by Emma Newman
Charlotte clung to him as he led her through the crowd, Hopkins nowhere to be seen in the throng of passengers. They passed happy reunions and tearful farewells, until at last they made it out onto the street.
Ben disentangled himself from her. “I’m afraid we shouldn’t be seen to be close, out on the street,” he said. “Sorry, Charlie, I quite forgot myself there. I shouldn’t have embraced you like that. Not in public.”
She looked around them, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. “I understand,” she said.
Out on the street, the red-bricked buildings made her feel a world away from the fine Georgian stone and grey bricks of London. The street was pulsing with people and the thoroughfare was clogged with horse-drawn carriages and omnibuses. The skyline was dominated by mills several storeys high, mixed with rows of workers’ cottages and slums. The smell was most unpleasant, and Charlotte couldn’t help but think of miasma. Only two years before, thousands had died here from cholera.
Despite the overcrowding and filth of the city, she was happy to be there. It was such a relief to see Ben well. The ominous comments Hopkins had made about the mills seemed irrelevant now. Ben seemed full of confidence and people moved out of their way as he approached. He wore the red-and-black-striped cravat of a Dynamics apprentice, and those who noticed it stared at him as they passed with looks of envy, fear, and respect. How different it was from the last time they’d walked down a street together and she’d had to practically carry him home. This time she was hurrying to keep up.
She was glad when he guided her towards the doors of the Heywood Tea Rooms. “You must try an Eccles cake,” he said as he held the door open for her. “They are quite extraordinary.”
It was a very large establishment, filled with tables covered in crisp white linen waited on by pretty women in smart uniforms. Along the back wall, there were private booths. Charlotte suspected they were the reason he’d brought her here. When Ben asked one of the waitresses to seat them in the one in the far corner, she was certain of it.
He ordered tea for two and Eccles cakes for both of them.
“Mother and Father send their love,” she said, watching him cast an eye over the room and the rest of the patrons.
Relaxing, Ben gave her his full attention. “Did they make a fuss about you coming to visit?”
“Of course. They’re both well. George, too—he has his review for promotion on Friday. We’re hoping for a spring wedding. And there’s going to be another collection by the author of Love, Death and Other Magicks and I’ve been commissioned to illustrate it. That’s all my news, now you tell me everything!”
The waitress arrived with their order and Ben waited until she’d left again. He sighed at the way Charlotte prodded the Eccles cake. “It’s got lots of currants inside. You’ll like it.”
“When you said ‘cake’ I was expecting a sponge, not something covered in flaked pastry.” She stirred the teapot. “When I got your letter I was worried you’d fallen ill again.”
“I’ve never felt better.”
The first pour from the pot was enough to tell her it hadn’t brewed long enough. She nibbled at the edge of the pastry and took a larger bite, weathering his “I told you so” expression with as much grace as she could muster. She looked at him expectantly, deciding not to say another word until he started talking.
Instead, he stirred the teapot, too, and then poured for both of them. She took another bite and looked at the rest of the tearooms. Perhaps everything was actually just fine, and she’d got herself into a stew over nothing.
“Charlie, I need your help.”
Perhaps not. She looked at him, at his healthy glow, and saw genuine worry in his eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s all been going so well,” he said. “I was so nervous when I left home, I didn’t eat for the first couple of days. But then I made a friend, and I settled in and . . . it’s difficult, dear heart; we’re not really supposed to tell an outsider about anything we do.”
Outsider? The word stung. She pushed the feeling down as best she could. “I understand. Has something gone wrong? Is it your friend?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It was very difficult at the start, I won’t lie. I struggled terribly but then I had a real breakthrough, and since then I’ve been doing so well, Charlie. Ledbetter says I’m one of the most promising students he’s had for years. Oh, don’t look like that! Surely you’re not still harbouring that grudge against him!”
“He is not a good man,” she said firmly.
“Is this some nonsense about him taking me away from you?”
“Oh, what rot! I’m not a child, Ben!”
“Then tell me what you have against him!”
She picked up her teacup, knowing she could never tell him about that awful debtor’s cage. It would put him in an impossible position, and she couldn’t risk his success. Now that the Royal Society had recruited him, he could never leave. She wasn’t prepared to make his life there a misery, and it would be, if he knew what his mentor was really like. “It’s just a feeling I have,” she finally said, hating the insipid statement. “You’ve been doing well,” she said, trying to bring him back on topic, if only to take the look of exasperation from his face. “So why did you send for me? Are you lonely? Homesick?”
He shook his head, clearly struggling to confess his troubles. He was such a loyal soul. It didn’t stop her from wanting to shake him until he spat it all out, though. She took out her frustration on the cake instead.
“I’ve been apprenticed to a cotton mill,” he finally said, “and it’s been going very well. Very well indeed.”
“Darling”—she reached across to hold his hand—“you don’t have to keep saying that.”
He sighed. “I don’t want you to think I can’t cope. I can, I swear it. In fact, I’ve never been happier.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ben! Just tell me!”
He pulled his hand back and leaned forwards to whisper over the teapot. “There have been a few . . . incidents at the mill. Not on my shifts, I hasten to add. Looms have been destroyed and none of the witnesses are willing to tell us who did it. They’re all covering something up.”
“Have you spoken to Ledbetter about it?”
“I tried. He just kept brushing me off. I’m only an apprentice, Charlie. No one listens to me and no one explains anything to me except exactly what I need to know.”
“It sounds like it’s all out of your hands.”
“If only it were that simple. I’m being put up to the next level of apprenticeship, which means I won’t just be working the line shaft, I’ll be supervising the running of the mill as a whole. Ledbetter has a system, you see, to push the best apprentices to the top faster. I’ve been chosen as one of the final two. Myself and another apprentice, Paxton, are going to be competing against each other. I cannot risk one of these incidents happening when I’m responsible for the mill.”
“Is there no one you can confide in? Is that why you asked me to come?”
He poured more tea. “No, that’s not it. Charlie, it’s more complicated than that. We believe the looms are being destroyed by saboteurs.”
“Like the Luddites? Darling, all of that stopped well before we were born!”
“Not Luddites, trade unionists. And more than that, socialists.” He looked around the tearoom again, lowering his voice further. “There are secret organisations springing up all over the country, determined to wreak havoc. They hate the Royal Society and want to destroy us. They argue that we have too much power and that parliament values the needs of the Royal Society above those of the common man. It’s dangerous, Charlie. Sedition, that’s what it is. And I’m convinced they have a secret group working at the mill. They have a great number of sympathisers among the workforce, and that’s why none of them will out the culprits.”
Want to destroy us . . . His words widened the gap between them. Sedition? Socialists? It sounded more like sensationalism to
her. Was the pressure getting to him? “Darling, is there something you want me to do? I can’t see how I can help.”
He lifted the pot to pour tea before realising he’d only just done that. She steeled herself. What was he finding so difficult to say?
“Charlie, I need you to come and work at the mill.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I need you to pretend you’re not my sister and just be one of them. One of the workers. I need someone on the inside, and you’re so kind and people open up to you so easily.”
“Good lord! You want me to be a spy?”
He twitched and looked around the room yet again. No one was sitting close enough to them to listen in. “Keep your voice down! I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t absolutely imperative. Please, Charlie. None of them will talk to me because I’m a magus. Ledbetter has said that if neither Paxton nor I root out the saboteurs, he’ll consider us to be socialist sympathisers. Paxton is a snake, and I am certain he’s already trying to pin it all on me. I caught him going through the drawers in my room the other day. He didn’t take anything but it’s clear he aims to win this round and be fully qualified, no matter the cost.” He reached across the table and took her hands. She was shocked to feel them shaking. “Charlie . . . if Paxton pins the socialist problem on me, Ledbetter will have me prosecuted for aiding and abetting sedition.”
“But that’s utterly ridiculous! Why waste a good apprentice on such an exercise when it isn’t your fault?”
“Because he has to make an example. And he has to get to the bottom of it all. Threatening us with transportation is an excellent motivator. In Ledbetter’s opinion, anyway.”
Charlotte felt sick. “Transportation? To Australia?”
He nodded, just as pale-faced as she was. “I doubt I would survive the voyage. You know how sickly I used to be. Packed into a boat with criminals rife with disease, I’d be done for.”
“Shush,” she said, squeezing his hands. “It doesn’t bear thinking about.” Her misgivings about being a spy faded into insignificance, now that she understood the threat to him.
“You’re the only person I can trust completely to tell me who is responsible for the sabotage. I have to root them out, Charlie, before Paxton finds a way to pin it all on me. If I win this round, Ledbetter will pass me for full qualification. Paxton won’t be able to touch me. And when I’m fully qualified, I’ll be able to apply for funding to build my own mill, with his support. Then I can earn enough money to support you and Mother and Father.”
“I don’t need you to support me. I’ll have George.”
Ben leaned back. “You haven’t told him, then. About your gift.”
She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I am not going to discuss that with you. I have everything under control. I’ll help, darling, of course I will. But I have heard some horrible stories about mills . . .”
“The London rags exaggerate things terribly,” he said. “And it won’t be for more than a couple of days. You’re such a good judge of character, you’ll spot who the ringleader is quickly, I’m sure you will.”
“So now I’m a good judge of character? Even though you don’t believe me about Ledbetter?” There was a long pause, long enough for her to regret her tone. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is all a bit of a shock. I thought I was going to have nurse you back to health, not go and work in a mill.”
“I know this is horribly selfish of me,” Ben said. “But I’m desperate, Charlie. Help me to find the ringleader, and I’ll make sure you’ll never want for anything ever again.”
She tutted at him. “I won’t help you for financial gain, you fool. I’ll do it because I love you.”
His relief brightened his whole face. She could see how much it weighed upon him. “Thank you, dear heart, thank you. I promise it won’t be for more than a couple of days. I’ll take care of all the arrangements. Let’s have supper somewhere first, though, shall we?”
Charlotte nodded, feeling bad that she’d made him think she’d only agreed out of love for him. Hopkins said something strange was happening at the mills, and he’d made it sound like something esoteric, rather than political. She was determined to find something that could be used against Ledbetter, something she could take to Hopkins so they could build a case. The hope that it would impress her handsome tutor had nothing to do with it whatsoever.
Chapter 3
CHARLOTTE STOOD AT THE entrance to a large cobbled yard, trying to muster the courage to go in. LEDBETTER MILLS was written in large iron letters, filling the arch above the railings, with PRINCE STREET written in smaller ones below. There was the mill, huge and imposing, four storeys high with dozens of small windows and then two red-brick buildings on either side of it. One was the men’s lodging house; the other was for the women.
The yard was empty and it was almost eight o’clock in the evening. She was tired from the journey and feeling horribly out of sorts. She was wearing an old cotton dress that Ben had given her, with a rather threadbare underdress that had seen better days. She’d changed in an empty worker’s cottage nearby which Ben had taken her to after they’d dined together. When she first saw the clothes, she’d refused to wear them; with the ground-in dirt around the hem and cuffs and stains in the armpits of the underdress, she’d thought they were unwashed. They’d argued, Ben explaining that they were simply stained, rather than dirty, and needed to look used so she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. She couldn’t deny that her hooped crinoline would be the most ridiculous thing to turn up in. She’d given in after reminding herself not to be unreasonable when her brother’s freedom—and possibly his life—were at stake.
She had a bundle of bed linens under her arm, a spare underdress, clean smalls, and her hairbrush. Hidden in the centre of the bundle were her sketchbook and a solitary pencil. Ben had told her she shouldn’t take it with her, but she couldn’t bear the thought of having nothing to give her mind comfort. Besides, it was compact and brand new, bought specially for travel. There was nothing in its pages that could incriminate her. Her crinoline, pretty dresses, crochet and embroidery were left with Ben, who promised to keep it all safe whilst she was working undercover. He’d obviously planned ahead, and must have been confident that she’d say yes. They’d arranged to meet at the same cottage the next evening.
Shaking with nerves, Charlotte took a hesitant step into the courtyard. Ben said that the lodging house was expecting her—or rather, expecting a Charlotte Baker—and that she should go straight there. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d picked the surname she illustrated under. “Charles Baker” was a successful illustrator of a best-selling poetry collection. If anyone knew that Charles was actually a woman about to go to work in a cotton mill, there would probably be angry letters sent to the Times. Even the thought of portly gentry, red in the face with outrage, didn’t make her giggle like it usually did. She was genuinely afraid.
There were stories of rampant disease, thievery and even accidents that caused mutilation and death, all with the mills at the centre of them. Some had speculated that the miasma behind the ’48 cholera outbreak had originated in these huge buildings. George had told her that was nonsense. His friend, Dr Snow, had all but convinced him it had something to do with water, rather than the air. It made no sense to Charlotte, not when the learned men of the day all agreed that where there was a foul stench, disease was sure to follow.
It didn’t smell particularly sanitary where she stood now. She bit her lip and thought of Ben. Surely if it really were as bad as the papers said, he wouldn’t dream of asking her to do this? He had said the stories were exaggerated. Yes, that must be true. He loved her and wouldn’t risk any harm coming to her. Besides, she’d seen engravings and paintings of mill workers at galleries in London. Everyone looked strong and the picture of health in those.
Rallying herself, she started off for the lodging house as a loud bell rang inside the mill. When she was halfway across the yard, the mill’s doors opened
and workers spilled out of the building like water from a sluice gate. She stopped and stared at them as they shuffled to their respective lodging houses.
They were dirty and looked pale; many of them looked sickly. Shoulders slumped, backs curved unnaturally and children limped with deformed knees. They all looked exhausted, pulling neckerchiefs free to mop at their faces. There was a lot of coughing. Conversation was a low hum, rather than the usual roar of any crowd she’d ever seen.
No magi emerged with them, and she remembered Ben talking about how they were kept separate. On the way to the mill, she’d expressed a concern about Ledbetter recognising her, but Ben had assured her that the magus was overseeing the construction of a new mill up in Bury and rarely came to this one. Looking at the workers, Charlotte could understand why Ledbetter stayed away. Who would want to be reminded of these poor souls?
“Are you lost, love?”
A woman, whose age was hard to pin down to anything besides older than Charlotte, had peeled off from the flow of people and come over to her. There were dark circles under her eyes and she looked just as shattered as the rest, but there was something kind about her smile that Charlotte warmed to immediately. “I’ve come to work here.”
“’Ave ye now?” The woman’s voice had the same sort of soft Lancashire accent as the Thermaturgy magus who’d tested Ben. “You’re not from round ’ere, are yer?”
Charlotte shook her head. “I come from London.”
The woman looked her up and down, frowning. “First time ye’ve needed to work?”
“In a mill, yes.” Charlotte didn’t dare say she already worked as an illustrator and had sometimes helped Mother with her sewing work. Compared to what this woman did to earn a living, it seemed ridiculous to even call it work.
“’Ard times can fall on us all.” The woman sighed. “I’m Marjory, but everyone ’ere calls me Mags. I reckon you’ll be in the same dorm as me—there’s a bed free there now. You’ll be next to Dotty. She’s a kind girl and she’s your age. You’ll be fine. C’mon.”