“I am famished,” her roommate Sally said as she tied her bonnet under her chin. She walked briskly ahead while Josie continued to put on her cloak. Sally called over her shoulder, “You’d better hurry. We only have thirty minutes for breakfast.”
Once again, Josie was left behind by the mass of ladies and hurried to catch up, running through the door before it closed shut.
“Miss Clay!” Mr. Taylor called out to her just as the door clicked behind her. She froze on the top step of the stoop. Sally waved her forward, the distance growing between them. With a growl, Josie’s stomach insisted she follow Sally. But her sense spun her around to wait on her boss. Mr. Taylor opened the door. He stood in the threshold, his sleeves rolled up and his hair tousled as if he’d been on the floor working even harder than she had.
“Yes, sir?”
“I—I wanted to see how your first shift went.” He stepped from the shade of the building into the weak daylight. The sun was still sleepy, its far-off rays offering a colorless brightness. Mr. Taylor was handsome, his eyes glistening even without the sun, and his tight jaw released with a slight grin. Josie looked over her shoulder as the chatter of women disappeared. Only one woman, with a face framed in auburn curls and her arm held in a sling across her waist, remained at the boardinghouse door. She nodded in their direction then closed the door shut.
Josie turned back around.
“If they trouble you, you may tell them that we had to firm up the terms of your contract.” He passed her with one long stride and rested his hand on the metal handrail. “That one in particular will be sure to ask you why you were alone with me.”
Josie looked at the door and tilted her head. “That one?”
“Miss Jennings. She is our factory investigator, it seems.” His nostrils flared a bit as he kept his attention across the courtyard.
“Is there something that needs investigating?” Her veins frenzied with the secrets that were hidden.
He turned to her. Now it seemed he was investigating her with the same scrutiny from yesterday. His brow tilted up beneath soft brown curls, and his sable eyes simmered with consideration. He leaned toward her and said, “Forgive my play on words. I only meant that Miss Jennings is a … a snoop?” He pressed his lips together, clamping down on a growing smile.
Josie could not refrain from grinning. “Ah, I see.”
His demeanor lightened her mood, and a quiet laugh escaped her lips.
“Miss Clay, where did you say you traveled from yesterday?” Mr. Taylor shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
Her stomach growled as if in warning. “A village, thirty miles west.” She fiddled with the ragged edge of her glove. “As I showed you yesterday, I found the ad and needed work.”
He hooked his hand on the back of his neck. “No need to justify your actions. It … it is good to know how far our ads reach. That is all.” He gave her a bland smile, one that did not affect his eyes, and pulled his shoulders back. “You better go break your fast. There is a long day of work ahead.”
She curtsied, relief and hunger carrying her off the stoop and across the courtyard. As she approached the boardinghouse entrance, she looked back at the factory. Mr. Taylor lingered on the steps, offering a hesitant wave and a face washed bright in the newborn sunshine.
Braham stood at his office window, observing the ladies dashing in after their quick breakfast. The golden hair of Josie Clay snagged his attention, but only for a brief moment. Audra Jennings’s stare warned him better.
“That new gal is quite a beauty.” Tom clapped his back. “And it seems that there are some who might feel threatened.”
Braham turned to his head overseer. “You know the gals nearly as well as I do.”
“Better. You get to stay in this office now. I get to canvass the rows, listening in on their gossiping.” He gave a sly grin. “Your name comes up more often than is proper.”
“Ah, you hear above the looms? Supernatural, friend.”
“The frequency of your name is just as thunderous.”
A motion from the window distracted Braham. Buck Walters, the overseer of the east side of the floor, dashed across the aisle toward Josie, who was hunched over another girl two rows away from her usual station.
“Something’s gone wrong,” Braham muttered. He snatched his waistcoat from the hook and followed Tom to the floor. All heads were turned their way. Buck flung his arms here and there, probably demanding the women return to work. His shouts carried above the drumming machines as the two men approached, yet another voice carried higher than his. When they passed the center pipe that marked the room in two halves, Braham was taken aback at the sight.
Josie Clay stood with her hands on her hips, her face aflame and her hair lighter than ever with a soft sprinkling of cotton bits clinging to her curls. “I beg you, sir, this woman needs help. She cannot wait until the noon meal.”
“What’s going on, Buck?” Braham stepped forward, but he kept his eye on the new mill girl. A permanent position for Miss Clay was looking less probable at the moment. She was demanding, hot with temper. Nothing he could stand for much longer. Not after all the anger he’d seen in the past.
“That girl there’s been sitting on the floor, her head in her hand, forcing another to carry on her job.” Buck pointed to the woman hidden by the protection of Miss Clay’s long skirt. “Then I saw that one”—he sneered at Miss Clay—“leave her station in the care of another and come tend to her. Sir, we can’t have people running about the place, heaping their duties on others.”
Miss Clay took an immediate step closer to Braham, her sapphire eyes round and pleading. “Mr. Taylor, if you please, I can explain.”
He read her lips more than hearing their sound. Every piece of machinery drowned out this confrontation. Braham motioned for Miss Clay to go to the hallway, and then he flicked his head at Buck to follow. They tromped off past the girl on the floor. She was pale, with sweat beads covering her forehead.
Braham turned to Tom. “Take her to my office.” Tom gingerly took the arm of the woman and escorted her across the room. Several workers gave curious glances at the almost limp lady against the side of the large overseer.
Braham stepped into the cool hallway and shut the door on the thick air and drowning noise. He was not sure if the tension between his overseer and his employee was any less aggravating than straining to hear over the drumming lathes.
Miss Clay stood with her arms crossed, peering into the glass door of his office, while Buck sat on a wooden bench with his fists pressed on his thighs. His eyebrows were set along one long ridge, shading a glare in Miss Clay’s direction.
“Miss Clay, if you would please explain yourself,” Braham said.
She dragged herself away from the door and approached him in an almost ornery way—more self-assured than she’d shown him over the past twenty-four hours. Usually, it took a month or so for a woman to be comfortable here—at least thirty winks to adjust to the long work and strict lifestyle of the boardinghouse. The mill girls rarely showed their strengths—or weaknesses—until they’d completely acclimated. This woman only heightened Braham’s skepticism.
“Mr. Taylor, I was trying to tend to that woman. I saw her faint, and nobody noticed.” She gave a side glance to Buck. “Or if they did, they hardly cared.” A slight uncertainty flashed in her eyes, as if she doubted what she had declared.
Buck sprang to his feet. “You never leave your station, at any cost. That is unacceptable.”
Miss Clay dug a fist into her hip. “So, would you have the lady just lay on the factory floor until quitting time?”
Braham stepped between them. “Miss Clay, I understand your concern for the woman, but next time, you bring it to the overseer. It is not your duty—”
“Braham!” Tom called from the office.
Braham signaled for Miss Clay and Buck to stay put with a raised finger. He headed into his office. “What is it?”
Tom crouche
d beside the woman draped in a chair. “She fainted for good reason. Look—” He gently lifted her arm. “She must have gotten caught on the equipment.” The underside of her forearm was drenched in blood. The wound was a nasty one.
Braham looked away, trying to keep from being sick. Memories of Terryhold invaded his mind. Bile crept up his throat as he thought about his slave friend, Jeremiah, who’d endured a beating with lashes on every inch of his small back.
“I—I will call for a doctor,” he mumbled, feeling as though he might faint also. Miss Clay and Buck stood at the door. Miss Clay hurried away while Buck just stared.
Braham demanded, “Buck, go check this girl’s station for any blood.”
The overseer skulked back and disappeared. He’d not gotten the justice he’d probably hoped for. Miss Clay was still off task, and yet Buck was ordered about.
Where had Miss Clay gone, anyway? Braham stormed down the hallway and found her hunched over a washbasin in the water closet.
“Miss Clay—”
“Sir, I know what to do. The wound must be cleaned.” She hardly looked at him when she dashed past, running with a damp towel dripping on the floor. She stopped where the ladies kept their belongings. She shoved her hand into a cloak pocket and pulled out a small bottle then continued toward his office.
Her determination was intriguing, but irritating too. She acted as if she were her own supervisor, annoying Braham more than it should. “What are you—”
Miss Clay called over her shoulder, “Come on. I’ve worked with the sick these many months.” She flung open the hallway door to his office and disappeared.
Braham followed, his jaw tight and his fists balled. How could this woman make him feel so foolish?
“There, there, my dear.” Miss Clay’s tone was an angelic bell compared to the clanging machines beyond the walls. The injured girl cradled her arm. “May I see it?” she asked gently. The woman allowed her to tend to the wound. Miss Clay’s brow was cinched in concentration as she tapped the wound with the towel. She spoke as she worked. “What is your name?”
“Amelia.”
“Amelia, I have just the ointment for you. Your arm shall heal quite nicely.”
Tom tossed a questioning look to Braham. He knew what he might be thinking. The apothecary or region’s physician should be called on. This new factory girl should get back to work. A practical assumption, but by her surprising confidence, Miss Clay had taken away all of Braham’s practicalities.
Miss Clay opened the bottle she’d retrieved from her cloak. An aroma of lemon and flowers filled the room. “This is a mixture of several herbs that will stop infection,” she explained with a smile. She held it beneath the patient’s nose. The distraught girl nodded. Carefully, Miss Clay administered the ointment to the clean wound. “Mr. Taylor, do you have a fresh cloth for Amelia?”
Tom shifted his weight, throwing Braham another baffled look. Braham straightened his spine and suggested, “Perhaps we should call on Miss Young? She’s the apothecary and town midwife. She’s helped our women before—”
Miss Clay rose and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. But the time would be wasted, sir. I am certain if I can dress the wound now, she might even be able to continue her work.” She then glanced down at Amelia. “After a short rest, of course. The lavender mixture will soothe her, almost immediately.”
Her reasoning was valid, as if she understood the priority of efficiency around here. Braham had assumed Amelia would be done for the day. Miss Clay seemed not only to care about the health of this woman, but she also kept in mind the need of duty to the factory. Admirable, and yet, a startling sense of what was expected.
A strange creature, this Miss Clay.
Braham’s role as manager of the place sank a little this hour. Josie Clay, however, was rising on a platform of stubborn compassion with a work ethic to admire.
Josie’s exhilaration dulled as she settled back to her station. She tried to focus on cotton spinning from thread to cloth but could only consider the fuss she’d just made. Every once in a while, she would catch Amelia’s eye, and the woman would nod and smile. Josie refrained from groaning. She had vowed to remain a stranger in this place. But all eyes were upon her today. Her quick response upon seeing Amelia crumpling to the ground scared her more than affirmed her now, hours later. What had she done? Factory physician was not her job. Her purpose was quite the opposite. Just as Dr. Chadwick used to leave Josie as sole provider for the next patient, surrendering his help when he was consumed with his experimentation, Josie must also relinquish her assistance to heal here in Gloughton. She was bound to spying, not healing.
But she could not deny the brimming satisfaction at the return of color to Amelia’s cheeks and the ease of pain in her eyes. Could Josie truly plug up all her passion during this grim season? How might her unrestrained reaction to heal defy her duty to supply Chadwick and her father’s enemies?
Even if she had not helped, at least Amelia would not have perished from such a wound. Josie convinced herself of that.
Oh, the shame of such a thought!
As Josie took care with the whirring machines around her, she prayed forgiveness that, for the first time in her life, she despised her God-given gift.
A tap on her shoulder spun Josie from her work and her tense thoughts. Little Liesl held her basket of bobbins on her hip, the opposite hip completely hidden by the much-too-large dress that hung from the girl’s tiny frame.
“Is anything the matter?” Josie spoke loudly then leaned her ear in the girl’s direction while returning her attention to her work in case that overseer was watching.
The girl rummaged through the empty bobbins in her basket and pulled out a bottle. Not the bottle of her ointment for wounds. Josie had certainly returned it to her cloak pocket. No, this was another one. This was her mixture that she would leave for the grave robbers to ward off disease. Heat rushed through her. The machines slowed. After an eventful morning, the noon break had crept upon them. She glanced about as if her secret spilled forth from the palm of the little German girl.
Quickly, she snatched it, shoved it in her pocket, and snapped, “Where did you find this?”
Liesl’s eyes grew wide. “I—I am sorry, Miss Josie.” She spoke with a slight accent. “It is so pretty—the dark green glass—and it smells lovely too. It was by our bed. Reminds me of my oma.” She shook her head and stepped back. “I did not know it was yours until I saw you with Miss Amelia. Forgive me, miss.” Liesl spun around, almost as fast as the bobbin on the loom, and disappeared down the row. She was timid, like Father’s calf during its first steps away from its mother. If Liesl knew that the fragrant bottle was a shield for body snatchers as they desecrated a possibly diseased grave—then perhaps the girl would appeal not in wonder but in accusation. The fact that her belongings were so easily incriminating was too much to consider in this public place. Every emotion threatened to show itself upon her face.
Josie withdrew from the other women as they crossed the courtyard and filed in the boardinghouse. She ate her lunch with Fran in the kitchen and was the first to return and fix her attention on her work.
The rest of her first day was uneventful. Josie’s shoulders ached, and her feet were swollen from standing for nearly fourteen hours straight. After supper, she followed Sally and Sarah to their room, imagining worming her way between the cool sheets, her head sinking in the feather pillow, and dozing off to a place where her mind would no longer dwell between guilt and worry. But as she passed the common area of the second floor, a flurry of women rushed up to her. Amelia stood at the front of the crowd.
“Miss Clay, I do want to thank you for your help today,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “I am certain I would have lost a day’s wages if it weren’t for you.”
Three other women nodded. One with frizzed hair said, “Were you reprimanded at all? Nobody has ever raised a voice to Mr. Walters.”
Josie shook her head. “I should not have. I am trained to
aid the wounded and sick. I acted on impulse.”
“You are trained?” A lanky woman with spectacles threaded her arm through Josie’s and led the gaggle to the closest sitting area. “Trained how?”
A knot tightened in Josie’s stomach. She did not want to be known here. Not when she would be the betrayer at the graveside of one or more of these women. But they waited for her answer, their stares intent and her mind too fuzzy to supply an excuse to not talk.
“My mother was an herbalist,” she offered. “She taught me remedies from the moment I could walk.” Life under Dr. Chadwick needed no mention—let her remain the girl she was in the more innocent past.
The woman reached out her hand. “I am Molly O’Leary.” Her dark ringlets fell forward. A ribbon was tied around her wrist, no doubt the ribbon that held her hair back during today’s work. Her coloring was the same as the matron’s, but Josie was certain Molly towered over most of the women here. Josie shook hands with her. “May we interview you for our newsletter?”
“Newsletter?”
Molly smiled brightly at the women who huddled with her. “Yes, we are starting up a newsletter. We’ve got a lot of talent in these girls. Some come from poor families and others from families who demand their sons receive an education using their wages. We might not have the status to go off to prestigious schools and find glorious apprenticeships, but we are hard workers with the most important thing of all—” A deeply carved dimple graced her cheek as her emerald eyes flashed. “Freedom.”
“Oh, I see.” Josie let out a small laugh. “When do you have time for such a thing? I am exhausted.” The women’s faces were bright and eager, as if the day were just starting out, not ending.
“It is her first day, girls,” Amelia reminded them with a gentle smile. “Perhaps we should talk more tomorrow?” She patted Josie’s arm. “Do not worry, you shall get half a day on Saturday, and of course a day of rest on the Sabbath.”
The Yellow Lantern Page 5