She pointed to the right on the far side of the street. “Because that buggy isn’t going to stop for you.”
“He’ll see me in plenty of time.”
“That’s just it, miss. He’d have stopped for a fancy lady, but you’re not a fancy lady anymore.”
She shook her head but took a step back since an automobile was about to zip past now. “Just because someone’s humbly dressed doesn’t mean drivers will run them over. The rich don’t think so much of themselves they consider others’ lives expendable—at least not any who aren’t terrible people to begin with.”
“’Tis true of your family, yes, but not all people care so much, rich or poor. Besides, you told me I was supposed to help you blend in. I sure don’t expect the driver of a fancy buggy to take heed of me. I’ve been splashed too many times, grazed too often, and cursed at by enough crazy drivers to believe otherwise. And I’m not exactly keen on testing it, not with those newfangled motorcars racing about.”
Who knew anyone thought so much about crossing a road?
Another break in the traffic opened, and she scurried across, avoiding the low areas where the brick had sunk and filled with water.
“Don’t walk like that,” Miss Blasdale called from behind her.
She was walking wrong, too? “Like what? I’m taking care to avoid puddles. Surely even the basest of women don’t just plow through puddles.”
“You’re right, they don’t,” she huffed beside her. “But you’re walking like you own the world.”
How could she possibly be doing so when such a thought hadn’t ever entered her head? Marianne slouched her shoulders as she finished crossing the last half of the road.
Her maid chuckled. “Well, that wasn’t good, either. Even a lowborn woman wouldn’t walk like an ape.”
Marianne shook her head as they gained the sidewalk. “Perhaps these non-lady lessons weren’t a good idea. If I just act like myself in this new outfit and hairstyle, they’ll only think I’m giving off airs—nothing to keep me from being hired, right?”
Miss Blasdale looked over her dress. Several days ago, she’d outright laughed at her for asking where everyone bought their work dresses. “Well, yes, you did a good job copying my mother’s dress and picking out the drabbest of brown muslins. Your shoes, however . . .”
Drat. She’d meant to borrow the head housekeeper’s boots but had donned her own without thinking after Miss Blasdale panicked over how much time she’d wasted making her hair look ordinary.
“Hopefully no one will notice.” If they did, she’d switch shoes before trying for a job at the next place. But Liscombe’s cotton mill was the factory Calvin had pointed to when he’d said she’d not be able to make it through a day of work, so that’s the job she wanted.
However, she’d failed to procure it at the beginning of the week. A well-to-do lady asking for a job at the mill, even wearing a work dress, had gotten her ignored by some and looked at with disdain and suspicion by others. The foreman hadn’t even let her argue her case; he’d promptly told her no and spun on his heel.
Marianne fingered the crooked pleat she’d accidentally sewn into her sleeve. The women who’d rushed along the street beside her this morning all seemed to have flaws somewhere in their attire, be it patches or too-short sleeves or even ill-fitting bodices—which she’d never noticed before.
Perhaps Miss Blasdale was right; maybe she hadn’t really been seeing the lower class that surrounded her. But she’d pay attention now. “I’m sorry for being snippy with you this morning, but thank you for trying to help. Now pray I get this job.” She’d likely be turned right back out the door again, but she’d try once more before asking for work at the linseed mill.
Miss Blasdale shook her head as if trying to talk a toddler out of her belief that she could fly. “I have no idea why you’d want such a job. I wouldn’t even want to work in a factory. But if it’s that important to you—”
“It is.”
The work bell rang behind them.
Miss Blasdale frowned back at the mill. “I will pray, miss. At least that God helps you get to where you should be.”
“That’s a prayer I’ll take.”
Her lips tickled up into a smile. “Then good luck, Miss Lister.”
“You should call me Marianne. At least while my parents are away.”
Miss Blasdale’s pretty red lips compressed into a frown. “If someone told your parents . . .” Miss Blasdale continued muttering under her breath.
Something about the rich and their silly games?
Marianne gritted her teeth against reprimanding her, since for the next few weeks she would not be her maid, but an equal. “How about this? If someone informs my parents, I’ll tell them I insisted. They’d believe that of me. So I insist.”
Miss Blasdale’s eyes danced a bit. “I wish you the best, Marianne.”
“And you, too, Della.”
Her maid’s eyebrows winged up at that, but she gave Marianne a small push along with a slightly bigger smile. “Go get yourself a terrible job.” Then she slipped back into traffic.
Marianne turned toward the newer mills, and her heart sped up. Now faced with the reality of going back in . . . well, the way she’d been derided the last time was almost enough to push her to seek employment at the ice plant instead. But freezing all day was not exactly calling to her.
The crowd had nearly disappeared, so she marched straight up to the big doors, slid into the dim, cacophonous factory, and weaved through the workers toward the area where the foreman had been at this hour last time. When she’d come before, it had taken twenty minutes to find him with all the yelling over the noise she’d had to do. But he was over six feet tall, so he should be easy to spot now that she knew who he was.
As she walked between the rows of constantly clacking contraptions that were slightly taller and wider than upright pianos, she saw no one with earmuffs to dampen the noise. Did they get used to the racket or did it deaden their hearing? She paused for a second. She didn’t want to permanently injure herself to gain Calvin’s heart. But surely the banging and whirring wasn’t enough to turn anyone deaf or no one would work there, right?
She spied the foreman, Mr. Tomblin, looking over the shoulder of a lady working a machine, her fingers dancing lightning quick as they tied knots in cotton thread and fiddled with levers and knobs.
“Sir?”
He turned and gave her a blank stare.
Did the difference in her clothing really cause such a drastic change that he didn’t recognize her? Her heart flew with hope. “I would like a job.”
He sighed, though the only evidence he did so was the rise and fall of his chest, since such a sound was impossible to hear above the melee. “Your late arrival doesn’t make you an appealing employee, but we’ve got absences enough, the boss might consider you.” He started down the aisle. “This way.”
She couldn’t help her giddy shoulder jiggle. She might have a chance, after all!
Mr. Tomblin walked faster than a man normally would with a woman beside him, then opened a door and pointed for her to go in. She frowned. He wasn’t even going to find out her name and introduce her?
The door shut behind her, barely dampening the factory’s noises.
A portly man looked up from the stack of papers he’d been perusing from behind his desk. “Yes?”
“I’m in need of a job.”
The man, likely one of the Liscombes, scanned her from the top of her head down to the toes of her well-polished boots.
She tried to stand in a way that wasn’t too upright nor too apelike. Maybe she should have practiced this in the mirror last night.
“What do you know how to do?”
She let out a breath. Seemed the ugly dress had gotten her to the next step. “I can sew and mend and take care of a family.”
“I mean what factory experience do you have?”
She wrung her hands. “None, actually. I’m expecting nothing but an entry-level position.�
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“Well, you’re lucky I’m shorthanded. We’ll see how you do, but don’t be late again. I can find a girl to replace you easy enough.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man just stared at her. “Well, go see Mr. Tomblin and tell him to put you to work.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. When else did you expect?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t make me fire you already.”
“No, sir.” She gave him a stilted little curtsy, not knowing what a woman of her new station would do taking leave of a superior, and backed toward the door. “And thank you, sir.”
But he’d already returned to scrutinizing his paperwork.
She let herself out and blew out a breath. A job! But she hadn’t even packed a lunch.
No matter, one day without lunch wouldn’t kill her. Though next time God answered her prayers this quickly she’d try to be better prepared for it.
She spied Mr. Tomblin and scurried over to him, shouting, “I’m to start today.”
“Doing what?”
If she hadn’t seen his lips, she wouldn’t have understood him. “I don’t know.” She raised her voice above the machines. “I told Mr. Liscombe I don’t know anything about manufacturing. I just needed a job—”
“Fine, we’ll have you feed the sliver into the spinner.”
Did he say slimer or Iver? Hopefully someone would explain more about what she’d be doing and speak loud enough she didn’t have to ask them to repeat themselves a half dozen times.
Mr. Tomblin walked off without asking her to follow. Would they not even discuss hours or pay? No matter, she’d take it even if they paid crumbs. She rushed to keep up as he traversed the factory, passing more machinery than she’d ever seen in one place. So many of the women working the fancy equipment seemed younger than she. Did they not attend school? When Mr. Liscombe had said he could replace her with a girl, he hadn’t meant to demean. Seemed he really meant girl.
Mr. Tomblin stopped beside a young lady, who couldn’t be more than seventeen, rushing back and forth between two machines. “Georgia?”
The redheaded waif looked over at him, her hazel eyes dull yet wary. She only stopped for a second before rushing to the machine beside it to feed it a white wispy rope of cotton.
Seemed she’d certainly stay trim working here, racing back and forth maybe twenty feet.
“This is—” He lifted his eyebrows to indicate that Marianne should finish his sentence.
“I’m Miss—I mean, I’m Marianne.” Oh, what was she going to do about her well-known surname? She didn’t want to lie. But then maybe by the time they issued her wages, they’d hear Lister and think nothing of it, considering no wealthy Lister would purposely work in such a place.
“You’ll work under Georgia.”
“All right.” She’d expected some matronly woman to be in charge, not someone years her junior.
“You’ll report to Georgia each morning at six thirty sharp. If you’re gone more than two days in a row for anything, you may find yourself in need of another job if we fill your position while you’re gone. You are not allowed to bring any children. If you do, they will be expected to work. We are not a nursery.”
She nodded slightly. So if she caught the flu, she’d be out of a job? Not even a shred of sympathy for her situation?
Georgia’s eyes didn’t register any emotion. Did the loud, monotonous noise of the factory make being cheerful a chore? Or was she taking the spot of Georgia’s friend who’d found herself sick at home or dealing with an emergency?
“I’ll check on you on my next round.” Mr. Tomblin left with a nod.
“So, what have you done before?” Georgia thrust a wispy rope of cotton fluff into a machine.
Marianne looked at the pile of strange cotton cord. “Nothing that would help me know what to do, I’m afraid.”
The young woman picked up a fat strand. “This is the sliver. We feed it into the machine here.” She pointed to some place amid the constantly moving parts, and as quick as a bat of eyelashes she thrust the strand into the machine, but exactly where . . . well, hopefully she’d see Georgia do it a few more times before she had to take over.
Georgia inserted another strand, pulling off a wisp of cotton that was not threading into the machine correctly. “Now, to be clear. I have to keep up my quota with or without you. Mr. Tomblin will be angry at me if either of us gets behind, so you will not get behind or I’m docked pay.”
Marianne swallowed. She’d figured there was a chance she could fail, but to hurt someone else, too? “I’ll try my best.”
“There is no time for trying. Either do it or walk out.”
No, that’d be like walking out on Calvin.
When she didn’t leave, Georgia went back to her machines and beckoned her forward. “Now watch.”
After a few minutes, Marianne picked up the sliver from the area she was supposed to man and figured out the best way to feed the fat cotton strand as it rushed into the relentlessly whirring machine. After a nod from Georgia, she was officially on her own to keep the hungry apparatus satiated with a constant supply of downy sliver.
Though it certainly was not the most fun she’d ever had, it wasn’t exactly difficult.
Calvin was worried over nothing.
The mill’s eating area was filled with voices far louder than necessary for the small room, but Marianne supposed it was difficult to go from shouting at each other to conversing genteelly for their staggered fifteen-minute lunch breaks.
Not wanting to call attention to the fact that she had no lunch, she’d sat atop the wide window ledge and stared out at the city. Though her stomach was growling, at least she was off her feet. Oh, how they ached. Perhaps the work wasn’t the most complicated thing she’d ever done, but her feet and back were sure complaining.
Thankfully everyone seemed fine with leaving her alone and hadn’t come close enough to hear her stomach’s protest. She wouldn’t want anyone to offer her something to eat when it seemed most of them had nothing more than a slice of bread, cheese, and a side of something left over from their meal from the night before.
But couldn’t someone have offered something to the five girls who only had one lunch box between them? The eldest sister couldn’t be more than eighteen and the youngest couldn’t be a day over twelve. Or maybe the fact that they were gaunt and pale made them seem younger than they were. But surely any person who toiled in this factory would need more sustenance than what they’d brought to endure the remaining seven hours of the workday.
The past five hours had been quite monotonous, and it seemed there would be nothing more exciting to come this evening, or any day following.
If there wasn’t anything but this repetitiveness for twelve hours a day, every day, no wonder Georgia had such a blank stare.
Marianne glanced back at the group of sisters. The youngest leaned against the eldest as she nibbled on the last slice of bread.
Maybe no one offered them food because they refused charity?
She’d bring extra tomorrow and see. If they took it, she’d bring more. This job might not exactly be satisfying, but helping these girls could be. The other women workers seemed decently fed and clothed—perhaps these girls’ parents took all their earnings? For why else would they force a twelve-year-old to work these hours instead of go to school?
Though the youngest sister was certainly not the only child in the factory.
She’d known children worked, but eight or ten years old seemed awfully young when they flitted about the machines, especially when they crawled under the gigantic contraptions to catch the flyaway cotton.
She looked at the clock across the hall. Only five minutes until work resumed. Suddenly eager for fresh air, she rushed to the front doors. The moment she stepped outside, she turned her face toward the blessedly quiet sunshine. Flexing her sore fingers, she soaked in the breeze and looked across the grounds and street toward the building that housed Kingsman & Son. How
long should she work before telling Calvin? What amount of time would convince him she could survive a life like his? Surely the weeks she had before her parents returned would be enough, especially with how he’d looked at her the day she’d given Mr. Kingsman that letter for David.
She’d decided to send the letter because she’d thought Calvin couldn’t be swayed, but during that visit, he’d been so determined not to look at her, bending the pencil in his hand, blankly staring at his papers, jumping when she touched him . . . she’d had to fight the urge to go take the letter back.
She’d been right; Calvin felt more for her than he was willing to admit.
Oh, if only God would’ve let them fall in love with people closer to each other’s walks of life.
The bell tolled, calling her in for the second half of the workday. While she raced back into the building, she snatched a stray wisp of sliver off her sleeve, twisted it between her fingers to make a short piece of cotton thread, then wrapped it around her ring finger.
She would see this through. If she couldn’t, her claim to be able to love Calvin, rich or poor, was nothing more substantial than cotton fluff.
Chapter
5
Sunlight diffused the early-morning mist lying heavy upon the city streets. Despite the work crowd rushing past him, Calvin couldn’t make himself walk any faster. The elder Mr. Kingsman was often a bear to work with, but after the letter he’d gotten from his son yesterday, he’d shucked the temperamental grizzly for the ornery dragon he kept squashed and angry inside him.
With David in Teaville, there’d be no reason for Marianne to come and visit the office. Of course, in light of the feelings she had for him, that was a good thing. But without the possibility of her dropping in, the only hope he had for a good day at work was if Mr. Kingsman didn’t show up.
He stopped midstride. He’d passed the office. If he couldn’t keep his mind off Marianne, he was going to lose his job. He marched back through the heavy onslaught of people, determined not to think of her. For nearly a year now, he’d reminded himself over and over that he would have to deal with seeing her married to David, but now that he knew he had a chance with her . . .
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