“Your father was a good man. A hard worker. The best. I would have offered him a permanent position once he’d finished his indenture.”
Braham just held his tongue, knowing that his uncle’s words might be his last. What right did Braham have to redirect this final conversation?
He winced at the man’s coughing fit and looked away, spying the painting of Terryhold Plantation. Uncle Bates’s niece by marriage had sat on the edge of the garden every day, perched behind an easel, while Braham and his father walked from the servants’ quarters to the fields. The woman would paint, a slave girl would fan her, and the condensation on the glass jug of lemonade would tempt Braham to quench his thirst without permission.
The bedroom door swung open. Gerald Bates stepped inside as if bursting through some unseen shield. Perhaps a shield of peace? The air thickened with animosity at Braham’s first glance of the master’s son.
“I will take it from here,” Gerald grumbled to Braham as he flung his hat atop the bureau.
Braham rose. While Mr. Bates Sr. was consistent in reminding Braham of his own hardworking father, his son was persistent in setting straight Braham’s place—not as an embraced cousin, but an orphaned nuisance.
“Wait.” His uncle’s shaky hand hovered in the air between the men. A beacon of reconciliation? Hardly. Braham scoffed at the thought. More like an obstacle to battle that would soon fall away and leave Braham at the mercy of the new factory owner. “I would like to discuss my will with both of you present—”
“Father—” Gerald stepped forward enough that his father’s hand pressed against his chest.
“Gerald, my time is near.”
“You’ve worked hard, Father.” Gerald spoke through tightly knit lips, as if he tried to withhold his words from Braham. Of course he tried. “And, I will be sure your affairs are taken care of by the finest of men.”
Uncle Bates dragged his head across the feathered pillow to look squarely at his son. “You, my boy, will care for Terryhold. We have spoken of this before. And I have decided who will replace me at the factory.” His heavy-lidded eyes found Braham. “Braham, you will run the factory now.”
The steam from Gerald’s reddened neck was almost visible. “You have appointed our places in life without asking our opinions, Father.”
Braham’s shoulders were firm with pride, but his step near such an adversary as Gerald was unsteady. “Uncle, are you sure I am fit for the position—”
Gerald slammed a hand on the polished wood frame of the bed. “You are not! Father, this boy has only worked with his hands, not his brain.” Boy? Braham was twenty-one years old. A man, the same as Gerald. Yet one of them a gentleman, the other, a tyrant. “And there is nothing left for me in Georgia once you—”
A cough erupted from the elderly man’s blue lips. Braham twisted his knuckles in the palm of his hand that was planted against his lower back. He did his best to hide his offense behind his concern for Mr. Bates. “Sir?” He knelt by the bedside, offering a glass of water. He stared at the weak mouth and the bead of liquid slipping down his chin, but he felt Gerald’s heated stare.
Uncle Bates settled back on the pillow. “You have acres upon acres of land in Georgia. You have a firm foundation from the work of three generations. Gerald, you have a life in Georgia.”
“What if I don’t want it?” he seethed, but it did not appear that Mr. Bates heard it.
The man breathed hard and noisily but managed to say, “I have a trust in place. My greatest friend, Mr. Williams, will be sure the terms are followed.” He turned to his son. “Gerald, continue to advise Braham in the business, and you will be rewarded each year.” He reached a shaky hand toward Braham. “Dear boy, you will report all factory dealings to Gerald. The both of you will be quite a pair. I shall smile from heaven knowing my two establishments are well cared for.”
Braham was overwhelmed by this confidence from his beloved guardian. “Thank you, sir. I shall do my best.” This man was the closest living thing he had to a father. The only man who had gained Braham’s trust after all he’d witnessed throughout his young life. And now it seemed Braham had gained Uncle Bates’s trust as well. “I’ll not let you down. Gloughton Mill shall prosper even more than you can imagine.” He dared a look at Gerald. The man leaned his forehead on his clenched fist. “Gerald, we will make an effort to—”
A sudden jerk of his uncle’s frail body gained both men’s attention.
“Father?” Gerald leaned forward.
Uncle Bates’s hand squeezed Braham’s and then grew limp. His eyes glassed over, sending a shudder down Braham’s spine. He had seen the eclipse of death before. He remembered the hollowed-out loneliness of being left by those he loved.
“You are my family.” The dying man gasped for air. “Both of you.”
“We are,” Braham agreed as a tear dropped from his lash, trailing salt along the edge of his lip. Braham caught Gerald’s stormy glare. “We will try and manage well.”
A silence deafened the room at the interlude between the two cousins. Something had stilled besides the clock’s pendulum on the wall.
Uncle Bates’s body emptied of life.
Braham covered the man’s eyes with his fingers and whispered, “Peace be with you, sir.”
Gerald stood and bent over to kiss his father’s forehead. “Goodbye, Father.” But the flash in Gerald’s eyes was not one of grief. It was no doubt the heat of anger that Braham had even been invited into the family quarters, let alone given a secure position over the Bates cotton mill endeavor. No, a man like Gerald would not make much of a business partner at all. Not with Braham’s meager roots. While it had been a pleasure to live up to Uncle Bates’s expectations all this time, Braham would never reach such heights as to meet Gerald’s expectations. It was impossible.
Gerald turned from the bedside. “I shall call for the doctor to be sure.” He hesitated at the door. “Do not bother to attend the will hearing. That is for blood relations only.”
“But—”
Gerald disappeared into the hall.
The man was like an overgrown child, insisting on his way even if it was unreasonable. His father had been Braham’s legal guardian since the summer Braham’s father had passed away. There’d be no negotiating anything written by his guardian, especially with Mr. Williams as executor. He was another friend who was considered as important as family.
Braham sank down in the armchair by the window and waited for the doctor to arrive. All the while, he tried to convince himself that Gerald was so torn between his desires and duty not because of selfish entitlement, but because of a loyalty to his father that he could not snuff out.
Braham was certain it might be difficult for Gerald to plant his feet down south—after his frequent trips north, having attended school at Harvard. He despised Terryhold, yet he received such wealth and privilege because of the plantation’s profit.
For Braham, north, south, east, or west did not matter at all. He was entrusted with a business—by the man he loved most. There was nothing that would stop him from running the factory to the utmost satisfaction of his late master. No, Braham Taylor was now reaping the fruits of all he’d endured, and he would give every ounce of himself to the mill.
Imagining that heaven-sent smile promised by the old man? Ah, even in his grief, the thought nearly brought a grin to Braham’s face.
He knew that he was the man for the job. Gerald’s snubs would not rattle his confidence.
If Braham had inherited anything from his own father, it was perseverance. Even if it meant persevering beneath the turned-up nose of his partner—that was nothing compared to the honor bestowed upon him today as Gloughton Mill’s newest manager.
Chapter Two
The factory rose above with row upon row of sharp-edged bricks. Thick mortar promised strength against a loud drumming from within the building. Nothing like the worn and withered home of her father. Yet, his tender way was more secure than a thousand strong towers
.
Bile swirled around Josie’s stomach. “Are you certain Father knew this was the plan?” Her father’s fear haunted her these past three weeks. He never returned to her. She had healed alone.
“Aye. Your father is a desperate man. This is a sure way …” Alvin fiddled with the brim of his hat.
“But the factory will provide me with good pay. Why do I have to … have to …” Josie winced.
“Help me?” Alvin raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Chadwick is counting on your replacement. That’s how I kept you alive.”
“But, Father … I cannot imagine him agreeing to this.”
“I told you, your father is a desperate man.” Alvin slid the floppy hat from above his ruddy face. “Providence was at hand that day I found you.”
Josie gave him a sideways glance. “I doubt that. There’s no hand of God in this scheme.”
“Who said anything about God’s hand, Josephi—I mean, Josie Clay.” He chuckled. Only the slight tilt of his brow signaled his former kindness when he worked her father’s farm.
“Do you feel no guilt in dragging us into your schemes? My father has only been good to you.”
“I am doing this for him,” Alvin muttered with none of his recent wit.
Josie halted midstep, her dress swishing against her ankles. She spun and faced him with her back to the stairs rising to the factory door. “What is his trouble, Alvin? He mentioned murderers. His fear was none that I had seen in him before.”
The man diverted his gaze, staring off toward the back of the courtyard. “You would have been killed,” he hissed, avoiding her question. The softness dwindled as quickly as it had graced his gruff face. “I bargained for your life with that mad Dr. Chadwick.”
“Why? So I can be part of this horrendous scheme? You only stopped him because you need me to be your—” Josie pressed her hand on her woolen-covered waist. She swallowed hard, and her eyes fluttered closed. “Your spy,” she whispered.
“You ask why, Miss Josie?” Alvin leaned in. Spittle clung to his lip. “I saved you for the sake of your father—men worse than Dr. Chadwick wait for him to pay up.”
“How much debt has he acquired in such a short amount of time?” Sudden tears bobbled in her eyes, blurring the ugly man before her. She would go to the authorities as soon as she could. Even if she would also be convicted, she must stop this horrible plan. “Was he better off in debtors’ prison?” She began to weep against her will. She wanted to remain strong, but this was all too much.
“Please don’t cry.” Alvin twisted his hat in his hands and began to pace back and forth. “You know I care about your father. He’s like—like my own father to me.”
“And then you turned away from all that is good. You are the prodigal”—Josie tried to refrain the sneer that formed in the thick of her throat—“who never returned.”
“He doesn’t owe money, Josephine.”
“What?”
“He owes bodies.”
She stepped back. “My … father?”
“You are replacing him at the graveside. You will be the signal, and you will return the grave to its original state after I’ve taken the body. Just as your father tried to do in New York while you were ill.” He sucked in air from his teeth. “Until he was seen.”
“My father works with you?” Blackness swallowed the edges of the courtyard where they stood.
“Not anymore.” He spat on the paved ground. “Can’t be trusted. But I cannot do this alone. Not after the past couple of jobs. I cannot work alone.”
“Are the authorities after my father?” She considered the reason for her father’s countenance last they met. Josie wrapped her arms around her waist. A weakness invaded her every limb and hollowed out her gut.
What wickedness had found the two remaining Claytons!
“Nay, unless he goes to New York once more. But your father’s carelessness has angered the head resurrectionist.”
“Don’t call him that.” He’d used that word on their journey here. Josie’s spirit had recoiled then, and it did now. The word resurrection was sacred to some. Alvin’s new attribution to it only darkened its brightness. Bodies stolen from graves? There was no resurrection in that. Just despicable crime. How could her father do this? Terror frenzied in Josie’s heart. “Did Father know what Dr. Chadwick intended for me?”
“No, not at all. He truly thought you were dead and buried.” Alvin squared his stance and locked her in an intense stare. “Understand this now— We’ll supply Dr. Chadwick with his replacement, but we have much more to do. The deal I made with Dr. Chadwick was not just for the ridiculous doctor, but for your father’s life.” His eyes simmered. “Those men are ruthless. Your father ruined the network’s chances in New York. Boston has already been too dangerous, what with the legal ramifications. If he doesn’t make up for the loss, then I fear the worst. I fear murder.”
Josie wagged her head, pressing her fingers on her temples. Her father’s very life was in danger. His betrayal to all the goodness he’d instilled in her growing years wrapped its way around her heart like a vine of thorns. She had spent this past month in the cave-like cellar, breaking fever upon fever and shoveling in the dusty air—and he’d visited her but once.
“He didn’t want to tell me himself,” she muttered, thinking on that last encounter. Was it not just fear but shame that shook him in those moments?
Yet now, they were all guilty. She had recovered, only to heap guilt on herself as well.
Alvin slid his hand around her arm, but she shook him off. He hesitated then spoke. “For now, realize that we are saviors in a way.” Josie glared at him. A tipped grin folded the skin on his cheek. “I am yours, and you are your father’s, yes?” he quipped.
A caged sob shook Josie’s shoulders.
Alvin’s delight faded. He stepped back with a bent head, cramming his hat atop a fading hairline. “Look, your work at the mill will be honest, yet fruitful for our cause. Word has it that it’s fatal work for some. I’m counting on that.” He grimaced then sighed. “And when the time comes, this work shall only be a blink of your life—the life you would never have if it weren’t for my loyalty to your father and your father’s devotion to his land.”
Josie ground her teeth, begging God for mercy toward the vengeful heart thumping in her chest. She was imprisoned by the dirty hands of this savior. Yet, she should not think on the injustice of it any longer. There would be nothing but disaster if she exposed this scheme to anyone. Her father’s life was at stake.
She turned to the stairs and did not look back until she stood before the large wooden door. Alvin had retreated across the courtyard and leaned against the large trunk of an old elm tree. The gnarling branches seemed to twist and bunch against persistent new growth. Life was only precious to some.
Josie pulled at a rope to ring the bell then knocked hard on the broad door, releasing some tension through her slamming knuckles. Just as she raised her fist a third time, the door squealed open. An older woman wearing a plain dress without pattern or pleat cast a cool gaze over spectacles resting near the point of her nose. “May I help you?”
Josie fumbled with the advertisement in her cloak pocket and handed it to the woman. “I am Josie Clay. I would like to work here at the mill.”
The woman searched her with glassy eyes, pressing her hand beneath her high-waisted bodice. “We are always looking for help, just as the ad suggests. But our beds are limited. Do you need boarding?”
Josie nodded, wishing she could retire to her own bed. Yet it was thirty miles away.
The chugging of machinery distracted Josie from her angst. She managed to peer inside the building. It was like the dark mouth of a hungry giant with a grumbling belly.
“Come inside.” The woman widened the door.
Josie’s uneasy first impression of the place had her hesitate at first.
“Come on, then.” The woman waved her in. “Let us wait for Miss Jamison, the boardinghouse matron. She’ll know be
tter what we have available. I am Miss Clyde, Mr. Taylor’s secretary.” The corner of her mouth puckered as if she had tasted a bitter herb.
Josie followed her along a wide hallway with gleaming floors and whitewashed walls. A steady whir and series of thuds vibrated throughout the place.
Miss Clyde held open a door of sparkling glass. “Hurry now. The ladies will crowd the hallway any minute. ’Tis dinnertime. If you are hired, you will receive three meals a day. Work is from daybreak to dusk, five days a week. Half a day on Saturday. Sundays are off, but you are expected to attend church. There are several educational opportunities available as well.”
“Educational?”
“Yes. The girls are not just working for factory life, but for future opportunities as wives and mothers. We expect each of them to become capable of entering society with dignity and civility.” She pushed her spectacles up to the bridge of her nose. “Do you have any education?”
“I can read and write. My mother kept me in school until she grew ill—about four years ago.” Mother hardly let Josie skip school to help on the farm, no matter the circumstance that might arise or the garden that cried for attention. Yet, while Mother sat for hours reading as her body withered away, Josie escaped the sorrow with hands covered in dirt, her nose sniffing pungent thyme and rosemary and her pen jotting down characteristics of plants and mixtures. Just like Mother had taught her. Her inherited passion for healing herbs made her transition from student to employee of the town’s only physician a smooth one.
The Yellow Lantern Page 2