She shook her head to rid herself of the uncharitable thought. Instead, she continued to diligently tend her looms and pray for Mama and each of her siblings in turn. Originally, Isabel had left her family’s farm in New Hampshire and come to work at Steadman Textiles so money could be put aside for her brother’s education. David hoped to be a doctor someday. A bright boy, he showed every promise of bettering himself with advanced learning.
Then Papa died, and her plans had changed. Isabel sent almost all her pay home so Mama could keep food on the table, and David set aside his dreams and took an apprenticeship with a cooper. The beat of the machines rang out a cadence to her prayer. Lord, be with them. Take my love to them….
Carter Steadman sauntered down the long catwalk. He sensed his snail’s pace tried Harlan Jefford’s patience. Though aware his overseer was a busy man, Carter didn’t consider it too much to expect a thorough inspection. He’d arranged in advance for this tour of the mill, and he didn’t want to rush from room to room. After the improvements and innovations he saw in England, he wanted to institute several changes at his family’s mill. He’d have to be selective about which alterations to make first. Changes, he’d discovered, were best accepted if introduced gradually. Judging from Jefford’s scowl, Carter decided those changes would have to be presented with a shipload of tact.
Below him, the looms operated in mesmerizing synchronicity, creating fabric at a dizzying rate. His brows knit. Carter stopped and counted the stroke speed. Tapping the toe of his sleekly polished boot, he kept beat with the rhythmic machinery.
Whale oil lamps overhead cast a dim glow upon the workroom. For fear one might cause a fire, buckets of water sat at the ready by the windows. Warp threads strung from the backs of one hundred metal-and-wood looms, looking like a million harp strings. They protested loudly each time the rear beams clanked up and down. Shuttles carrying the weft threads zoomed across the warp threads, and beater bars slammed the weave tight. Finished cloth wound onto the front beams of the machines into fifty-yard bolts.
Here and there, weavers had tacked or pasted pages to their looms or the windows so they could read a quick snippet as they worked. With the looms operating at top speed, no one truly had an opportunity to read, so those pages stood as a reminder of dusty, forgotten dreams.
Jefford propped his forearms on the metal rail and nodded toward the floor. “I’ve kept everything running just as your father ordered.”
“Even the speed?”
“Ayuh. Upping the speed yields three hundred more bolts of cloth from No. 14 yarn each day.” He drummed his palms on the rail proudly. “I get 250 yards from each loom each week.”
Carter strove to appear unruffled as he leaned against the rail and watched the women tend the looms. Speeding up the machinery was a simple matter of adjusting a few levers; speeding up the workers took more finesse. If the overseer occasionally issued the command to accelerate work to meet a special order, Carter might consider it, but he counted it unsafe to push the workers at this pace on a daily basis. “So you run the looms at maximum capacity at all times?”
“A mighty poor overseer I’d be to do otherwise.”
Tamping down his temper, Carter reminded himself Jefford boasted working for the mill for a fair length of time. During those years, he’d obeyed the mandates given him—but those orders had come from an owner who rarely troubled himself over the needs of others. If Jefford displayed that same loyalty to Carter’s plans, the mill would benefit. I’ll give him a chance.
Watching the bustle below, Carter realized the workers seemed to cover a fair distance in their movements. His eyes narrowed. “How many looms apiece?”
“Three, most often. Some, I can stretch to four.”
Carter’s molars grated. “Three or four?”
Jefford shot him a bland look, then added, “Beginners are on two for the first week or so. If they can’t handle three by the second week, they’re turned out.”
Some changes can’t wait. Carter watched the women scrambling to keep pace with the machines and decided he’d finish the tour, then demand speed and loom assignment adjustments.
Just as they prepared to continue, a cry sounded. A quick scan of the floor revealed a flurry of activity among three women who then rapidly separated and got back to their weaving. Carter suspected the middle one had gotten snagged in the machinery and her friends hastily freed her.
Jefford squinted and read aloud, “Row Sixteen.” The tone of his voice promised retribution. He turned to Carter. “Mr. Steadman—that is, your father—made the policy no one could leave her loom for any reason without permission.”
“Frivolous causes, I agree with. In this case, however, they rescued a worker. I consider the purpose quite reasonable.”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Steadman, but you cannot expect these women to think the matter through. We’ll have pandemonium if we let them start to decide for themselves when they can stop working!”
“Row Sixteen did a fair job helping the center worker and resuming duty. Since I approve, you needn’t take any action against them.”
The overseer nodded curtly. His face reflected disagreement.
Carter crossed his arms and studied him for a long moment. “You’ve served at Steadman Mills a long while, haven’t you?”
“Seven years.” Chest puffed out with pride, Jefford added, “And every year’s turned a better profit than the last one!”
Carter headed down the catwalk again. “If you have weavers handling three looms apiece, we must have fewer workers and the boardinghouses must have vacancies.”
“No, sir. While you was away, your dad replaced the old looms with modern ones. Faster, better technology—more profit in that, you know. He scooted the looms all up a bit tighter and added in six more rows. I’ve kept every machine busy, so the boardinghouses are full.”
No wonder that woman got caught in the machine. Carter stopped. His hands tightened around the metal rail. “How often do the workers get snagged in the works or injured?”
“Haven’t bothered to count.” The overseer shrugged indifferently.
Carter hit his limit. Before the day was done, he would let Jefford know that as the new owner, he expected changes. He wasn’t going to delay them, after all.
Chapter 2
Carter saw blatant disregard for the workers’ safety from the room where the raw cotton was cleaned, to the thread room, through the weaving room, and on to the fabric finishing. He didn’t expect the mill to be a Sunday picnic, but he refused to allow the current situation to continue.
He stood at the doorway to the kitchen of one of the boardinghouses and watched the women wolf down their midday meal. Accustomed to refined dining, he felt a bolt of disbelief. These women engaged in no gentle conversation and never paused between bites. The meal of corned beef, cabbage, and bread seemed simple but plentiful. They’d not return to work hungry. Still, he couldn’t help thinking that eating so fast might well cause indigestion.
The contrast between this meal and the feast he and Jefford shared just an hour before jarred him. Admittedly, duckling might be far too difficult to roast for this many women, and Jefford might well have ordered an especially fine meal to impress the new boss….
The bells chimed, interrupting his musings. All of the women rose and carried their plates to wooden boxes at the end of each table. Like a chain of postulants in a nunnery, they obeyed the bells that regimented their lives.
Carter drew a gold pocket watch from his paisley silk waistcoat pocket and noted the time. Twenty-five minutes. He cocked a brow and looked at Jefford, then shot a meaningful glance at his timepiece.
“No use wasting daylight by having them dawdle over their meal.”
Just then, a tall brunette passed by and captured Carter’s attention. Fine-boned and graceful, she looked and moved like a queen. She carried her own plate and another, as well.
He smiled. Seeing her was the first pleasant thing he’d experienced all day
.
Her voice lilted softly as she promised the pale teen beside her, “Tomorrow, your fingers won’t be so stiff and sore. You’re doing fine.”
Unaware of his presence, the younger girl plucked at a sizable, ragged hole in her brown skirt. “But my clothes! I can’t do anything about them, because I promised Aunt Amy I’d give most of my pay to her!”
“Beneath our aprons, many of us have tattered skirts,” the first reassured. “You’re not alone in that. Kathleen and I will help you mend it before you walk home.”
“That we will,” the third woman said. “And Amy would never expect all of your money.”
Lazing against the doorsill, Jefford declared, “They get along well enough. Not many troublemakers.”
His attitude had grated on Carter’s nerves all morning. Even if Jefford held no compassion whatsoever, couldn’t he understand these women would work better if treated well? On a simple business level, it made sense to invest in a happy workforce. Even if greed were his sole motivation, Jefford should be able to see that much. Carter refused to accept such an attitude, and he was about to show this pompous man just how different things were going to be. He paced off and stopped the trio. “A moment, please.”
The youngest looked stricken and blurted out, “It was my fault, sir. Please don’t punish them for helping me!”
The other two drew closer to her in an instinctively protective move and stared up at him. Their somber expressions sliced through his heart. Something inside twisted. He’d frightened her. Carter asked the pretty brunette, “Are you from Row Sixteen?”
“Yes, sir, we are.”
“Your names?”
She blinked, and he noted how her huge brown eyes glistened. The others huddled closer still. All of them are frightened, as a matter of fact. These women are so accustomed to harsh management, they expect me to castigate them. They did nothing I wouldn’t have done myself.
“I’m Isabel Shaw, sir.” The plates in the dark-haired beauty’s hands rattled a bit as she tilted her head to the right. “Mary Tottard,” then to the left, “Kathleen McKenna.”
“Don’t you think I didn’t see what happened this morning.” Jefford set his hands on his hips and scowled at them. Other women hurriedly slid by and left the boardinghouse’s dining hall.
Isabel wet her lips. “Sir, it’s Mary’s first day to mind her own loom.”
“She understood the rules. She also knows the penalty—as do both of you,” Jefford asserted.
“But in this case,” Carter inserted smoothly, “you were right to react so quickly.” He cast a glance at Mary’s ruined skirt. “You’re not wearing an apron. On your way back to the floor, go help yourself to a remnant.”
All three women rewarded him with relieved smiles, but Isabel cast a wary glance at Jefford.
Carter gave the overseer a cool look, then turned to address the women. “You other ladies are welcome to a piece, as well.”
Isabel blinked in astonishment. “Sir, I can make do just fine with my apron; but if you don’t mind, I’d take a scrap so we can make a few dolls for the girls at the orphanage.”
Her charitable response took him by surprise. Carter tilted his head to the side and stared at her for a long moment. “Miss Shaw, I’d be pleased if you’d take a length for yourself and some for the orphans. How many dolls are you making?”
A beautiful flush painted her cheeks. “Mrs. Ross has sixteen girls, sir. A bit over a yard of cotton would be enough for us to make sure each of the young ones has a Christmas doll.”
“Take an additional yard apiece for them—not just the plain solids, either. Make them fancy pieces from printworks. That way, the girls can learn to stitch some pretty little clothes and blankets…and,” he stressed, “be sure to take a piece for yourself.”
She almost dropped the plates. “Oh, sir, you’re being so generous, but I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”
Carter wanted to chuckle. Clearly, Miss Shaw didn’t know his identity—a surprising fact since the Steadman males bore a strong resemblance to one another. Tall, broad of shoulder, and square-jawed, he resembled his father with the exception that his dark brown hair hadn’t a single hint of silver to it. Had she never seen his father? He set those thoughts aside and found her concern for him quite charming. So was her selflessness.
He didn’t want to embarrass her, so he turned to the overseer. “Mr. Jefford is more than able to approve of this.”
“Oh, God bless you, sir!”
“Yes, God bless you!” the other two said in unison.
Once they were out of earshot, Jefford heaved a deep sigh. “Mr. Steadman, that was a terrible mistake. You’ve been abroad and don’t understand the way of things anymore. Every last woman on the floor is going to be looking for a handout now. This is a business, not a charity!”
Carter reined in his temper and strove to face his overseer with a modicum of civility. Getting him to institute changes would likely be difficult, and inspiring him to cooperate would require finesse. “You’ve shown me the mill all morning, Jefford. The productivity of Steadman Textiles would stagger smaller minds than ours. A few paltry yards won’t be missed, and as it aids orphans, it’s a worthwhile charity.”
“Your father believed charity began at home.” Jefford’s thinned lips made it clear he agreed with that theory.
“Farmers in the Old Testament left grain in the fields so the widows and orphans could glean. God blessed them for it. So far as I can see, the Lord’s blessing will carry me a far sight better than hoarding a few remnants.”
Jefford hitched his left shoulder in a gesture that might have looked careless, had the motion not been so tense. “Whatever you want, sir. You’re the owner now, since your father stuck his spoon in the wall.”
“Nice, white muslin, Kathleen! Look at this.” Isabel held up a two-yard length of fabric from the rainbow stack on their bed in the boardinghouse. The remainder of the pile gaily tumbled across the colorful nine-patch quilt that covered the double bed they shared. “Why, the girls will be delighted.”
Kathleen laughed. “Amy is going to be more excited than all of her little ones.”
“I know. Let’s tell Amy we’ll make the dolls, and we’ll let her have three yards so she and the older girls can sew doll clothes for the young ones. That way, they’ll all have a part in the gift.”
Kathleen sat cross-legged on the other side of the bed and took the pins out of her twisted coronette, releasing an abundance of black curls that bounced down her back, then sprang back up to curl in abandon around her shoulders. At times like this, Isabel knew her Scottish friend must have left a trail of swains behind when her father decided to sell his New England farmhouse and move the family to Indiana, sending Kathleen to the mill to help them financially until they got settled in their new home. Oblivious to Isabel’s admiring look, Kathleen stared at the fabric and wondered aloud, “What about the older girls? Some of them are beyond doll age.”
“We’ll use some of the fabric to make them aprons. Ginger can help us decide who’d like which piece best.”
“Aye, and ye can use the scraps to teach the wee girls to quilt dolly blankets,” Pegeen said as she plopped down on her bed. She yawned deeply. “I dinna ken how the both of you find the strength to sit there by the lamp in the evenin’ to work. I’m worn down to a nubbin’ by the day’s end.”
After slamming the lid down on her lap desk, Grace blew on her letter to dry the ink. The dark expression she wore promised a biting comment. “Didn’t you listen to the sermon on Sunday? Christians are obliged to do good works.”
“Ach! I sit there the whole while, daydreamin’. Spinnin’ in her grave, she is, my mama—her daughter darkening the doors of any church not named after the Virgin or a saint. If the dragon who runs this boardinghouse didn’t herd us all out to her verra own church, I’d not go, and well you know it.” Pegeen wrinkled her nose. All of the mill workers had to attend church, or they lost their positions. “I need eve
ry last cent so I can bring me sister o’er.”
Isabel and Kathleen exchanged a quick glance. They made no secret of their faith, and they had made a pact to pray for their two roommates since neither sought salvation. Instead of arguing, Isabel simply said, “The idea of having the girls quilt is lovely, Peg.”
“She just goes to help at the orphanage so she won’t miss her little sisters so much.” Grace folded her letter with a savage sweep of her hand. “Face it—we’re all here because our families need money. Nothing like being a beast of burden so someone else’s life improves.”
When the boardinghouses designated for the Irish lasses filled to capacity, Isabel and Kathleen offered to take Pegeen into their room. Grace arrived a year later, and she pitched a fit when she learned she’d have to share not only a room but a bed with an immigrant. Disgruntled because her stepfather sent her to the mills to earn funds for his son’s education, she’d been alternately rude and sullen. Others felt fortunate to have their positions, but Grace grumbled constantly. Close quarters and the differences among the four roommates made for some challenging moments.
After Grace left the room, Kathleen leaned forward. “We’re not going to let her sour tongue get to us, Isabel.”
“We haven’t, yet,” Isabel whispered.
Kathleen picked up a length of mauve cotton that had a wispy green vine every few inches. “Who does this remind you of?”
“Mauve—Amy. Definitely Amy.” Isabel sighed. “There’s not enough for an apron unless we piece the straps.”
Kathleen folded the length and carefully set it aside. “We’ll do that. If I don’t miss my guess, Amy’s spent every last cent she has on those girls. It’s well past time she got something new for herself.”
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