The Yellow Lantern

by Dicken, Angie;

  Josie paid closer attention to the others now. Gawking ones, spying ones, chittering ones. So be it. They should never invite her in.

  “Don’t mind them.” Fawna waved her hand. “New blood is always welcomed, cautiously so. One more bed to fill, one more pocket too.”

  “Miss Jamison—”

  “Call me Fawna.”

  “Fawna, I really just want to earn money for my father. There’s nothing else.” Her throat ached. “Please, just put me in a room with quiet women.” The only way to keep her secrets inside would be to still her tongue and avoid any knots to complicate her story. The quieter, the better. Nobody would then question her when she’d have to dress in mourning for a complete stranger, for they would know nothing of her acquaintances on either side of these walls. “I am not much for talking. I only want to work.”

  Fawna’s face blanched at her request. “You can imagine that I would not know how to be such a thing as quiet.” She burst into laughter. Wiping her eyes, she continued, “I think the third floor would suit you better. Those women are mostly into their books and discussing philosophical things.” She leaned in and quirked the corner of her mouth, saying, “A waste of good air, if you ask me.” Then she straightened up with an apologetic tilt of her forehead. “However, if you prefer that kind of passing of the time, then it should be just fine for you.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Anything that would take the attention away from her. Books and philosophy were enough of an escape for now.

  She followed Fawna to a staircase. Beyond the banister, a tall narrow window framed the indigo night blotting out sunlight and the large factory across the way. She could only make out a faint reflection of the room behind her. Alvin’s words played in her head, an unwanted voice but a hopeful declaration—this will be a blink of life.

  Oh, how she prayed that would be true.

  A thick cloud of dust hovered on the top of the hill just outside the Bates estate. Braham squinted. Surely the doctor hadn’t come by again this week. No, it was an old work wagon. His pulse slowed to a normal pace. When the dust broke apart at the crest of the hill, he spotted the driver donning a familiar hat with a limp brim. Was it the man who’d accompanied Miss Clay? Her sour opinion of the man rattled Braham’s nerves. When Braham arrived at the entrance, the gate was unlatched and swinging back and forth in the early evening. He looked up at the hill again, but the man had disappeared. Braham nudged his horse to a gallop through the gate and turned down the winding lane past the apple orchard.

  The sweet scent of apple blossoms mixed with the promise of rain. His usual trot from the town to the countryside was one of peace and reflection, sometimes recovering from a tense encounter with Gerald. But right now, he forgot to take a breath, knowing that that man who seemed an unwelcome companion for Josie Clay may have paid a visit to his small piece of the world—a place where his only treasure rested day in and day out. He led his horse to the stable and then jogged beneath the covered porch of the smart, square home.

  “Good evening, Mr. Taylor.” The maid, Minnie, greeted Braham at the door. Although this was just the guesthouse of the larger Bates estate, he had resided here since he was a boy placed in the care of Mr. Bates’s spinster sister. The privilege to live in such comfort was never forgotten in Braham’s prayers.

  “Any visitors recently?”

  “Not that I know of, sir. Cook had me in the back garden though.” Minnie gave a quick curtsy and disappeared through the dining room.

  Braham entered the parlor where his aunt sat in her usual spot by the fire. “Good evening, Aunt Myrtle.” He kissed her forehead.

  She patted his hand. “I worried about you, boy.” Aunt Myrtle cleared her throat then peered up over her glasses. “It is nearly an hour past quitting time.” She placed her needlepoint in the basket on the hearth.

  Braham bent over and offered his elbow. “Forgive me?”

  She smirked, hooked her frail hand in the crook of his arm, and carefully stood. “Not another accident?” His aunt’s voice hitched. Her lace-capped head of silver only reached his shoulder.

  “No, no, of course not.” Braham’s jaw tightened. “I have taken great care in minding the equipment since the last one.” He shuddered to think about it still. The woman’s injury led to an untimely death. Gerald was livid and, of course, blamed Braham’s poor management. Braham began checking the equipment more often, even stealing away on Sundays.

  “Well then, what has you out this late?”

  “I hired a new girl this evening. She showed up unexpectedly, having no other place to go.”

  “My, what an inconvenient time.” Aunt Myrtle craned her neck toward the window on the other side of Braham. “’Tis almost dark. What would she have done if you turned her away?”

  A shiver threatened to erupt along Braham’s spine. The sinister onlooker came to mind. “I do not know. The man who brought her seemed less like a friend to her and more like a spy.” He hesitated. There was no need to alarm Aunt Myrtle, but he needed to know. “Did anyone call this evening?”

  She shook her head with an absent look in her eyes. “No, nobody that I know of. Might ask Minnie.”

  But Minnie had said she was in the garden. Did the stranger visit the main house? Braham would go ask the servants first thing in the morning. It was rare to have visitors, especially with the main house only occupied by the butler, a groundskeeper, and a maid or two while Gerald was away. Miss Clay’s man may have needed something as simple as a meal, or he may have lost his way and needed help. Braham was a careful fellow though, and he would not allow any disturbance go unexplored. Not now, when life had finally become his own.

  Tonight, he must suppress his uneasiness. Aunt Myrtle would soon suspect it, no matter how distracted she was with her long gaze into the fire’s flame.

  She shook her head and sighed as Braham guided her toward the door. “Seems to me that girl will need some sense along with those wages.” She gave him a stern glance.

  “What?”

  “That girl. Showing up at this time of night and making company with a shady fella? Seems to me she’s the one you should watch, Mr. Taylor.” She raised an eyebrow like she used to when she’d question young Braham’s delay to supper after a day of climbing trees in the orchard.

  Braham smiled back. If his aunt had been beside him at the mill, Josie Clay may have been more scrutinized. What would a girl so fragile, yet capable, do under a full-blooded Bates interrogation? He must remember that he also was tough, able to prove himself beyond his unbecoming roots. He must convince himself that he made no mistake hiring Miss Clay.

  Braham led Aunt Myrtle to the dining room and helped her sit at the head of their simply dressed table lit by a silver candelabra. Taking his seat at her right, he shrugged off the last of his concern. Braham tucked his napkin in his lap, and when he looked up, he caught Aunt Myrtle’s gleam.

  “Do you remember when I taught you your table manners?” She grinned. “I was thrilled that my brother gave me purpose. You gave me purpose.” Her eyes glistened in the candlelight. “Now, I just wait to follow—” A sob was caught by her shaking hand, but tears streaked her cheeks.

  “Do not speak such things.” Braham gritted his teeth. His throat burned with the truth of the lady’s words. He had promised himself to ignore the inevitable. So much had changed. He’d not think of one more assault to his worn-out heart. “My dear aunt, you still have great purpose. I need you now more than ever.”

  Her weeping turned to a chuckle. “Why would you, a grown man now, need an old spinster around here?”

  He dug his elbow on the table, clutched at her hand, and pressed toward her with the most determined brow he could muster. “You are my only friend.” He’d not allow his eyes to water. He kept his brow furrowed and his jaw tight. “I’ll not consider that God would take away my only friend. Much has been taken already.”

  The woman gave a sad smile. “Do not worry. No need to dwell on the inevitable any more
tonight. My only ailment is my hunger.” Her smile grew wide, and she quirked her eyebrow in jest.

  Braham’s laugh fell from his lips, and he sank back in his chair. “I am hungry too.” Minnie hurried in with a platter. They prayed over the meal and began to dine.

  “My nephew will arrive next week,” Aunt Myrtle said. “He has news that he wants to share.” She slid the bit of chicken carefully off her fork with her teeth. The scrape did not irritate Braham nearly as much as the announcement of Mr. Bates Jr.’s arrival.

  “Interesting,” he replied.

  “I do believe it’s an engagement announcement.” She snickered.

  “Engagement? Why would he come here and not just write it in a letter?”

  “Do you not recall his latest fascination?” Aunt Myrtle wiped the corners of her mouth. “Elaine, the daughter of the owner of Bramswell Plantation. Not much to look at, but I think it is wise that he secure his connection down south and gain more cotton for Gloughton. Should keep morale high among the mill workers, don’t you think?”

  “Morale is high regardless of the absent Mr. Bates,” Braham couldn’t help but mumble.

  “There, there, Mr. Taylor. He is your boss, after all.” She clicked her tongue. “But, I will admit, you have much to do with the happiness cultivated among the employees. If not for your kind leadership, then for your handsome presence.” She reached over and patted his cheek, a flush of jest crawling along her laugh lines.

  “Enough, Aunt.” He shook his head, trying to absorb her light spirits. All he could consider, though, was the storm cloud coming up from Georgia and the defense he must place around his position and authority. Especially with the past two accidents only a few short weeks ago.

  One thing was good, however. If Gerald was occupying the main house, any trouble by strange men poking about the place would be his to deal with. And if Braham remembered anything at all from his time down south, Gerald Bates was possessive of his belongings and would not put up with one ounce of mischief.

  Chapter Four

  Josie wondered if she had slept at all. Every time she’d closed her eyes, the faces of unnamed women flashed in her mind then faded away to reveal a waiting Dr. Chadwick. Finally, an anxious wave surged through her body, and she sat up quickly in her bed. Three other women slept soundly—well, one was hardly a woman, probably no older than thirteen. Little Liesl shared Josie’s bed, while the other two shared one. They had been kind enough, introducing themselves politely as they paused their reading of the Boston Daily Times. Sally and Sarah were sisters, and the youngest, Liesl, was a German immigrant who was sent from Boston by her uncle to make money for her sickly grandparents.

  “I am a doffer,” she had said with an accent that ended in the back of her throat. Josie looked over at the sisters, who were probably the same age as herself, and shrugged her shoulders.

  Sally, with ebony hair and big brown eyes, explained. “She takes off the full bobbins and replaces them with empty ones.” She pressed her shoulders back. “It’s a pity, because she’s more capable than that. Only gets two dollars a week. And much of her time is spent sitting in the corner with her journal and knitting basket.”

  Liesl looked away from Sally’s lips, and a delayed understanding bloomed on her flushed face. She gave a sheepish smile. “I would rather not do much else. Not after all the accidents.”

  “Accidents?” Josie swallowed hard.

  The sisters passed a look between themselves. “Just a few. Ever since Mr. Bates Sr. passed away. Some blame it on Mr. Taylor. But really, it seems the women are not careful enough.” Sarah pushed her glasses up.

  “Oh, I see.” Josie grimaced.

  “Just be careful,” Sally chimed in with a playful grin. If only she knew that Josie was not concerned with her own safety but more with the severity of the next accident. Every breath hung on the morbid hope of death. Josie’s spirit convulsed from deep within, begging for mercy on what she’d have to do to appease Chadwick and save her father. An ache grew from behind her eyes. She began to unpack her things, keeping to herself the rest of the evening.

  Liesl was also quiet the rest of the night—changing into her nightgown, kneeling for her prayers, then slipping into the bed after blowing out a candle on her nightstand. A sniffle here and there made Josie wonder if little Liesl cried herself to sleep.

  Now, soft snores rattled beside her, and the chilled air convinced Josie to snuggle deeper into her blanket. The accommodations were nicer than she expected. Cleaner than even her own bedroom. No matter how cozy Josie was though, her mind remained awake, and finally she decided to ready for her first day at the mill.

  The house stirred as bell chimes serenaded Josie down the steps. She peered out the window to see what tower held the bell. She saw only darkness. It was early yet. Earlier than she had ever risen on the farm. Her lamp flickered as it swung from her hand. She passed by the common room on the second floor. Singsong voices carried from the bedrooms, and a few women sat and prayed beside the fireplace. The scraping of pans and a squealing door met her ears at the last step. She found her way to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Parker—I mean, Fran.” Josie approached the woman working at the kitchen table.

  “Ah, good morning, Josie. You’ll not get your breakfast till after your first shift, but it shall be a fine one—I decided to make my famous yeast rolls.” She turned to the shelves along a stone wall and pulled down a small crock. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Not quite,” Josie muttered. The woman quirked an eyebrow at her. “A new place, I suppose.” Josie escaped her inquiring look and walked to the open back door. A cool breeze scented with thyme and mint and dew-seeped soil met her cheeks. “What time must we be at the mill?”

  “Half past five. Early for some, but my favorite time of day,” Fran said. “I keep that door open even in the rain. Nothing better than the sound and smell of rain.”

  “I agree.” Josie passed through the threshold, holding her lamp up as she admired the mounding rows of herbs and vegetables. She brushed her fingertips along the soft lamb’s ears that lined a patchwork of thyme, parsley, and sage. Several of the plants were overgrown with weeds, and the roses along the stone wall had leaves eaten through by aphids. This garden was begging for Josie’s hand. But Miss Clyde’s warning settled in the front of her mind, and Josie forced herself to return to the kitchen. Although life in the garden was more enticing, she must ready herself to mill life, transforming the dead cotton bolls of last year’s crop.

  Josie put on her cloak in front of the parlor’s fire. As she tied her bonnet beneath her chin, the foyer behind her filled with women hurrying out the front door. Josie was the first one ready, but now she was the last to leave as she followed the crowd across the vast courtyard to the mill.

  Miss Clyde waited at the top of the stoop with arms crossed while women filed past her. Before Josie slipped by, Miss Clyde caught the door. “Come, I shall show you your station.”

  She led Josie past the office and down the long hallway. The women quickly hung up their cloaks and bonnets on hooks along the wall and then disappeared behind two double doors. Josie hung up her things and followed Miss Clyde into a large, voluminous room. Several women entered into side doors, while others filled the aisles of this main room. Thick pipes stood like columns and joined up with others that sprawled along the ceiling. Barrels and straps and wheels neatly marked each row with a purpose that Josie did not understand exactly. But she assumed they had something to do with the overwhelming noise from yesterday. Now, the only sound was the shuffle of women finding their places in rows of looms. The machines were like stout dressing tables that would work to provide their own cloths. Each machine held up a wooden bin filled with bobbins.

  An overseer met Miss Clyde and Josie and directed Josie to the last row of the room. On the far wall, a broad square window showcased an office. Mr. Taylor stood behind a desk lit up by a bright lamp. He made a quick signal with his hand.

&n
bsp; A man from behind her called out, “Aye!”

  A loud rush filled her ears. The machines came to life, marching in a rhythm not far from Josie’s racing heart. The ruckus of knocking parts and spinning spindles vibrated through her body, as if she were not just a woman in the mill but a part of the machinery. The overseer explained to her the parts of the machine she was to manage. It was powered by steam, chomping down on the cotton with its lathes’ steady blows. Josie was certain that she was, indeed, a part of a whole. She looked about her. The other women locked into place at their own looms, and little Liesl settled in at the end of one row with a basket of empty bobbins. Her eyes were red with sleep.

  Every woman paid careful attention to their tasks. Only a slight mumble of talking could be heard between the pounding machinery. Whenever Josie looked around though, it seemed nobody was talking at all. Soon, a fine snow of cotton bits lingered in the air. She was in a sort of storm, one where the thunder banged from the machines, and the particles in the air floated without chill or wind.

  Liesl crept along the rows, her movement the most human of anything else in Josie’s view. At thirteen, Josie had been secure in her mother’s care, not shouldering the weight of providing money for ill family members. Thinking on the past—her mother buried, and Josie herself having escaped the grave—she was reminded of her true purpose in this place. She shivered, as if she were in a very real storm or a very cold tomb. No matter if she played the part of a mill girl, she could not ignore the tangled thread of deceit that wrapped around her soul as tightly as the cotton on the bobbins.

  After a couple of hours of work, an overseer shouted, “Break!” The factory exhaled its life. The cut-off water stopped the steam, and all machines froze to sleep. Josie stepped into the line of women marching through the settling bits of cotton, brushing themselves off when they entered the hallway.