The Yellow Lantern

by Dicken, Angie;

  Chapter Eight

  Nearly all the apple trees along the main drive had bloomed, their pale petals washed by moonlight against the dark sky. The evening air was crisp, a soothing remedy for Braham’s worn-out emotions as he walked to the main house. He caught a glimpse of the first stars of the night. If only he could reach up and pull away that dark canvas.

  Lord, not too soon.

  How cowardly a man was he, unable to handle the inevitable. His aunt was the oldest woman in town. He knew the time would come, but he wasn’t expecting the flood of memories with Aunt Myrtle to throw him even further back. If he closed his eyes too long, he would sway with the rocking of a ship and cover his ears to the sounds of moaning and screaming and whips snapping against backs. Braham clutched at the fence that led up to the house, grounding himself to his reality.

  The lit windows of the main house flickered up on the hill. The butler and maids must still be awake. He ran his hands through his hair. He did not care to speak to anyone. At least he’d not have to stumble through a dark house to find the family Bible his aunt had requested. Braham entered through the side entrance. He had never been comfortable entering through the front door like a guest or resident. Even though the late Mr. Bates had treated him as a son, Gerald would have none of it. He’d often reminded his father of his rightful inheritance and the true status of Braham, an orphan of an indentured servant. Mr. Bates would only hold his tongue. He’d not try to defend his own treatment of Braham. So, while Mr. Bates treated Braham with the utmost kindness, there was a line drawn and pointed out time and again. Whenever Braham entered this house, he assumed the customs of an employee, not a family member at all.

  He ducked beneath the low ceiling of the hallway between the kitchen and pantry, the soft murmur of the servants at dinner in the kitchen mingling with the clink of utensils and dishes. He would try to make it through the house without being noticed. He pushed through the door to the dining room but froze in the threshold. Candlelight filtered through tobacco smoke hovering above the well-laid dining table.

  Gerald Bates sat at one end, his riding boot slung up unmannerly on the table’s corner. His elbow was propped beside a crystal canister of whiskey, and he held a cigar between his fingertips. Beside him, a man with a full silver beard stared at Braham. His eyes were large and round above a goblet at his lips.

  “You have a visitor, it seems,” the man spoke behind the gold rim.

  Gerald dropped his leg with a loud stomp and glared at Braham. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken the house as well?”

  Braham bowed his head. “Pardon me.” He ground his teeth at the spoiled heir’s words.

  “What are you doing here, Braham?” Gerald tapped off the ashes gathering at the tip of his cigar then sucked on it with a chest-heaving drag.

  “I have come for the family Bible—” The glint in Gerald’s eye promised challenge. Braham should have said your family Bible and avoided any ammunition thrown to this man’s advantage. Yet he had been a legal ward of Gerald’s father. “Your aunt requests it.” Inwardly, Braham winced.

  “Ah, I see.” Gerald slid a more cordial look to his visitor, who tipped back his drink and set it down with a heavy fist.

  Braham tugged at his coat lapel and cleared his throat. “I suggest you visit Aunt Myrtle at your earliest convenience. She is not well.”

  Gerald held his stare, no emotion on his face. His mustache was perfectly combed and his eyebrows trimmed. He was always groomed in a way that made him appear more statue than man. Gerald gave a quick nod then broke his rigid stance and leaned toward his guest. “Mr. Bellingham, you have the honor of a premature introduction to the factory’s manager.”

  The man, Mr. Bellingham, pushed back in his chair. The chair’s burdened slats moaned. “Ah, let us talk shop tomorrow. For now, come have a drink.” He reached for the canister, but Gerald was quick to slide it away from the guest.

  “Sir, we shan’t have much to talk about with Mr. Taylor. He is only on the labor side of things. Business matters are not his concern.” Mr. Bellingham cocked an eyebrow. Gerald began to laugh through a long exhale of smoke. “We shall discuss more later. Go on then, Braham. Find that Bible for the old woman.” Smoke continued to pour out his nostrils.

  Braham was happy to leave the polluted room. He had descended from the sweetness of Aunt Myrtle’s cottage to the brusque belly of Gerald’s dealings. There was nothing more that Braham wanted than to excuse himself from this place.

  He entered the dim parlor and reached for a lantern on the tidy desk. He struck a match and lit the wick, praying that he would find the Bible quickly and escape any more engagements with Gerald. Yet, as he began searching the shelves and tables and drawers, a foreboding overwhelmed his spirit. The lit dining room over his shoulder held a palpable darkness that not even the yellow glow of this lantern could chase away.

  Miss Clyde had made a sharp announcement at the end of dinner that an important colleague of the owner, Mr. Bates Jr., would be given a tour of the factory promptly after their break for the morning meal. Every woman took great care to ready for the day. There were whispers among the women, prayers spoken with pleas of uneventful work, free of accidents. The workroom had harbored so much danger over the past weeks, and all were concerned about this tour to be given.

  While Josie and Liesl left the dining room, Audra’s sharp voice blurted among the whispering ladies. “It would serve that Bates right for having such carelessness with his northern exploits, I’d say.”

  Molly sneered with her arms crossed. “Oh Audra, you’re just sore that he moved your family here from the swamps of Georgia.” A few tinkles of laughter skipped about the crowd.

  “Swamps?” Audra smacked her lips and rolled her eyes. “My, for such a reporter as you are, Molly O’Leary, you’d think you would know your geography better. There are no swamps on a cotton plantation.” She emerged from the ladies and continued, “Only pests.” She slipped out of sight as Liesl and Josie hurried to retrieve their cloaks and bonnets.

  “I do not care for that woman,” Liesl said while she tied a bow beneath her chin. “She did not like my friend who perished.” The young girl dropped her laces and began to cry.

  “There, there,” Josie said, nudging her out of the way as Audra barreled out of the room, shoving past them. The cross woman only gave Josie a flick of her fiery hair, snatched her things from a hook, and left.

  “Come along, Liesl. Let us go to the garden and collect some peppermint to put in our pockets. It is a pleasant scent and will keep you on your toes as you work.” Josie tweaked the girl’s cheek gently. A prayer tumbled unexpectedly from her heart—Lord, keep this child safe.

  Liesl smiled. Josie repeated the prayer again with more fervor.

  They greeted Fran as they passed through the kitchen, plucked a few leaves of the spicy herb, and tucked them into their apron pockets. Instead of going back through the kitchen, Josie and Liesl slipped out the garden gate. Josie did not feel comfortable with the conversations in the boardinghouse. She bore her own secrets. One day she might be the center of that chatter. She prayed that would not be so.

  “Look!” Liesl drew close to Josie’s side. “It is Mr. Bates himself.” Beneath the row of trees that lined the factory’s canal, a man stepped down from a carriage. He was tall and lean, wearing a top hat and a bright white cravat. His hands were folded at the small of his back as he waited at the side of the carriage. Another man, rounder and shorter, tumbled out. He blew his nose loudly in a handkerchief then tucked his disheveled mane beneath a crooked hat.

  “Is this who we are to impress?” Josie pursed her lips and gave Liesl a playful wag of her brow. The girl giggled.

  “Hallo,” the tall man shouted in their direction, waving broadly.

  “Oh no. We’ve been caught,” Liesl cried, gripping Josie’s hand tightly.

  “Caught?” Josie swallowed hard. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  The man waited for them as they approac
hed. “Ah, two strays, it seems.” Mr. Bates Jr. was handsome. His teeth gleamed beneath a manicured mustache, and his dark lashes framed sparkling eyes.

  “Pardon me, sir.” Josie bowed her head and curtsied. “We were just in the garden, since it is not yet starting time.”

  He stared at her. She was not sure if it was a look of interest or irritation. “No, there is nothing wrong with that.” He turned to the shorter man. “You see, Mr. Bellingham, the women are given the most wonderful chances to thrive, even beyond the factory floor. We have gardens, libraries, and even a small printing press amidst our ladies.” He chuckled.

  Josie was just as surprised as Mr. Bellingham appeared to be. She’d seen a small kitchen garden and shelves lined with books, and knew of a few women who’d written a newsletter together. But the mill boardinghouse was not hardly as grand as Mr. Bates described it.

  “Our pristine record of factory success is matched in the lifestyles given to these farm girls and women of high ambition.” He tugged at his collar and addressed Josie. “Would you be so kind as to allow Mr. Bellingham to escort you inside, Miss—”

  “Miss Clay.” Josie barely spoke around the lump in her throat. Mr. Bellingham’s eyes were unlit beads above a hungry smile. He held out his arm to her.

  “Oh no!” Liesl exclaimed. “Please, Miss Clay, take me back inside. I forgot my bobbin basket.” She tugged at Josie’s sleeve.

  “I apologize, sirs.” Josie willingly stepped away. “I will help little Liesl, if you do not mind. We have only a few moments till the water resumes.”

  The men appeared dazed but nodded in dismissal. She and Liesl hurried back to the garden gate. When they were safely inside the walls, Josie leaned into the girl and breathed, “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome, miss,” Liesl replied. “But you know as well as I do that my bobbin basket stays in the factory.”

  Josie stepped aside, brushing up against a large juniper shrub. “I do. And why did you fib?”

  “I did not like the look that man gave you.”

  “Neither did I.” She was grateful for Liesl’s quick thinking, praying for the girl a third time. Walking into work on the arm of that man would stir up plenty of questions. Josie had drawn enough attention to herself tending to Amelia. She’d not run the risk of a soiled reputation too.

  “And besides, it wasn’t just me who fibbed.” Liesl strolled down the garden path. “That Mr. Bates hardly spoke the truth. We’ve had three women hurt in accidents, one dead.” She loosened her bonnet tie. “Pristine? What does that mean?”

  “Clean, unspoiled.” Josie followed her. The girl’s mention of death nagged at Josie’s light mood.

  Liesl twirled around with her finger to her chin, appearing to be in deep contemplation. “I suppose Mr. Taylor has tried to make it clean.”

  “I suppose.” Josie brushed past her and stepped into the warm kitchen.

  “Liesl, do you think Mr. Taylor is a good manager?”

  “Oh yes.” She snuck a roll from Fran’s pan while the cook rustled about in the cupboard. “He’s kind. Tries his best. But a woman did die under his watch.”

  Josie clung to the banister going up to the foyer. “That is unfortunate.”

  “Accidents are bound to happen,” Fran called out from behind some tins. “Mr. Taylor is as good as they come.”

  “I have little reason to think otherwise,” Josie assured the cook before they left the kitchen, and then she assured herself also. Josie said a prayer for Mr. Taylor. She hoped that such a good-natured fellow was not at fault for the terrible accidents that had occurred—and would occur.

  Braham clenched his teeth, determined to finish up his morning inspection. Ever since the last woman perished, he made sure he would never let it happen again. He could still recall the metal in her chest and the violent red seeping through her shirt. Gerald had been furious to learn of the incident. The words in his letter to Braham nearly burst into flame on the parchment.

  Braham had often wondered if there was some stipulation that might take away his position of managing the factory. Each accident chipped away at his confidence. Now, the man who might have the power to destroy Braham’s future waited just outside the doors.

  After carefully examining the last section—Josie Clay’s section—he headed to his office. Miss Clay had invaded his thoughts more often than he’d care to admit, especially after the kindness she showed his aunt at dinner. Even Miss Young was impressed by the knowledgeable Miss Clay. She’d offered her to assist in conjuring remedies when her factory contract was up.

  Braham was more impressed, however, that Josie announced her loyalty to stay on longer than a year, the minimum expectation.

  Now, as his boots struck the floor with long strides amid the softer, quicker patters of women filtering past him, he smiled equally at each one. But above all else, he anticipated Josie Clay’s warm greeting this morning.

  These thoughts would not do at all.

  His breath hitched, and he grimaced. All his musings fled at the sight of Gerald and Bellingham entering among the last of the women, their top hats towering above the sea of bonnets. Braham turned into the waiting room and headed to his office.

  He stopped at Miss Clyde’s desk. “Please do not send Mr. Bates in until the looms have started.”

  “Very well. But Mr. Bates’s directions will be followed over yours,” she barked as she arranged items on her desk, a typical tone when Mr. Bates arrived. Miss Clyde had an obvious allegiance to him.

  Braham entered his office and stood in front of the glass. The women took their places along the aisles. Miss Clay helped the bobbin girl with her basket. They patted their pockets and smiled at each other with a look of secrecy. The corners of Braham’s mouth twitched. He wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or if he had witnessed an obvious friendship growing between the two. He chose to accept the latter as the bobbin girl had hardly smiled the entire six months she was here. Miss Clay might have mysteries about her, but her bright spirit was difficult to deny.

  The door swung open just as the rush of water roared through the pipes above. Bates and Bellingham burst into the room.

  “Braham, I see you have chosen your watch over hospitality for our guest?” Gerald tossed his hat atop Braham’s desk.

  “Ah, forgive me.” Braham ignored Gerald. He extended a hand to Mr. Bellingham. “Welcome to Gloughton Mill, sir.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Taylor.” The near-limp hand of the guest reminded Braham of the good master Gerald Bates Sr.’s wisdom: “Grip strongly with enthusiasm. There is nothing more appealing than a man with a solid handshake.”

  Mr. Bellingham was not appealing at all—in personality nor in strength. The pale fellow pushed his chin into the folds of his neck as he examined the corners and ceilings and walls. He then peered out the window, his hot breath fogging up the glass while the machines began to work. “It seems the view is rather distracting,” he grunted. “I can see why accidents so easily occur.” He turned an arched brow to Braham.

  “Distracting, sir? I beg to differ. This is the best view of the main room. My overseers keep a keen watch over the machinery—”

  “Machinery? Ah, there seems more than machinery to keep their attention.” A devilish grin crept onto Bellingham’s face. He exchanged looks with Bates then they both burst into laughter. Gerald sprang from the desk and slapped Braham on the back. The sting was less painful, though, than the displeasure of being part of some callous joke. He suspected what they meant. And it was improper. Downright crude.

  “Don’t mind my manager here, old man,” Gerald jested. “We are often perplexed as to how to scrub off the green behind his ears.” Another mutual roar of chuckles filled the office.

  Braham’s anger simmered. “There is a difference between misunderstanding due to naivete and choosing to ignore someone’s humor for propriety’s sake.”

  Gerald’s grin melted into a contemptuous glare. Bellingham only cleared his throat and looked down a
t his belly—his shoes were no doubt hidden from his view.

  Braham continued, “Now to business.” He stepped to the chair behind his desk and pulled it out with a sharp screech. “What exactly would you like to see first, Mr. Bellingham? We can start in the carding room, if you’d like?”

  Gerald’s stare cooled. “Yes, let us start there. Mr. Bellingham is a keen investor for many establishments.” He snatched his hat from the desk. “He has had his eye on Gloughton since my father became less involved in the business side of our factory.”

  “Investor?” Braham pushed his chair back under the desk. “Mr. Bates, you seem to provide adequately for our mill.” Braham gave a genuine smile, for he knew it was true. “Do we plan an expansion?”

  The two men passed a look, a secret look, but less innocent than that of Miss Clay and the bobbin girl. Gerald hooked his thumbs in his coat pockets. “I’d consider it more of a transaction than expansion.”

  Braham’s stomach jolted. “Do you mean to sell the factory?”

  Gerald avoided eye contact and pulled the door open. “It is my right, Braham.”

  A flood of relief should wash over Braham at the thought of cutting his ties to this man once and for all. But with Mr. Bellingham promising little in the way of a worthy owner for the late Mr. Bates’s family-owned mill, only disquiet howled through Braham’s mind. He dared not ask the questions that pulsed at his temples and begged to be spoken.

  Could Bellingham continue the good work that Mr. Bates had started, and what was in store for Braham’s position at the factory?

  Chapter Nine

  Josie was the last woman to retrieve her bonnet and cloak that evening. She’d purposely waited for Mr. Bates and Mr. Bellingham to leave before her. Her skin was afire with humiliation. Had she imagined the oaf’s hand trailing along her back as they passed her station today? Another shiver coursed through her veins at the thought of it.

  She dragged her feet across the room and into the hallway, plucking the bits of cotton from her apron at a careful rate. Anything to procrastinate and keep away from the attention of those men. The last few women stepped into the orange daylight just as Josie tied her bonnet. The slamming main door echoed down the hallway. The racket of looms and shouts of overseers were only lingering shadows in her ears. Nothing could be heard besides her own breath. Her heels clicked on the polished floor. Had she waited so long as to raise suspicions about her delay? At least she’d noticed Miss Clyde leave with the other workers.