasley thought I was going to do with the condoms. Strangely, though, it felt
like I was home.
 Chapter Three

The house was in the state you’d expect it to be after remaining untouched for a year, which was to
say it was musty, with a thick layer of dust covering everything. I’d been paying the gas and electricity
bills—along with the council tax—from the small amount of money that had been left to me along
with the house, so at least the house still had power. It took a few minutes of running the taps before I
got water to come out that wasn’t discolored. The mustiness meant that I’d slept with the windows
open and spent most of the night freezing to death in my thin sleeping bag. I’d considered sleeping in
my aunt’s old bedroom, but it had felt too weird, taking up residence in the rather cramped spare
room, which was half storage and half bedroom, instead. The mattress on the spare bed had been
lumpy, and I’d spent most of the night feeling like I was re-enacting The Princess and the Pea.
By the time morning finally rolled around, I didn’t so much feel refreshed, as relieved, that I could
leave the bed and make my way down to the dusty kitchen. I felt slightly better by the time I’d drunk
two cups of coffee and eaten some toast. Mrs. Beasley had been right about me needing all the
cleaning products. It just wasn’t something I felt up to facing today. Today was about hopefully
reconnecting with Finn, even if it meant prostrating myself at his feet and begging for forgiveness.
Which knowing Finn as I did, would quite possibly be a requirement of rekindling our friendship.
It was a thirty-five-minute drive to Finn’s place. Jasper’s place, my subconscious whispered,
forcing me to tell it to shut up. I was older now. I’d had boyfriends, Evan not being my first. Any
childhood crush I might once have had on my best friend’s dad had been just that—a crush. Nothing
more. I’d probably take one look at him and laugh. It was like those childhood crushes you had on TV
actors or pop stars. One day you had their posters on the wall of your bedroom and then the next you
wondered what you’d ever seen in them. They burned brightly during adolescence, but the passage of
time and life experience had them fizzle out to be replaced by something far more realistic and
substantial. I’d been coming to terms with being gay. Of course, I’d fixated on the only man I saw
regularly who hadn’t been a relative.
You weren’t related to Finn. Yeah, but Finn had been like a brother to me. That would have been
weird for both of us. So, I’d fixated on his dad instead. A nice, safe crush, my subconscious knowing
that nothing could ever come of it because a) there was a sizeable age-gap between the two of us b)
he was my best friend’s dad and c) he was straight. Yeah, c was quite a big one.
I was smiling as I slowed to take the turn into the familiar long driveway. As an old farm, the house
had always sat on a considerable acreage, and Finn and I had made the most of it when we were
children. It hadn’t been a farm to us; it had been a land of adventures.
Giving in to sentiment, I brought the car to a stop at the side of the grass verge and got out, the
peace and quiet hitting me immediately as I leaned against the fence to look across the empty field.
Over there was the river where Finn and I had swum, and tried to fish. Although, it had only taken one
afternoon for us to realize that we had neither the skill nor the patience for it. In the distance was the
private woodland where we’d had our secret club headquarters, the treehouse being a real labor of
love when we’d built it. Or should I say, when Jasper had built it. We’d passed him things and made
ridiculous demands about it needing a periscope and fortifications to stop imaginary invaders.
Jasper had just tousled our hair and told us it would be perfect. And it had been, seeing us through
a childhood of reading comic books, to teenagers sneaking bottles of booze and trying our first
cigarette. Finn had coughed so hard with the cigarette he’d almost fallen out of the tree house, forcing
me to grab his arm to prevent a nasty accident.
A noise to my right had me jerking back, my heart beating double-time. Jesus! Well, that was new.
There was an honest to God black llama staring at me curiously. I held out a hand, and it sniffed it.
When I tried to stroke it, though, it stepped back far enough that I couldn’t reach it. “Hey, buddy.
Don’t worry. I’m friendly. And If you’re a girl”—I leaned to the side and tried to see underneath it
—“then I apologize for calling you buddy.” How did you tell if a llama was a boy or a girl? Well,
apart from the obvious. Which, seeing as I’d seen no sign of anything penis-like, probably meant it
was a girl, but then I was hardly an expert on llama genitalia. “What are you doing here?”
The llama gave no response on account of it being incapable of speech. I guessed Finn would be a
better person to ask. It continued to watch me as I returned to the car, giving me the impression that it
wanted to be friends, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. Either that or I was anthropomorphizing it.
There were more animals in some of the other fields as I passed: some sheep, and a few goats.
Perhaps it was being run as a farm again. It had been four years since I’d been here. I couldn’t expect
everything to remain frozen in time, even if the rest of Pilsdale had given me that impression.
The farmhouse looked the same, though, the sight of it bringing a smile to my face as I parked my
Nissan next to a midnight blue Range Rover. That was new, as well. Finn’s? Or Jasper’s? Gravel
crunched beneath my feet as I made my way to the front door and knocked, my chest tight with nerves.
I guessed it was normal to be nervous when you were planning to beg for forgiveness for ignoring
someone for years. No answer. I knocked again. The house did seem particularly silent, but the
presence of the Range Rover indicated that someone had to be around. When the second knock didn’t
glean any better results than the first one had, I made my way to the back of the house.
Both Finn and Jasper had used this door more often than they had the front on account of the kitchen
—a much better place for muddy boots—being much closer. Entry by the front door left you trampling
mud and leaves over the carpet. I lifted my fist to knock, the unlocked back door swinging open under
my touch. I peered through the gap, unwilling to enter without an invitation, despite having spent half
my childhood in this house. “Hello?”
“In here,” came the reply, which, unless I was mistaken, had come from the kitchen.
I stepped in cautiously, shutting the door behind me and traversing the familiar short hallway to the
doorway of the kitchen. And there I paused, a million and one thoughts assailing me at the sight that
met me. Jasper Bennet. Shirtless. And still as fucking hot as he’d ever been. That had been no
childhood crush. It had been a perfectly understandable reaction to the rugged and masculine sex god
that Jasper Bennet was. Tanned skin and stubble. Jeans stretched tight over muscled thighs. Firm jaw
and beautifully shaped lips.
But it wasn’t just how much of a feast for the eyes he was that came rushing back, it was the
feelings Jasper’s presence had always evoked. Jasper was sunshine and laughter. He was warmth and
security. He was the man I’d both wanted and wanted to be. He was…
I frowned. He was the man currently attempting to bottle feed two piglets and failing miserably.
Okay, that part was rather more unexpected. Even stranger was him looking up at me, smiling as if he
wasn’t at all surprised to see me, and handing me one of the piglets and a bottle. “Thank God. Trying
to bottle feed two of them at the same time is almost impossible. They squirm too much.”
He lowered his head back to what he was doing, his attempt to feed the remaining piglet going
much more smoothly, the piglet latching onto the oversized teat of the bottle and sucking like its life
depended on it. The piglet in my arms wriggled and let out a soft little squeal that didn’t give the
impression that he or she was all that happy. Not knowing what else to do, I plonked myself on one of
the empty kitchen chairs and wrestled the squirming piglet into a position where I could shove the teat
in its mouth. Only once it was sucking away contentedly did I turn my attention back to Jasper. “Hi
Jasper.” I’d always called him Jasper. He’d insisted on it, claiming that being called Mr. Bennet
made him feel far too old.
He lifted his gaze to mine, his smile dazzling—all teeth, dimples, and laughter lines. “Hi Ben.”
My heart did a funny little jig in my chest and I was suddenly glad of the piglet, using the excuse of
maneuvering it into a better position to disguise my discomfiting reaction. “You don’t sound very
surprised to see me. Let me guess, you didn’t notice I was gone.”
Jasper lifted his head to fix me with an intense stare I was neither expecting nor prepared for. “I
noticed.”
“Sorry.” What was I apologizing for?
Jasper seemed to think the same, his brow furrowing. “For what?”
“Not saying goodbye. I was…”
“A mess?” he offered in a soft voice.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s as good a description as any.” I had been a mess, my departure from
Pilsdale a spur-of-the-moment decision that at the time had seemed like my only option. “I was
struggling with… stuff.”
Jasper nodded. “Of course you were. Anyone would have been.” He tried to pull the bottle away,
but his piglet was having none of it, letting loose a series of squeals that didn’t stop until Jasper
shoved the teat back in its mouth. “What happened was tragic.”
My throat thickened. I couldn’t take sympathy from Jasper, of all people. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe
because he was the kindest man I’d ever known and everything he said would be meant with the
utmost sincerity. Or maybe because he’d been friends with my father, and I’d been so caught up in my
grief after my parents had died that I’d never given his pain a moment’s thought. “Can we maybe not
talk about it?”
“Sure.”
I glanced down at the piglet in my arms, its snout twitching as it drained the bottle. “Why are we
feeding pigs?”
“They’re hungry.”
I frowned. “Well, yeah, but that doesn’t explain what they’re doing here.”
“I run an animal sanctuary.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Since when? What happened to being an electrician?”
 “Since…” Jasper cocked his head to one side like he was thinking hard. “How long has it been?
Coming up for a couple of years now. I fancied a change. I still do a bit of electrical work on the side
if people need it, but this is far more satisfying.” His piglet finally let go of the teat and Jasper
glanced down. “Are you done?” He waited a few seconds to check it was, before getting to his feet
and lowering the pig gently into a large crate at the side of the large farm kitchen. “Looks like yours
needs a bit longer.”
“How old are they?”
“Only a couple of days. Their mother had a difficult birth, and these two were the only ones that
survived. The mother, unfortunately, didn’t, along with three of their siblings. I was asked if I could
take care of them, and I didn’t have the heart to say no, even if they need bottle feeding every few
hours.” Jasper’s brow furrowed as he peered around the kitchen. “I’ve lost my shirt.”
“I’m not complaining.” Holy shit! Had I really just blurted that out? I ducked my head, my cheeks
burning. I didn’t dare look up to see what reaction Jasper was having to my… to my what? Was I
flirting? Stating the obvious? Who the fuck knew? Not me. That was for sure. Of course, that was the
point at which my pig decided it was done. I inwardly cursed it for not giving me another sixty
seconds to regain my composure. I cleared my throat. “Should I put it back in the crate?” Even with
the throat clearing, my voice sounded unusually husky.
“Please.” The word sounded casual enough. Even so, I didn’t look Jasper’s way as I carried the
piglet over to the crate and deposited it on the hay next to its sibling.
“I’m making a coffee. Do you want one?”
“Erm…” I cast a quick glance Jasper’s way, relieved to find him carrying the old-fashioned hob
kettle over to the sink, rather than staring at me and trying to work out what I’d meant by the shirt
comment. “I was looking for Finn, actually. I’m guessing, given you were juggling piglets, that he’s
not here at the moment. When will he be back?”
Jasper grimaced, his hand stilling halfway to the tap. “Ah! You don’t know.”
Something cold and clammy crawled into my chest and wrapped itself around my vital organs,
making it difficult to breathe. Was Finn…? No, he couldn’t be. Not Finn. “What happened to him?”
My voice sounded high-pitched and far away, like it was being produced by someone doing a poor
impression of a ventriloquist.
Jasper put the kettle down and turned with a frown. “Happened? Oh God, no. Finn’s fine. He’s just
not here. When I said you didn’t know, I meant you didn’t know he’d gone traveling.” Jasper closed
the space between us in a matter of strides, his hands fastening on my shoulders, the grip firm.
“You’ve gone as white as a sheet. Breathe, Ben. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I tried to do what he’d said, the simple task of inhaling having become something I needed to think
about rather than something that came naturally. It was the thought of death. After losing my parents in
one fell swoop unexpectedly, I didn’t cope well with it. I’d thought I was over it, my years in London
blessedly death-free, but apparently it was still lurking in the background. Maybe it was being back in
Pilsdale. Or maybe it would always happen when it was someone I cared about. And despite having
been a bad friend, I did care about Finn. As an only child, he’d been the closest thing I’d had to a
sibling growing up.
“Breathe out, Ben.”
I concentrated on Jasper’s voice, the deep rasp equal parts comforting and authoritative as he led
me through the simple act of inhaling and exhaling, somehow managing to avert the panic attack that
had been threatening to engulf me, my heart gradually slowing and my lungs able to take in enough
oxygen to push back the wave of dizziness. With the return of full cognizance came a whole host of
other sensations triggered by Jasper’s proximity, though. The warmth of Jasper’s fingers through my
jumper as he gripped my shoulders. His face close enough to mine that I could see the blue flecks in
his gray eyes. The heat of his body. His bare chest, the sparse covering of hair decorating his
impressive pectoral muscles, tempting me to reach out and touch to see if it was as soft as it looked.
His scent: slightly woody with a hint of cologne I didn’t recognize. The look of concern in his eyes.
I stepped back, Jasper’s hands slipping from my shoulders. “I’m fine.” I swallowed,
embarrassment a sharp sting in my throat. “I should be going.”
“No way!” Jasper’s hands were back on my shoulders as he steered me toward the chair where I’d
sat to feed the piglet, applying pressure until I was once more seated. “I’m not letting you drive so
soon after nearly having a panic attack. You’re going to have tea, and I’ll rustle up some biscuits from
somewhere. You need the sugar.”
So he had known what was going on. It didn’t come as a surprise when Jasper had always been
perceptive. I settled back in the chair, knowing that Jasper was probably right. Country roads or no
country roads, it was better not to drive until I was a hundred percent. After all, it was the same
country roads that had killed my parents. “I thought you were making coffee.”
“I was.” He smiled, those same laughter lines that begged to be traced with a fingertip appearing at
the corners of his eyes. “Now, I’m making tea. Times change.”
Jasper returned to the sink, this time managing to fill the kettle and set it on the gas hob.
 In a bid to get things back on an even keel, I focused on the kettle. “Do you know they have these
remarkable things now called electric kettles?”
He laughed. “So, I believe. But Keith”—he patted the handle of the kettle lovingly—“would never
forgive me if I replaced him.”
“Keith?”
“Yeah.” Jasper got two mugs out of the cupboard to his right and then aimed an accusatory look my
way. “Keith Kettle. Don’t say anything derogatory or you’ll offend him.”
“Right.” I burst out laughing. “I forgot how crazy you can be.”
Jasper pressed a hand to his bare chest. “Me? I’m as sane as they come, thank you very much.” It
might have been convincing if he hadn’t started laughing too. And then we were laughing together,
Jasper still chuckling as he opened the fridge. “Do you still take tea the same way?”
“Yeah, I do.” I stared at the back of his head. “Don’t tell me you remember how?”
“Of course, I do. Milk and one sugar. It’s not exactly hard to remember. I might be old, but I’m not
senile yet.”
“You’re not old.” Jasper turned with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not.”
He deposited an unopened packet of custard creams in the middle of the table. “Eighteen years
older than you.”
I was aware of the age difference, the teenage me having spent hours weaving fantasies of it not
mattering a jot.
Jasper nudged the packet of custard creams with a finger. “Weird story about those. Mrs. Beasley
insisted I needed them. I put them back on the shelf three times, and three times she put them back in
the basket.”
“Be glad it was just custard creams she forced on you.”
Jasper cocked his head to one side. “Why? What did she make you buy?”
Shit! With all these adolescent feelings coming rushing back, discussing condoms with Jasper
didn’t seem like a good idea. I shook my head. “Nothing.”
Jasper’s eyes narrowed, but he let it drop. He returned to the counter for the two mugs. “We’ll go
in the sitting room. Can you grab the biscuits and I’ll bring the tea? I should warn you, though, that
you’re going to get licked to death.”
“I am? Is that a prerequisite of having tea with you?”
Jasper waggled his eyebrows. “Not by me. By Bella.”
“Bella!” The surge of pleasure at the name was instantaneous. “You still have her?”
 “Of course, I still have her. What, did you think I’d swapped her for some magic beans?”
“No… I just.” It was becoming clear that my strategy of coping with my parents’ death had been to
lock everything linked to Pilsdale away in a box labelled Do Not Open. If you didn’t think about it,
you couldn’t miss it. And only now I was back was it sinking in how much I’d left behind without a
second thought.
 Chapter Four

There’d been a lot of licking, Bella the Springer Spaniel just as excited to see me as I was her. I’d
also been introduced to her new siblings, another Springer Spaniel named George, and a fluffy white
Pomeranian, with the sweetest little face, named Lucy. They’d both joined in with the licking until I’d
finally convinced them they’d been noticed. Only once they’d retired to their baskets—Lucy
commandeering the largest one all to herself, while Bella and George squeezed into a smaller one—
did I get to my tea. By that time, Jasper had found a shirt, which was a… relief. No, really, it was. I
wasn’t at all disappointed. And if I made that my new mantra and repeated it a hundred times, I might
even believe it.
A thousand pleasant memories came flooding back as I took in the familiar living room. “This
place hasn’t changed.”
“Ouch!” said Jasper. “I know I need to redecorate, but you could at least pretend not to notice.”
I took a bite of custard cream and rolled my eyes as I chewed. “That wasn’t what I meant at all.”
Jasper’s grin said he knew that, but hadn’t been able to resist an opportunity to wind me up. He
hadn’t changed either. He lounged back in his chair and studied me for long enough to make me
squirm. “So… Benjamin Sutcliffe. What brings you back to Pilsdale? I’m guessing you didn’t come
all this way to see Finn.”
“All this way?”
He raised his mug in a toast. “From London. I asked Eileen about you regularly. She was always
eager to spill the gossip.” He pulled a face. “Sorry. I should have prefaced that with telling you how
sorry I am about your aunt. When you spend most of your time around animals, you lose a lot of your
social niceties. Mind, Finn would probably say that I didn’t have any to lose in the first place.”
 There was a lot to unpack from what Jasper had said, a warm glow spreading through me at the
knowledge that he’d asked after me. Hot on the heels of that, though, was the question of what they’d
talked about. “What did Eileen say?”
Jasper paused with his mug pressed to his lips, his expression that of a person who wished they
hadn’t said anything. “You know, what you’ve been up to and stuff.”
“Such as?” Did he know I was gay?
“That you loved being a massage therapist, and that you and your boyfriend had moved in together
and you were happy.” And there it was. “And I was happy for you. I was glad you’d found peace.”
Jasper finished the last of his tea, placing his mug down on the coffee table, which still bore the
scratch an over-zealous Finn had inflicted on it with a remote-control car. “Is he here with you?”
“Who? Evan?”
Jasper nodded, his lips still curved up into a slight smile.
“We split up.”
“Oh.” Jasper’s one word response told me nothing of his thoughts.
I picked up another custard cream. More so I had something to do with my hands than because I
wanted another. “Does it bother you?” It was a stupid question, and the answer shouldn’t matter to me
one way or the other, but it did.
Jasper frowned. “Does what bother me?”
“Me being gay?”
The frown grew deeper. “Why would it bother me?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just figured I’d ask.”
“It doesn’t bother me at all.”
I nodded, managing to remain outwardly calm even as the tightness in my chest eased. “Good.”
Jasper jumped to his feet and held out a hand. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour of the place before
you leave. Show you what’s new and introduce you to some of the animals.”
I took his hand, doing my best to ignore the frisson of awareness as our fingers touched. Maybe it
would have been better if Jasper was homophobic.
“How long are you here for, Ben?” he asked as he pulled me to my feet.
“Only until I’ve sorted out Eileen’s house, and decided what to do with it.”
“Right.” Did Jasper sound disappointed? Or was that just my imagination playing tricks on me?
“London’s my home.”
 Jasper smiled. “Of course it is. I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t.” He let out a piercing whistle,
Bella and George immediately leaping out of their basket to plaster themselves to his calves. Lucy,
meanwhile, lifted her head, gave the group a dirty look, and then dropped her head and went back to
sleep. “I guess Lucy’s staying,” Jasper said with a smile in his voice. “She’s kind of the bossy one.
Whereas these two”—he crouched to pet them, their tails almost a blur, they were wagging so fast
—“need all the exercise they can get. It’s both a blessing and a curse when it comes to Springer
Spaniels. Bella’s not as bad now that she’s getting older, but if I don’t take George out enough, he’ll
rip the house to pieces.” He shot the male dog an affectionate look. “Won’t you?” George pranced a
circle around Jasper’s legs and let out a bark. “And with no Finn around, making sure he gets enough
exercise is all down to me.”
Mention of Finn had me realizing that apart from ascertaining he’d gone traveling, I hadn’t asked
about him. “When did you last hear from Finn?”
Instead of an answer, Jasper led me—and the two dogs—back into the kitchen and pulled a
postcard off the fridge. It was from Italy, The Sistine Chapel on the front. I turned it over, noting that
the postmark was from a couple of weeks ago.

Yo Daddy-o,
In Italy. Obviously (see picture)
Pizza’s good here. Haven’t seen the pope.
Love ya.
Finn X

I laughed. “He always was a man of few words.”

Jasper pulled another postcard off the fridge and handed it over. This one had The Eiffel Tower on
the front, Finn’s showcasing of his whereabouts, about as subtle as a sledgehammer. It was from the
month before, the words on the back just as brief. Seeming to read my mind, Jasper shrugged. “At
least I know he’s okay.”
“True.” I gestured toward the back door. “Come on, then. I’m ready for my tour. I already met the
llama on my way here, so you don’t need to include him… or her.”
“Him. That was Armstrong. He’s one of our newest members. We should get some llama company
for him next week. There’s one that needs rescuing near Leeds. We just need to get the paperwork and
the transport sorted.”
 “We?” When Jasper shot me a quizzical look, I elaborated. “You keep saying we. Who’s we?”
Realization dawned on me. God, I was stupid. Jasper was sinfully hot. Finn was all grown up and not
even in the same country. Of course, he wasn’t still a bachelor, Finn’s mum never having been in the
picture as far back as I could remember. Someone would have snapped him up in a heartbeat. “You
mean Mrs. Bennet.”
“Mrs. Bennet?” Jasper said as he sat down and pulled on a pair of boots.
“Your wife.”
“Ah yes, my wife.”
With his head down, I couldn’t see his expression. Something swirled in my gut that felt remarkably
like jealousy, but couldn’t have been. That would be beyond ridiculous to be gone for four years
without so much as a phone call and then come back and be jealous. “Is she nice?”
Jasper lifted his head, furrows standing out on his brow like he was thinking hard. “Do you think
I’d marry someone horrible?”
“Well, no… but…”
“But what?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to…”
“To…?” Jasper prompted as he strode over to the door and I followed far less purposefully.
“Show an interest in your life.” Did that sound convincing? Hopefully. “What does she do?”
Jasper turned his head away from a gust of wind as we stepped outside, and he closed the back
door behind us. “She’s an… actress.”
“An actress. Wow!” I was genuinely surprised. “How does she get acting jobs living all the way
out here?”
Jasper made for the barns. The barns weren’t new, but they’d been refurbished since the last time
I’d seen them: some of the paneling replaced, and their wood-stained exterior looking far more
polished. “She’s a retired actress.”
“Retired? How old is she?”
Jasper turned with a grin. He reached over and ruffled my hair the same way he used to do when I
was a teenager, the sense memory causing a pang in my chest. “I’m not married, Ben. There is no Mrs.
Bennet.”
I gawped at him, indignation clawing its way up my throat. “Then why did you say there was?”
“I didn’t. You decided there was a wife. I just went along with it.”
 Was that true? A quick replay of the conversation had me concluding it probably was. He didn’t
have to look so damn pleased about it, though. “Why don’t you have one?”
Jasper paused with his hand resting on the barn door. “Many, many reasons, Ben.”
I tilted my chin up, my ego still bruised from letting him take me for a ride. “Such as?”
“I’d tell you, but then—”
“You’d have to kill me?”
Jasper laughed softly. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
“What, you’re a lover, not a fighter?”
Our gazes met and held. It was only for the briefest of seconds, but it was long enough to have my
stomach doing cartwheels.
“Something like that,” Jasper said as he pushed the door open. “Come and meet the girls.”
The girls turned out to be a pair of goats, both pregnant, according to Jasper. What followed was a
whistle-stop tour that included chickens, more pigs—these fully grown—a noisy donkey that seemed
incredibly excited to see Jasper, which was apparently the cause of its loud hee-hawing. There were
also several other buildings and enclosures having improvements made to them, some of the workmen
in situ and greeting Jasper warmly, Jasper simply introducing me as Ben with no explanation attached
to it.
During the tour, he’d explained the source of the mysterious “we” as being The Bennet Foundation.
Although Jasper as its founder was at heart The Bennet Foundation, he had financial backers. He also
had a couple of employees, neither of whom were working that day, he’d explained, hence him trying
to feed two piglets at once.
The time flew past and all too soon I was back by my car, Jasper a silent presence by my shoulder.
He was the first to speak. “It’s been lovely to see you again, Ben. Don’t leave it so long next time.”
“It’s been lovely to see you, too.” It had. Too lovely, the strength of my feelings surprising me
coming so soon after my break-up with Evan. Although, perhaps I was being too hard on myself, when
really it had only been our official break-up, the real one having come weeks before.
I opened the car door and climbed into the driver’s seat, the car seeming strangely cold and sterile.
Why was that? Because it doesn’t have Jasper in it, my subconscious provided. Aware that Jasper’s
eyes were on me, I didn’t give in to the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the thought. Once I’d
fastened my seatbelt, there was nothing to do but start the engine. I was halfway to doing that when
Jasper banged on the window. My eagerness to press the button to wind it down wouldn’t have been
out of place at a three-year-old’s party if Jasper was giving out cake. I turned my head his way as
Jasper leaned in the window. “I was thinking…”
“Yeah?”
“I was thinking you might like a job while you’re here.”
“A job? I didn’t know you needed a massage therapist.” And wasn’t that a rather pleasant thought:
Jasper stretched out over my massage table, wearing just a towel while I got to touch all that muscle
to my heart’s content.
He laughed. “I don’t. I thought you might like to help around here. With the animals. Just part-time,
obviously. I know you’ve got Eileen’s house to sort out. I can pay you. Not very much, but I can pay
you.”
I stared at him, words seeming a long way away. Work alongside him. See him every day. Laugh
with him. Joke with him.
Taking my silence as something completely different, Jasper grimaced. “Yeah, stupid idea. I’m
sorry. You didn’t do all that training to feed and muck out animals. It’s insulting of me to ask.”
I hated seeing Jasper look guilty. It was so un-Jasper. “No! No, it isn’t. I just…”
“You don’t need to explain.” He straightened, shoving his hands in the pocket of his jeans, the
action stretching them tight across his crotch. “One day I’ll learn not to think aloud. You’re busy. And
I bet you’re going to have a flood of massage clients clamoring for your attention.”
I laughed, doing my best not to let my gaze linger on his crotch, even though it was at eye-level. “I
doubt that somehow. One or two if I’m lucky. But yeah, I do need to concentrate on clearing Eileen’s
house. Unfortunately, it’s a bigger job than I expected. Not helped by the fact that it’s sat empty for a
year.” Jasper nodded understandingly, a small part of me if I was honest, having hoped he might try to
convince me. It was a good job he hadn’t. Working alongside him would be the ultimate torture. I
didn’t need to subject myself to that. Not if I wanted to remain sane.
“Well…” Jasper said.
“Well,” I said.
Jasper gave a quiet laugh and stepped back. “Drive safely, Ben.”
I pressed the button to slide the window back into place, lifted my hand in a wave, and impressed
myself by not even glancing in the rear-view mirror once as I drove off. That had been quite the
reunion. Uplifting, yet disquieting. Sentimental, yet new. There were probably a hundred other
adjectives I could have used for it as well.
 Chapter Five

By day three of working on Eileen’s house, I was dirty, I was tired, and, quite frankly, I was
climbing the walls. I was also halfway to being convinced that Eileen had been a secret hoarder. She
wasn’t quite up to the standards showcased by some horrific TV programs I’d watched. There were
no bottles of pee stacked in a corner, but there were an awful lot of things shoved in cupboards and
piled in corners that hadn’t seen the light of day for years. And that was before I’d made my way into
the attic. I say, made my way, but I’d only gotten as far as sticking my head through the loft hatch and
shining a torch around before the piles of junk stashed up there stopped me from being able to go any
farther. I’d retreated down the ladder instead to stare at the wall for a while.
Meanwhile, I hadn’t even made a start on the room that I’d been hoping to use for massages, my
massage table still propped against the wall by the front door. Not that I’d had any calls. Not even
one. It seemed the population of Pilsdale had voted unanimously against the prospect of being
massaged. And as for sleep, that just wasn’t happening, the bed only seeming to get less comfortable,
not more. All in all, I’d gone way past the point of feeling sorry for myself.
Nursing a coffee, I stared at my iPad, that same temptation making itself known. Ever since, Mrs.
Beasley had casually dropped Jasper having a YouTube channel into conversation, it had been there.
There wasn’t any harm in looking, was there? After all, it was all information in the public domain.
Very public, at that. It wasn’t like I was stalking him. I was just expressing a natural curiosity about
someone’s life who I used to know well. It was catching up, really, wasn’t it? It would almost be rude
not to look.
Mind made up, I reached for my iPad, typing The Bennet Foundation into the YouTube search bar.
Multiple videos came up, most of which I devoured over the next couple of hours with a just one
more mentality, like an addict who couldn’t get enough. Jasper in the videos was a revelation.
Charming. Funny. Sexy. Caring. Not that he wasn’t all those things in real life, but it was a rare person
who could be natural enough on camera that all those things came through. Jasper, though, pulled it off
with aplomb. And they weren’t just animal rescue videos, either. Jasper shared deep philosophical
thoughts on life in some of them, all with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, his personal beliefs making
a lot of sense.
I’d stopped reading the comments below the videos after the sixth proposal of marriage. Or was it
the seventh? I’d lost count. Jasper Bennet was popular with a capital P. He had over a million
subscribers, too, his animal rescue foundation a long way from being some two-bit organization. And
the more videos I watched, the more I wished I’d taken Jasper up on his offer of work. Because one
thing was for sure. If I spent the whole day in this house surrounded by nothing but junk and
memories, I was going to go crazy.
With that in mind, I grabbed my car keys before I could think better of it and hit the road. If Jasper
wasn’t at home, then at least the drive would get me away from Eileen’s house for an hour and help to
clear my head.
I didn’t make it to the farmhouse, the people, and the trailer in the field, where I’d seen the llama
on my first visit, snagging my attention. I brought the car to a stop, climbing out and leaning against the
fence to get a better idea of what was going on.
The llama, Armstrong, was watching proceedings with an expression on his face that reeked of
llama amusement, if such a thing was possible. Meanwhile, Jasper—shirtless again—and another
man were doing their best to coerce a white llama out of the trailer. I assumed this was the one Jasper
had talked about rescuing from somewhere near Leeds. Unfortunately, the llama didn’t seem too keen
on its new home. The harder both men pulled on the harness, the more it seemed determined to stay
exactly where it was.
Whether it was the field itself it didn’t like the look of, or the other llama already inhabiting said
field, I couldn’t have said. Given the sheer number of videos I’d watched that day, though, I knew
enough to know that this kind of situation wasn’t that unusual. I cupped my hands over my mouth so
that the sound carried farther, the trailer parked some distance from the fence. “Need a hand?”
Both men turned. While one of them stared at me blankly, Jasper’s face lit up in a beaming smile.
God, that smile. It was the sort of smile that could have… I laughed inwardly. It was the sort of smile
that could have strangers from the internet proposing marriage. And they had several times over.
“Ben!” Jasper announced, his smile growing even bigger, a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible if
I hadn’t witnessed it myself.
 Why had Evan never looked that pleased to see me? I lifted my hand in a little wave of greeting.
“You look like you’ve got your hands full.”
“Yes, to a hand,” Jasper said. “Please. We’ve been trying to get him out of this trailer for thirty
minutes now, but he’s decided he’s going to live in here forever.”
Keeping one eye on Armstrong in case he decided he didn’t want another person in his field and
charged at me, I climbed over the fence. The llama didn’t seem remotely interested, though, his
attention still fixed on the trailer, which I guessed made sense. Llamas were always going to be more
interested in other llamas than human beings. The field was muddy enough that I said a silent apology
to my shoes as I picked my way across it to where the trailer stood. “What do you want me to do?”
“Can you get behind it and push?” Jasper asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Llama pushing is on my CV. I’m the best llama pusher in all the land, so you’ve
definitely come to the right man.”
Jasper chuckled as I climbed into the trailer, the llama eyeing me suspiciously as I got close. It
turned out to be quite the challenge to squeeze myself between him and the back wall, especially
when the llama kept backing up. Could you be crushed to death by a llama? I hoped not. It certainly
wasn’t the epitaph I’d dreamed of having on my headstone. Finally, though, I was in position, Jasper
giving me the nod to push. I did, the llama not moving so much as an inch.
“Ben,” Jasper said, with obvious amusement in his voice. “You know you’re pushing it, right,
rather than just massaging it?”
“I know,” I said.
“You might want to give it a bit more welly, then, in that case. At the moment, Clive’s wondering
why you’re feeling his behind. He’s concerned about what kind of place I’ve brought him to.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Clive?”
Jasper shrugged. “I didn’t name him. He already had that name.”
“Oh, that’s alright, then.”
We all geared up for another try. This time, I put my back into it, my muscles straining, my efforts
finally rewarded with the llama stepping forward. After that first step it was easier, my pushing and
Jasper and the other guy’s—I had no name for him seeing as we hadn’t been introduced yet—pulling,
succeeding in getting the llama halfway out of the trailer. It was at that point that the llama decided
that trailer life wasn’t for him after all and broke into a run, clattering down the ramp, and descending
into the field.
 I’d built up too much momentum for stopping to be an option, and I went tumbling down the ramp
after the llama, my center of gravity completely off kilter. While Clive nimbly trotted off over the
grass like he didn’t know what all the fuss had been about, I went headfirst into the mud churned up
by the trailer’s tires, the loud splat as I hit, seeming to match the situation perfectly.
It was at that moment that I wished I’d kept driving and waited for Jasper at the house. Or failing
that, just watched from my safe vantage point on the other side of the fence. Except, as I endeavored
to sit up and wipe enough of the mud away from my eyes so that I could see again, I found myself
laughing for the first time in days.
“Oh, Ben,” said Jasper, as he held out a hand to help me up. “Perhaps I should have been the one to
push.”
I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. “You would say that now.”
Now that we’d dealt with the llama situation, I had time to study the other man as, having chased
down the llama and retrieved the harness, he came back our way. He was tall, with a thick head of
dark hair and a wiry moustache. Although quite a few years older than Jasper, he was an undeniably
handsome man. Unfamiliar as well, which left me to surmise that he was new to Pilsdale.
Jasper waved a hand in his direction as he approached. “This is Ed, my right-hand man. Ed, this is
Ben.” Again, there was no explanation of who I was. But then what would Jasper say? This is Ben.
He used to be my son’s best friend before he turned his back on him for years and ignored him. This is
Ben. He ran away from Pilsdale when his parents died, but now he’s back. Yeah, I’d settle for just
being Ben.
I took Ed’s proffered hand, and he pumped mine enthusiastically as he eyed me speculatively.
“Ben, eh?”
“Ben,” I agreed redundantly.
“Ed’s new to the area,” Jasper explained, confirming my suspicions. “His son is the new police
constable. You’ll no doubt meet him if you haven’t done so already.”
“I haven’t.” I hadn’t bumped into anyone apart from Mrs. Beasley. Mainly because of my reticence
to go into the center of Pilsdale until I couldn’t survive without more groceries. I hadn’t really felt up
to sitting in The White Swan and seeing how long it took people to recognize me. I knew my logic
was flawed, given that I’d put a card in the local store’s window with my name splashed all over it,
and failing that, Mrs. Beasley had probably announced my return to the village to all and sundry, but,
whether or not it made sense, that was how I felt.
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of English and
American tool builders
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
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eBook.

Title: English and American tool builders

Author: Joseph Wickham Roe

Release date: November 5, 2023 [eBook #72046]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: McGraw Hill Book Company,

1916

Credits: deaurider, Harry Lamé and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENGLISH

AND AMERICAN TOOL BUILDERS ***
 Please see the Transcriber’s Notes
at the end of this text.
New original cover art included with
this eBook is granted to the public
domain.

ENGLISH AND AMERICAN TOOL

BUILDERS
Henry Maudslay
English and American
Tool Builders

By
JOSEPH WICKHAM ROE
Museum of the Peaceful Arts, City of New York,
Professor of Industrial Engineering,
New York University

First Printed in 1916

Reprinted in 1926

McGRAW-HILL BOOK COMPANY, Inc.

NEW YORK: 370 SEVENTH AVENUE
LONDON: 6 & 8 BOUVERIE ST., E. C. 4
1926

Copyright, 1916
BY
 Joseph Wickham Roe

First published May, 1916

Republished March, 1926

“Man is a Tool-using Animal. Weak in himself, and of small stature, he

stands on a basis, at most for the flattest-soled, of some half-square foot,
insecurely enough; has to straddle out his legs, lest the very wind
supplant him. Feeblest of bipeds! Three quintals are a crushing load for
him; the steer of the meadow tosses him aloft, like a waste rag.
Nevertheless he can use Tools, can devise Tools: with these the granite
mountain melts into light dust before him; seas are his smooth highway,
winds and fire his unwearying steeds. Nowhere do you find him without
Tools; without Tools he is nothing, with Tools he is all.”
Carlyle: “Sartor Resartus,” Chap. IV.
 PREFACE

The purpose of this book is to bring out the importance of the work
and influence of the great tool builders. Few realize that their art is
fundamental to all modern industrial arts. Without machine tools
modern machinery could not be built. Little is known by the general
public as to who the great tool builders were, and less is known of
their lives and work.
History takes good care of soldiers, statesmen and authors. It is
even kind to engineers like Watt, Fulton and Stephenson, who have
conspicuously and directly affected society at large. But little is
known, even among mechanics, of the men whose work was mainly
within the engineering profession, and who served other engineers
rather than the general public. The lives and the personalities of men
like Maudslay, Nasmyth and Eli Whitney, can hardly fail of interest to
the mechanic of today. They were busy men and modest, whose
records are mainly in iron and steel, and in mechanical devices
which are used daily with little thought of their origin.
In following the history of English and American tool builders, the
query arises as to whether there might not have been important
contributions to tool building from other countries. Others have
contributed to some degree, but practically all of the creative work in
tool building has been done in these two countries. Although the
French were pioneers in many mechanical improvements, they have
always shown an aptitude for refinements and ingenious novelties
rather than for commercial production on a large scale. They have
influenced other nations more through their ideas than through their
machinery. The Swiss are clever artisans, particularly in fine work,
but they have excelled in personal skill, operating on a small scale,
rather than in manufacturing. Germany has, under the Empire,
developed splendid mechanics, but the principal machine tools had
taken shape before 1870, when the Empire began. The history of
English and American tool building, therefore, covers substantially
the entire history of the art.
Almost the only book upon tool builders and their work is Samuel
Smiles’ “Industrial Biography,” which is out of print and little known. It
is an admirable and interesting book, and a mine of information upon
the English tool builders down to about 1850. The writer has used it
freely and would urge those who are interested in the subject to go
to it for further information on the early mechanics. It was written,
however, over fifty years ago and contains nothing about modern
developments or about the American tool builders who have
contributed so much.
The writer has tried to trace the origin and rise of tool building in
America and to give something of its spread in recent years. The
industrial life of the United States is so vast that a comprehensive
history of even a single industry, such as tool building, would run far
beyond the limits of one volume. This book, therefore, is confined to
the main lines of influence in tool building and to the personalities
and cities which have been most closely identified with it. The later
history of American tool building has never been written. For this the
writer has had to rely largely upon personal information from those
who are familiar with it, and who have had a part in it.
Part of the material contained in this book has appeared from time
to time in the American Machinist, and the writer would acknowledge
his indebtedness most of all to Mr. L. P. Alford, the editor of that
journal. His help and counsel have given these pages much of such
value as they possess. So many have helped with information,
corrections and suggestions that acknowledgments can be made
only to a few. The writer would particularly thank Mr. L. D.
Burlingame, Mr. Ned Lawrence, Mr. James Hartness, Mr. Coleman
Sellers and Mr. Clarence Bement.
If these pages serve to stimulate interest in the lives and work of
the tool builders, to whom we owe much, they will fulfill the hope of
the writer.
Sheffield Scientific School,
Yale University,
October, 1915.
 AUTHOR’S NOTE

In reprinting this book certain minor corrections have been made.

In the later chapters references occur here and there to the “present”
condition of various plants and firms. After careful consideration, it
seems wise to let these statements stand as they were written in
1915. Interest in this subject centers chiefly on the early history of
the plants and firms rather than on recent changes. To revise the
statements, bringing them up to date, would add little. With the ever
shifting status of a live industry, the statements, so revised, would
remain correct for only a short time. Therefore, when a reference is
made to present conditions it should be understood to cover those at
the beginning of the World War, which is a natural dividing point in
our industrial history.
The general predictions made in the last two paragraphs of the
book have been borne out by the developments in American
toolbuilding since that time.
Museum of the Peaceful Arts,
City of New York,
February, 1926.
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE
Chapter I. Influence of the Early Tool Builders 1
Chapter II. Wilkinson and Bramah 11
Chapter III. Bentham and Brunel 22
Chapter IV. Henry Maudslay 33
Chapter V. Inventors of the Planer 50
Chapter VI. Gearing and Millwork 63
Chapter VII. Fairbairn and Bodmer 71
Chapter VIII. James Nasmyth 81
Chapter IX. Whitworth 98
Chapter X. Early American Mechanics 109
Chapter XI. The Rise of Interchangeable Manufacture 128
Chapter XII. Whitney and North 145
Chapter XIII. The Colt Armory 164
Chapter XIV. The Colt Workman—Pratt & Whitney 173
Chapter XV. Robbins & Lawrence 186
Chapter XVI. The Brown & Sharpe Manufacturing
Company 202
Chapter XVII. Central New England 216
Chapter XVIII. The Naugatuck Valley 231
Chapter XIX. Philadelphia 239
Chapter XX. The Western Tool Builders 261
Appendix A 281
Appendix B, The Jennings Gun 292
A Partial Bibliography on Tool Building 295
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Henry Maudslay Frontispiece

Fig. 1. Smeaton’s Boring Machine, Carron
Iron Works, 1769 Facing page 2
Fig. 2. French Lathes of about 1772 Facing page 2
Fig. 3. French Slide-Rest, 1772 Facing page 6
Fig. 4. French Lathe for Turning Ovals,
1772 Facing page 6
Fig. 5. Genealogy of the Early English Tool
Builders page 7
Fig. 6. John Wilkinson Facing page 14
Fig. 7. Wilkinson’s Boring Machine Facing page 14
Fig. 8. Eminent Men of Science Living in
1807-8 Facing page 20
Fig. 9. Sir Samuel Bentham Facing page 22
Fig. 10. Sir Marc Isambard Brunel Facing page 26
Fig. 11. Brunel’s Mortising Machine Facing page 30
Fig. 12. Brunel’s Shaping Machine Facing page 30
Fig. 13. French Screw-Cutting Lathe,
Previous to 1569 page 37
Fig. 14. French Screw-Cutting Lathe, about
1740 page 37
Fig. 15. Maudslay’s Screw-Cutting Lathe,
about 1797 Facing page 42
Fig. 16. Maudslay’s Screw-Cutting Lathe,
about 1800 Facing page 42
Fig. 17. French Planing Machine by
Nicholas Forq, 1751 Facing page 50
Fig. 18. Matthew Murray Facing page 58
Fig. 19. Richard Roberts Facing page 58
Fig. 20. Roberts’ Planer, Built in 1817 Facing page 60
Fig. 21. Roberts’ Back-Geared Lathe Facing page 60
Fig. 22. James Nasmyth Facing page 82
Fig. 23. First Sketch of the Steam Hammer,
November 24, 1839 Facing page 94
Fig. 24. Model of the First Steam Hammer Facing page 94
Fig. 25. Sir Joseph Whitworth Facing page 102
Fig. 26. Samuel Slater Facing page 122
Fig. 27. Genealogy of the New England Gun
Makers page 139
Fig. 28. The First Milling Machine, Built by
Eli Whitney about 1818 Facing page 142
Fig. 29. Blanchard “Gun-Stocking” Lathe,
Built in 1818 for the Springfield
Armory Facing page 142
Fig. 30. Eli Whitney Facing page 152
Fig. 31. Samuel Colt Facing page 164
Fig. 32. The Colt Armory Facing page 168
Fig. 33. Root’s Chucking Lathe, about 1855 Facing page 170
Fig. 34. Root’s Splining Machine, about
1855 Facing page 170
Fig. 35. Francis A. Pratt Facing page 178
Fig. 36. Amos Whitney Facing page 178
Fig. 37. Genealogy of the Robbins &
Lawrence Shop page 187
Fig. 38. Robbins & Lawrence Armory,
Windsor, Vt. Facing page 190
Fig. 39. Frederick W. Howe Facing page 196
Fig. 40. Richard S. Lawrence Facing page 196
Fig. 41. James Hartness Facing page 198
Fig. 42. Joseph R. Brown Facing page 202
Fig. 43. First Universal Milling Machine,
1862 Facing page 208
Fig. 44. Early Micrometer Calipers Facing page 212
Fig. 45. Genealogy of the Worcester Tool page 223
Builders
Fig. 46. Lucius W. Pond Facing page 228
Fig. 47. Salmon W. Putnam Facing page 228
Fig. 48. Hiram W. Hayden Facing page 232
Fig. 49. Israel Holmes Facing page 232
Fig. 50. Genealogy of the Naugatuck Brass
Industry page 235
Fig. 51. William Sellers Facing page 248
Fig. 52. Coleman Sellers Facing page 252
Fig. 53. William B. Bement Facing page 252
Fig. 54. Worcester R. Warner Facing page 262
Fig. 55. Ambrose Swasey Facing page 262
Fig. 56. The “Mult-au-matic” Lathe, 1914 Facing page 276
Fig. 57. Machine Tool Building Area of the
United States, 1915 page 279
ENGLISH AND AMERICAN TOOL
BUILDERS
 CHAPTER I
INFLUENCE OF THE EARLY TOOL BUILDERS
Well-informed persons are aware of the part which machinery in
general has had on modern industrial life. But the profound influence
which machine tools have had in that development is scarcely
realized, even by tool builders themselves.
Three elements came into industrial life during the latter part of the
eighteenth century. First, the development of modern banking and
the stock company brought out the small private hoards from their
hiding places, united them, and made them available for industrial
undertakings operating on the scale called for by modern
requirements. Second, Watt’s development of the steam engine and
its application to the production of continuous rotative motion gave
the requisite source of power. But neither the steam engine itself nor
the machinery of production was possible until the third element,
modern machine tools, supplied the means of working metals
accurately and economically.
It is well to glance for a moment at the problems which were
involved in building the first steam engine. Watt had been working for
several years on the steam engine when the idea of the separate
condenser came to him on that famous Sunday afternoon walk on
the Glasgow Green, in the spring of 1765, and, to use his own
words, “in the course of one or two days the invention was thus far
(that is, as a pumping engine) complete in my mind.”[1] He was a
skilled instrument maker and his first small model was fairly
successful, but when he undertook “the practice of mechanics in
great,” his skill and all the skill of those about him was incapable of
boring satisfactorily a cylinder 6 inches in diameter and 2 feet long;
and he had finally to resort to one which was hammered. For ten
weary years he struggled to realize his plans in a full-sized engine,
unable to find either the workmen or the tools which could make it a
commercial success. His chief difficulty lay in keeping the piston
tight. He “wrapped it around with cork, oiled rags, tow, old hats,
paper, and other things, but still there were open spaces left,
sufficient to let the air in and the steam out.”[2] Small wonder! for we
find him complaining that in an 18-inch diameter cylinder, “at the
worst place the long diameter exceeded the short by three-eighths of
an inch.” When Smeaton first saw the engine he reported to the
Society of Engineers that “neither the tools nor the workmen existed
that could manufacture so complex a machine with sufficient
precision.”[3]
[1] Smiles: “Boulton & Watt,” pp. 97, 98. London, 1904.
[2] Ibid., p. 114.
[3] Ibid., p. 186.

Smeaton himself had designed a boring machine in 1769 for the

Carron Iron Works for machining cannon, an illustration of which is
given in Fig. 1.[4] It consisted of a head with inserted cutters mounted
on a long, light, overhung boring bar. The work was forced forward
on a rude carriage, as shown. The method of supporting the cutter
head, indicated in the section, shows an ingenious attempt to obtain
a movable support from an inaccurate surface. One need hardly say
that the work resulting was inaccurate.
[4] “Engineer,” London, March 4, 1910; p. 217. Drawn from the
description given in Farey’s “Treatise on the Steam Engine.”
 Figure 1. Smeaton’s Boring Machine

Carron Iron Works, 1769

Figure 2. French Lathes of about 1772

 Fortunately, in 1774, John Wilkinson, of Bersham, hit upon the
idea, which had escaped both Smeaton and Watt, of making the
boring bar heavier, running it clear through the cylinder and giving it
a fixed support at the outboard end as shown in Fig. 7. The
superiority of this arrangement was at once manifest, and in 1776
Boulton wrote that “Mr. Wilkinson has bored us several cylinders
almost without error; that of 50 inches diameter, which we have put
up at Tipton, does not err the thickness of an old shilling in any
part.”[5] For a number of years, Wilkinson cast and bored all the
cylinders for Boulton & Watt.
[5] Farey: “Treatise on the Steam Engine,” p. 328. 1827.

The importance to Boulton & Watt of the timely aid of Wilkinson’s

boring machine can hardly be overestimated. It made the steam
engine a commercial success, and was probably the first metal-
working tool capable of doing large, heavy work with anything like
present-day accuracy.[6]
[6] Watt’s beautiful parallel motion, invented in 1785, was made
necessary by the fact that there were no planers to machine a crosshead
and guides. Planers were not developed until thirty years later.

We hardly realize the crudity of the tools available in the

eighteenth century. In all machinery the principal members were of
wood, as that could be worked by the hand tools then in use. The
fastenings and smaller parts only were of metal, and consisted of
castings and forgings fitted by hand. There were some lathes of the
very simplest type. Most of them were “pole” lathes, operated by a
cord reaching from a foot treadle, around the work itself, and up to a
pole or wooden spring attached to the ceiling. The work rotated
alternately forward and backward, and was caught with a hand tool
each time as it came forward. Two are shown in Fig. 2, one at the
back and one at the left. Only the very best forms had continuous
motion from a direct drive on the live spindle, as shown at the right of
the same figure. This figure is reproduced from the French
Dictionnaire des Sciences, published in 1772. Such lathes were
almost useless for metal cutting, as they lacked both the necessary
power and a holding device strong enough and accurate enough to