Miss Clyde craned her neck toward the end of the hall once more then closed the door. “Wait there.” She offered a bench beneath a window that looked out into the hallway before she disappeared through a narrow corridor.
The noise from beyond the walls died away. A sudden silence startled Josie. She peeked through the window, careful not to smudge the glass with her nose. From the far end of the hallway, a flash of blues, golds, and pinks mingled with navy, browns, and grays as women tied colorful bonnets on their heads and bumbled along the shiny floor. Bright faces drew closer, and then they passed by on their way outside. How happy they seemed, and how lovely they dressed. Even though Josie’s gown was a light blue, she was cloaked in the grim dealings of a persuasive doctor and the shady task of bargaining with bodies.
Lord, forgive me.
A couple of ladies caught her eye and flashed genuine smiles. Thirty or forty women passed by within a few seconds, pouring out into the amber daylight.
If only her father hadn’t gotten involved with dangerous men. She would have gone to the authorities as soon as she’d accepted a position at Gloughton Mill. What would it be like to work the honest life as a factory girl only, without the choking attachment to Dr. Chadwick and Alvin Green? She jerked away from the window and warded off a fit of tears.
Had she looked upon the face of the next girl she’d offer to Dr. Chadwick as her own replacement?
Braham ran his hand over the desk. The same scrawny boy who scrambled in and out of the cotton bales down south was now supervisor of one hundred women and men, producing fine cloth from the cotton he once picked. Even one month after his uncle had passed, he could hardly believe his good fortune.
Sorrow tiptoed beneath his starched white shirt, and he sighed. The past factory accidents dampened his joy. He had been careful to investigate each piece of equipment and replace anything that was worn. His chest tightened as he suppressed the uncertainty that dug deeper than the grave of his benefactor. He must live up to the trust bestowed on him.
The large glass window across from his desk framed the quiet factory floor. Power looms rested, crates of raw cotton dotted about, and the freshly folded cloth was stacked like treasure beneath the bow of an explorer’s ship. Another good day’s work was accomplished, and he had overseen it without an incident.
A knock turned him from the window. He cleared his throat. “Come in.”
Miss Clyde appeared, her stance as rigid as usual. The woman never softened, even when she announced the fate of Mr. Bates to his household. She was a predictable asset to Braham’s operation, but an unnerving likeness to the other statues transposed along Braham’s life line—especially Mr. Bates Jr., who, fortunately, was in Georgia once again.
“Mr. Taylor, do you have time to meet with a Miss Josie Clay in regard to a position? I have spoken with the matron of the boardinghouse, and it seems that we do have one bed left.”
A figure blurred just beyond Miss Clyde’s pointed shoulder. He squinted to make out the slight woman pacing back and forth in the waiting area. “Very well. I will talk with her.” He passed by his secretary.
Her sharp shoulders pricked up. “Sir, do you not want to meet with her here, as is custom?” Miss Clyde waved to his desk.
“My supper is waiting for me, and I am sure this will not take long.” He had been a good judge of character all his life. Unfortunately, the skill had been practiced in the discernment of evil more than good—like the cruel slave master down south. Braham had been leery of him that first day he and his father had arrived at the plantation. While Father spoke with Gerald Bates Sr. about indentured servitude, the slave master had kicked at the boys in the rows and would soon do the same to Braham.
Braham could also distinguish what type of women worked here. There were those who worked hard for the good of the mill and their families’ added income, and there were those who were only here to get away from their suppressive parents, caring little about their work. They spent their breaks gossiping, trying to decide if Braham’s allegiance was only to the factory, or if he was open to a possible courtship. He had never before had the authority to reprimand them, but he would now, if the opportunity arose. Braham did not want any of that foolishness. Not when he had been given such a great responsibility. His fortune was not in marriage prospects but in the accomplishment of serving his master’s legacy well.
He approached the small room lined with benches. The tall window gleamed with the crimson light of day, framing the woman before him in a sinister glow. Only her gold locks beneath a scalloped bonnet suggested innocence beyond the fiery glare that consumed her outline.
“Good evening, Miss Clay.” He stepped aside, agitated that he could not make out her features with such a devilish flame surrounding her. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple hard against his cravat.
“Good evening, sir. I am inquiring about a position.” Her round face and bright blue eyes were not devilish at all but full of question. “I found this advertisement and was wondering if there might be room for me?” She handed him the paper. Her small gloved hands seemed to tremble as he took it. He looked at her again. A crease sliced between her eyebrows. Fearfully carved, or a sign of eagerness? Her gaze skittered to the window.
He tucked his chin back to his neck. “Where are you from?”
“A small village west of here.” She bowed her head. “I’ve just arrived to Gloughton. I do hope to find a means to help my—” Her long lashes dipped, and the crease grew deeper in her ivory skin. She licked her lips and said quickly, “—my father.” Her timidity was not appealing for a man looking to hire a strong woman for long hours and dependable work.
“Many women come here to help out their families—whether it be to send wages home or to simply relieve their parents of one less mouth to feed.” He paced toward the window that looked out upon the courtyard between the factory and the boardinghouse. A man leaned against the old elm, folding a piece of paper. His face was shaded by a large brimmed hat, but the wash of light revealed he stared in Braham’s direction. When Braham drew closer to the window, the man disappeared behind the tree.
“Are you with that man?” Braham looked at Miss Clay.
Her eyes grew wide. Sapphire bobbles searched his face. She gave a quick nod then turned away. “Please, sir. It is necessary that I find a place. He waits to be sure—”
“The matron does have strict rules about male callers, you should know—”
She whipped her head around. “Oh, I do not intend for anything of the sort.” The pinks of the day painted her face in a fury of color. She drew close, determination stiffening her brow. “He promises to only come and take my wages to my father.”
“He’s your father’s servant?”
Her nose scrunched, and she pressed her lips together. “No. He … he was my father’s farmhand.” She walked to the window. “If I could arrange for anyone else to come each fortnight to check on me, I would. The man is repulsive.” She faced Braham. “Please, sir, I am desperate to work—desperate to escape his company even for a handful of days.”
Braham looked back out to the courtyard. The man was nowhere to be seen. He breathed in deeply, trying to push aside his unsolicited interest in this stranger and her predicament. He would consider her a little longer. She seemed stuck in the clutches of unwanted authority. Something he knew all too well.
“Miss Clay, we work long, hard hours. You will be responsible to maintain a certain pace at the machines, making sure that not one thing delays our production. Many women find the task tedious the first week, but they discover a rhythm and manage their duty well.” Spinning on his heel, he tucked his hands in his waistcoat pockets. He puffed his chest a bit, just like he’d seen his uncle do with new hires. “Do you think you will be able to stand for hours on end without tiring?”
Miss Clay lifted her chin, her profile sharply outlined in front of him. A slender nose, not too small, not too large, a rounded chin, and lashes longer than any he had seen were
only fixtures upon a serious canvas that had lost all anxiety. Perhaps his serious tone had displaced her worry.
“Sir, I have worked long hard hours on the farm and in assisting with my village’s recent fever outbreaks. Operating machinery will be a welcome endeavor. I have endured caring for livestock and cleaning up death. Working for your factory would be a delightful change.” She then tilted her face toward him, gave a curt smile, and stared.
His mouth went dry. A tremble seized his chest, foreign and unwelcomed. He took in a jagged breath and stared back at her, searching beyond the light that washed her face and trying to determine his next words. Her initial weak-natured posture now fled as quickly as the dying rays of sun, and she stood there, nearly daring him to hire her. He did not like it one bit.
She must have noticed his hesitation, because her smile vanished, giving way to an eager expression tainted pink in the strange light. “Please, sir, I am confident in my ability. But also, my father needs me. Since my mother’s death he has not been the same. There is little for him beyond his property.” She snaked a handkerchief from beneath her cuff and balled it up in her hand. “I fear the worst if he’s not allowed to keep it.”
A strike of the clock in the corridor gave sound to the pierce in Braham’s heart. His mother was Father’s joy. She lit every bit of his face when she’d appear from below the ship’s deck. And every night, he’d kiss her brow before they dozed to sleep. Braham was only ten when he’d seen his mother last. In a way, it was also the last time he’d seen the father he’d once known.
“You shall have two weeks of work before you are paid. During that time, you will be evaluated on your capabilities.” He walked past her and motioned for Miss Clyde to come from her desk along the corridor. “Miss Clyde, please make arrangements for Miss Clay at the boardinghouse. Show her to aisle four on the main floor first thing in the morning.” He refused to look back at the woman and went straight to his office to gather his hat and gloves. He was famished. Certainly, his need for food had everything to do with his pulse’s reaction to the newest employee. Only her mention of bold work ethic lured Braham to hire her.
At least, that’s what he convinced himself of on his way from the mill to the rolling hills just beyond Gloughton.
Chapter Three
Relief coursed through Josie’s frame as she followed Miss Clyde to the boardinghouse. The echo of their heels on the bricked courtyard accompanied the call of a mourning dove. As they neared the porch of another red-bricked building, smaller than the factory yet more vast than any shop in Ainsley, Alvin’s wagon disappeared along a bridge behind a promenade of trees.
Good riddance.
She would try to manage her thoughts and forget him until he showed up next. Mr. Taylor was already suspecting him of nefarious intentions as far as she could tell. Of course, she hadn’t managed her emotions very well at all. But, unlike her struggle to keep control of the fear that skimmed her heart, Mr. Taylor was controlled and mindful. She would be under a tight watch. That was enough motivation to be at her best. And while she was not anywhere close to being her best—with her growling stomach, sore bottom from the treacherous wagon ride, and an aching jaw from biting back angry words the entire journey—after a night’s rest she would put every ounce of effort into her position and refrain from growing close to one soul in this place.
She tightened her grip on the bag that carried her black veil and ebony gown and glanced around for the mourning dove, the appropriate serenade for this procession to her dual purpose. She followed Miss Clyde inside.
“Supper has already been served. We shall go to the kitchen and see what Cook has left,” Miss Clyde said as she hung her cloak up in the small square foyer. In the room’s center, a staircase took several turns upward. A lamp on the wall lit up only the bottom few stairs. Josie imagined there were at least four floors above them. “Come on then, hang up your cloak. You are not the only one who missed a meal.” Miss Clyde did not speak with contention, but Josie felt the stab of guilt knowing her late arrival had indeed caused Miss Clyde’s delay.
“Forgive me,” she muttered, taking her cloak off, then untying her bonnet.
“Leave your things here. We will come back for them after we eat.” Miss Clyde disappeared in a hallway, and Josie followed. After a half flight of stairs down, they came to a large kitchen. The fire smoked, and a small maid stood at a propped-open door fanning the smoke out into a silvery dusk.
Miss Clyde whispered to a stout woman with a mass of peppered hair piled high behind a cap. The woman raised an eyebrow and examined Josie then pushed Miss Clyde aside and came up to her.
“Well hello, dear. I am Fran Parker.” She tilted her head and continued, “Miss Clyde said you arrived at the dinner bell. I’d say you must be famished.”
Josie nodded.
Fran dashed a look at Miss Clyde, who was no longer by her side. The rigid woman served herself a bowl of steaming soup while the maid began to chatter away. Miss Clyde hardly acknowledged her attempt at conversation, sitting down with her back to everyone in the kitchen.
Fran spoke from the corner of her mouth, “Come on, get yourself some food. And don’t mind the woman.” She directed her eyes at Miss Clyde. “I believe she might be made of stone more than flesh.” A warm chuckle shook her shoulders as she picked up the ladle and a bowl. Josie took a seat across from Miss Clyde, who only looked down at her soup and slurped.
“Here you go, dear.” Fran placed the bowl in front of Josie then bustled across the room. “That’s enough, Abigail. You’ll kill all my garden plants as hard as you’re whipping that smoke out.” The cook rushed to the door. “A little smoke never hurt anyone, and we aren’t near the cotton. Nothing’s going to catch aflame.”
Josie kept her eye on the bit of shrubbery visible until the door blocked her view. She could hardly resist a garden. Perhaps she would find her way to the kitchen garden during her stay here. Her heart leapt. She ate more heartily than she had before. If there was one thing that could erase her sorrows, even for a day, it was using the earth, not to bury and dig up again, but to feed the life of a flower or herb.
“Mrs. Parker?” she inquired after finishing her soup.
“Dear, call me Fran.”
“Fran, would you ever need help in your garden?”
Before the woman could answer, Miss Clyde snapped, “You will be busy with work.”
“But after, when I have time off perhaps?” She avoided Miss Clyde’s glare and kept her eyes on the considering cook.
“We hold education in high regard, Miss Clay,” Miss Clyde explained. “Reading, sewing, and attending church services would serve you better than getting dirt beneath your nails in a kitchen garden.”
“I see.” Josie sank back.
When Miss Clyde excused herself and gestured for her to follow, Josie pushed aside her empty bowl and left the kitchen.
Fran called out, “If you have any advice on herbs, I’d be glad to hear it … when you aren’t busy, of course.”
A warm gush filled Josie, but she did not respond. Miss Clyde worked closely with Mr. Taylor. Josie must not bring negative attention to herself even if the anticipation of a garden in need was more satisfying than a full stomach.
Miss Clyde led her up the stairs to the second floor. They emerged into a large common room with two fireplaces surrounded by armchairs. Tables with four chairs each stretched across the entire length of the room. There were a few groups of women reading by the firelight, and a couple of ladies sat at tables with glowing lamps and ink and paper. Archways opened up to a hall with a long stretch of doors—no doubt, bedrooms. Miss Clyde knocked on the first door. Several heads turned their way. The door opened, and a woman with rosy cheeks and bright green eyes appeared. Her expression dulled at the sight of Miss Clyde.
“I’ve brought the new mill girl, Josie Clay.”
“Ah!” The lady’s face lit up again, and she barreled out the door. She gleamed at Josie and took her by the elbow,
ushering her to the closest fireplace. “I’ve got it from here, Miss Clyde. I am sure your sister is wondering where you are at.” The lady turned to Josie and rolled her eyes. Miss Clyde only stuck her nose up and disappeared down the stairs.
Josie noticed the stares and whispers of other women nearby, just like she’d received at home when the villagers scoffed at her interest in medicine and ailments. She caught some wary looks too, similar to those from wives and sisters of the male patients she would help. If these women only knew their wariness was justified.
“Now, Josie, is it?”
“It is.” Josie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “And you are?”
The woman tossed her dark head back and giggled. “Oh, goodness. How rude of me. I am Fawna Jamison, the matron here.” She held out her hand. Josie shook it. “I also help in the mill’s carding room. Tell me, what made you come to Gloughton? We have women of all sorts. But I’d like to figure out which room to put you in. You know, there are four to a room, forty girls in all. Each dormitory has its own personality, really.”
“Miss Clyde spoke little about the arrangements.” She did not know any of it. “I—I would like to work for wages. My father’s in need of help for his land.” The excuse was a good one—laced with enough truth that it tumbled from Josie’s tongue without hesitation.
“What kind of land?” Fawna’s eyes flashed with interest, as if Josie offered a bit of gossip that she could not resist.
“A farm, west of here. I am here to send money back to him.”
“I see.” Fawna studied her. Josie squirmed, paying attention to the leaping flames in the fireplace. “What else?”
“What else?” Josie arched her brow, biting the inside of her cheek.
“Look, every one of these ladies has a story—a reason beyond the money—that brought them here. What is yours? You are too lovely to not have a match waiting for your hand. What else brought you here, Josie—?”
“Clay. Josie Clay,” she blurted, her pulse racing at Miss Jamison’s persistence. “Ma’am, I have little to care about besides my father.” If the woman knew her story, she’d never believe her. Josie was certain she had the most horrific story in the room. The matron put a thoughtful finger to her chin then began to stoke the fire.
The Yellow Lantern Page 3