by Elaine Owen
Thornton positively started, wondering if he had heard right. "Higgins! You are joking."
"I am afraid not, sir. He says he'll stay as long as necessary in order to see you. Did I do right to keep him outside?"
"Quite right." Thornton pushed the office door open. "Tell him I am very busy today, and likely to be so tomorrow as well."
"Very good, sir." Huely walked away as Thornton entered his office and took off his coat and hat, hanging them on the stand reserved for that purpose. He pulled his ledgers and quills out of their drawer and arranged them on the desk. Why the devil was Higgins here, and what did he think Thornton would do for him?
Higgins had been one of the leaders of the strike the previous summer, and Thornton held him personally responsible for helping to ruin Marlborough Mills. Higgins and the other union leaders had insisted that Thornton and the other masters share their wealth with their workers by giving them a raise. What they did not understand, or chose to ignore, were the rising costs of producing cotton cloth and the increase in competition from American manufacturers. The profits that Higgins and the others wanted the masters to share simply no longer existed, and there was nothing any master could do about it. If the union hadn't been so intransigent in its demands they might perhaps have worked something out over time. Instead they had called a strike; half the workers had nearly starved before it ended. Higgins must be mad if he thought he might find a job now with Thornton.
On the other hand, Margaret shared some sort of bond with Higgins. Margaret had been close friends with Higgins' late daughter, Bessy, and she had taken a personal interest in the family's welfare. Thornton knew that Higgins and Margaret were on a first name basis. And Higgins had even been at their wedding, almost the sole figure on the bride's side of the aisle.
Thornton leaned back in his chair, considering. He had promised Margaret that she could continue her friendship with the firebrand, but that did not mean that he had to like it. And it certainly did not mean that he had to give the man any kind of hearing. He would not speak with Higgins.
Having resolved the issue in his mind, Thornton turned his attention to the business of the day. With his pen in his hand Thornton was so absorbed in his work that he was surprised to hear a knock on the office door sometime later.
"Come in!" he called without looking up. He had a standing rule not to be interrupted in his office when the door was closed unless there was some kind of emergency. "I said come in!" he called out, more irritably than before. This time he stopped his work and stared at the door, prepared to express his displeasure to whoever was on the other side.
There was a pause. Then the door slowly opened, and Margaret peered cautiously around it.
"Margaret! What are you doing here?" He could not help staring. To the best of his knowledge Margaret had only been in the mill once before, when she first arrived in Milton two years earlier. Now here she was, as if in answer to his hopes and dreams.
"Your mother asked me to bring you lunch," Margaret answered, taking a hesitant step inside. She held an oversized wicker basket in her hands. "She arranged this for you this morning."
"Is it that time already?"
"She said you would work all day without eating if someone did not remind you."
Thornton continued to stare, perplexed. He could not seem to remember how to speak or move. It was as though some lovely exotic bird from a tropical climate had suddenly landed in front of him, and he did not quite know what to do with it.
Margaret was looking at him strangely. "I'll just put this on the desk, then, and be on my way."
"No!" Thornton stood and came around the desk, silently cursing his own clumsiness. Why hadn't he waited to see who was knocking on the door before letting his temper show? "Won't you stay and eat with me? Mother always puts in far too much food for one person."
"I will keep you from your work."
"Not at all. Here, let me clear a space for you." He moved quickly, hoping she would not leave before he could offer her a seat. There were two chairs across from his desk but one of them was filled with books. He moved those to the floor and dusted off both chairs, though both were clean enough already. Then he cleared his desk as much as possible, moving ledgers and account books to the side and stacking them together.
Margaret put the basket down and sat tentatively, as though she were uncomfortable in such surroundings. She looked around the utilitarian office with wide eyes. Thornton followed her glance, trying to see the space as she did.
"This is not very comfortable for a lady," he commented. "It has never had the benefit of a feminine touch."
"Hasn't your mother ever tried to have her way with it?"
"I would not allow it. A man must have at least one space he can call his own." He could see by the sparkle in her eyes that his answer amused her, though she smothered her smile.
He seated himself and they worked together to divide the contents of the basket, arranging the fruits and breads on the desktop. "Where is my mother?" he asked. "Is there a particular reason she could not come today?"
"She and Fanny decided to take the day to make calls on some of the other masters' wives before the wedding," she reminded him.
"Ah." He recalled the conversation at the breakfast table. "Why did they not take you with them?" He was indignant at the slight.
"It was not possible, as I am still in mourning."
"I see." He stared at her, bemused, until she squirmed uncomfortably.
"Why are you staring at me, Mr. Thornton?"
"Forgive me. I am simply astonished at how well you have dealt with the sudden changes in your circumstances. It is as though you have always been at Marlborough Mills. Are you and my mother getting along?"
"I think she still might suspect me of mercenary motives."
"She will learn better in time."
"And she complained yesterday about the new arrangement of flowers in that vase in the parlor window."
Thornton could not recall the arrangement in question; he rarely paid attention to such details. "What did she not like about it?"
"She thought it was too showy for every day, and that the colors did not go well together."
"How did you answer?"
"I told her that it is the latest style in town, but I would be willing to listen to her suggestions to improve it."
"Was she satisfied with your response?"
"I am not sure. Before she could answer Fanny came into the room and exclaimed over the display. She told Hannah she wanted the exact arrangement on the tables at her wedding breakfast."
Thornton nearly laughed out loud. "That could not have made my mother very happy."
"She had nothing more to say about it. I half expected her to throw the flowers out while my back was turned but they are still there today, so I suppose she has reconciled herself to them."
Thornton nodded, amused. They spoke of other household matters while they ate their meal, and he could see her gradually relaxing, clearly much more at ease away from the house. He was thankful to have her to himself, without the intrusive presence of his mother and sister. The short interlude was the most pleasant time they had spent together so far. But the simple meal was already coming to an end. Regretfully he watched Margaret put the napkins and other items back into the basket, close it, and pick it up again.
"I must get back," she said, preparing to leave. "Dixon will wonder where I am."
"Tell her you were eating lunch with your husband," he told her, and immediately the blush rose on her cheeks. She looked away uncomfortably. Inwardly he cursed himself. He had pushed too far, too fast. She was not ready to think of him as her husband, not yet. "That is, you can tell her you decided to eat lunch at the mill today instead of sitting by yourself at a large table."
She acknowledged the amendment with a nod of her head and Thornton sighed with relief. He did not want to frighten her away. He wanted her to want to be with him, not to always be uneasy in his presence. When her hand w
as on the door handle and she was about to leave he asked, "May I give you a tour of the mill?"
Margaret looked over her shoulder at him and blinked. "A tour?"
"You have never seen the mill in full operation before, have you? You only saw a part of the floor that one day, when you first came to Milton. I should dearly like for you to see the whole thing."
She was wary, he could tell, but also alive with curiosity. "It would not take too much of your time, would it?"
"Certainly not. I need to do an inspection anyway."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He led her first to the far end of the long, low building, where the oversized doors were open wide to accept a new shipment. "This is where the process starts, where we take in the raw cotton."
"From America?" They both had to speak loudly to be heard over the sound of the machinery and workers all around them.
"Most of it, yes. We take it into the blowing room so the bales can be opened and the cotton can be cleaned and carded. From there it enters the spinning apparatus."
She watched the overhead spindles winding the thread onto the bobbins below them with interest. "Those machines can take raw cotton and spin it into fine thread without any human intervention?"
"Not entirely. The threads break sometimes, or parts of the machine come loose and must be refastened. And the machines do their business so efficiently that they must always be resupplied with roving."
"Roving?"
"That is what the cleaned and carded material is called before it is spun."
"How much thread can they spin in one day?"
"Two miles' worth," he said proudly. Margaret's whole face showed her astonishment, and Thornton felt himself puff up even more.
"Why is the air in here so hot and uncomfortable?"
"We have to keep the air warm and moist or else the thread weakens and comes apart."
They walked together into the main open area of the factory, where the spinning mules turned the thread into cloth. Each massive loom was manned by a man or a woman aided by two children, both barefoot, who scurried low under the carriage as it moved back and forth, collecting scraps or making quick adjustments to the machinery.
It was too loud to carry on a normal conversation, so he raised his voice and leaned close to her ear as he gestured ahead of him. "These machines are the heart of the factory. I have eighty of them here; some mills have even more."
Margaret held a handkerchief over her mouth and nose to guard against the bits of cotton floating freely everywhere, and Thornton could see her fighting not to cough. She watched the loom nearest to them as the carriage sailed out away from the frame, remained stationary for a short time, and then retracted again with a slight hiss. "What happens if the children do not get out of the way in time?" she asked him, speaking loudly through her handkerchief.
Nothing good, he wanted to answer, but knew he could not say. "My minders are trained to wait until they see both children out from under before they let the carriage retract again," he responded. "It is one of my strictest rules."
Margaret did not answer. She kept her eyes on the children at the nearest loom and kept watching until Thornton touched her elbow to urge her to move back towards his office. There were other parts of the mill that he could have shown her, but he sensed that she had seen enough. He waited until the door had closed behind them and she uncovered her face before asking, "So, what do you think of the mill now?"
He was horrified to see tears well up in her eyes. "Why must you use children?"
Immediately he was on the defensive. "All the mills do. Only children are small enough to go under the machinery and do what needs to be done."
"But they are so young. They should be outside in the fresh air, not forced to work all day in . . . " she struggled to find the right word, "deplorable conditions!"
"We make the conditions as safe and healthy as we can."
Margaret continued as though she had not heard him. "The air is so thick with cotton dust that it ruins their lungs! The noise must surely make some go deaf. And if one of your minders does not see a child in the way, or if they should trip or fall while the carriage is moving, what then? I have read about accidents that maim or even kill a child!”
"And adults too!" Thornton exclaimed, angered against his will.
"But how much worse for children than for adults? They should not be employed at all!"
This was not how he had hoped an afternoon with Margaret would go. Temper, he reminded himself. Guard your temper. "Their families make the choice to send them to work."
"But they should be in school. They should be receiving an education that will enable them to move beyond all this!"
Thornton took a deep breath and spoke with as much restraint as possible. "Margaret, have you considered what would happen if we did not employ children?" he asked. "They come to us from families desperate for income. If they did not earn wages with us they would starve. Here in the mill they can work and earn money for their families year 'round, regardless of storms or whatever crop is ready to harvest. And they learn a trade that will help them move up in the world later on. A skilled weaver earns a good living."
Margaret did not answer, but for the first time she looked uncertain of herself.
Thornton leaned down and picked up one of the books he had moved off a chair earlier. "Here. This is a book written by a mill owner in Scotland, a Mr. Owen, whose principles I have tried to imitate. He founded a system of free education for his workers and their children. And this is one written by a man in America who encouraged his workers to learn and to better themselves. Both of them made great improvements in their employee's lives."
Margaret took the books from him reluctantly. "I did not realize you were interested in the works of reformers."
"I devoured them when I was first establishing Marlborough Mills. I wanted my mill to copy the philanthropic endeavors of those I was reading about, but upon further investigation I discovered that their ideas were not always practical. For instance, I cannot completely avoid the use of children in my mill, but I do not employ any under the age of ten. And I insist that they be able to read and write before they come to me."
Margaret looked down at the two books in her hands. "What about establishing a school for them?"
"I have looked into the idea but the families of the children who work for me are content with the Sunday school education they receive. They do not see the need for a more rigorous academic program."
"I see." She seemed suddenly dispirited, as though the idea of families who did not desire education for their children troubled her. "The problem is obviously more complex than I realized."
He floundered for a moment, wondering what he could do to cheer her up. "Would you like to take these books for yourself? I think you would find them interesting."
"I am certain that I would. I will read them and return them as soon as possible." She slipped the two volumes inside the basket she had brought with her. "And now I am afraid I have taken up too much of your time. I appreciate you showing me your mill. The tour was most enlightening."
"It is our mill, Margaret, not just mine," he reminded her. "It belongs to you as well as me."
She smiled sadly. "Thank you." She slipped out the office door without another word.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Margaret had planned to use the afternoon to write letters but for some reason, after her visit to the mill, she could not focus on the task. Instead Dixon discovered her mistress sitting in the parlor with a pile of linen at her feet, snipping and pulling red threads out of the towels with fierce determination. Dixon put her hands on her hips as she peered down at her.
“What’s got into you, miss? Your mother wouldn’t like it if she saw what a mess you’re making of all those towels, and neither will Mrs. Thornton, I reckon!”
“You needn’t worry about it, Dixon,” Margaret answered, a little peevishly. “Hannah reminded me yesterday that the towels all carry her i
nitials on them, hers with the old Mr. Thornton. I thought it was time to take them out and put ours in instead.”
“That’ll take a powerful lot of time.” Dixon surveyed the damage skeptically. “Are you planning on doing it all today?”
Margaret leveled her sternest look at the long-time servant. “That is not your concern, Dixon.”
“I beg your pardon, miss. I should know better than to put my oar in where it’s not wanted!” Dixon sniffed and moved away, leaving Margaret both annoyed and ashamed over the way she had spoken to the older woman. Yes, Dixon could be impertinent at times, and she did speak her opinion far too freely for a servant. But she had cared for Margaret’s mother with unimpeachable devotion for as long as Margaret could remember, and she knew she ought not to have taken out her own ill humor on the older woman. It was not Dixon’s attitude that bothered Margaret, but her own.
When she had first come to Milton two years ago, the northern factories with their faceless machinery and merciless efficiency had repelled her gentle southern soul. She preferred a kinder, more forgiving pace, one that allowed workers dignity and the chance to control their own lives. She did not like to see men and women reduced to nothing more than tools in the hands of a master, crammed into dark factories just to scrabble for a living, while their counterparts in the south thrived by working in the open sun.
But she had begun to realize that the contrast between the two situations was not as sharp as she had thought. The workers in northern factories did indeed labor in conditions that made her shrink inside, but as she had seen during the strike, they also had the power to leave their work and cripple their masters, potentially bringing even a great mill to its knees. And the southern workers were at the mercy of nature, the frequency of rain and storms, and the passing of seasons. Truly the advantage was not all on one side.
Besides this, she had never before noticed the symmetry of the machines, the beauty with which all the parts of the complex equipment came together to perform their part. The gears pulled the wheels, the wheels spun the bobbins, and the bobbins spilled their burden of thread into the looms. Dozens of other parts for which she had no name moved swiftly and steadily together as if by magic, like skillful dancers each doing their part in an elaborate pattern. The complexity and perfection fairly took her breath away.