These Tangled Threads

by Tracie Peterson

  “No. I’ve been hired to assist with choosing some fabrics and furnishings for a new home.”

  “Really? How exciting. And do you get to make all the choices?” Mrs. Potter asked with a smile.

  “No. Mr. Donohue makes the final decisions. In fact, I had chosen fabrics made in England, but he wants to use only textiles produced here in Lowell.”

  “Mr. Donohue? The stonemason?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?” Daughtie inquired.

  “He’s Irish.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  Mrs. Potter stopped midstep. “Is it his house you’re decorating?”

  Daughtie continued walking. “Yes. It’s a beautiful home,” she replied.

  Mrs. Potter hastened to keep in stride, tugging at Daughtie’s elbow. “Associating with an Irishman will jeopardize your future. You know that, don’t you?”

  “My future with whom? I’ve been told by various well-meaning people that I’ll never find a decent husband if I’m seen with Liam Donohue. However, I would have no desire to marry a man who didn’t consider Liam Donohue his equal. You see, I believe we’re all alike in the eyes of God. After all, He created all of us, didn’t He? I would find it impossible to respect a man who thought himself better than another merely because his skin color or birthplace differed. Consequently, I’m unwilling to concern myself with what others think of my association with Liam Donohue.”

  “That’s a noble thought for a girl of tender years, but I’m older than you, and I hope you’ll give serious consideration to my words. Virtuous deeds won’t warm you on a cold winter night, furnish food for your table, or care for you in your old age. We’ve all made improper decisions in our youth. Most of those choices are forgotten. But socializing with an Irishman is a millstone about your neck that you’ll not escape.”

  Daughtie patted Mrs. Potter’s hand. “I do value your opinion and thank you for your concern, but this is merely a task I’ve been employed to complete.”

  Mrs. Potter smiled weakly. “You intend to continue down this path of destruction, don’t you?”

  “I intend to finish what I’ve already begun. I believe this is where you turn, isn’t it?” Daughtie inquired as they reached Gorham Street.

  “Yes. You have a pleasant evening, my dear.”

  “Thank you, and you do the same.”

  Daughtie stood and watched until Mrs. Potter reached the corner before walking off toward Whidden’s Mercantile. She shivered, uncertain whether the involuntary gesture was caused by the freezing temperature or by Mrs. Potter’s reproving words. Why were people continually judged by external appearance? Was it not a person’s heart that truly mattered?

  Pushing open the front door of the store, the warmth beckoned her in like a mother’s welcoming smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Whidden.”

  “Good evening to you, Miss Winfield. Have you come to view more fabric?”

  Daughtie nodded. “Yes, but as I told you when I returned the English textiles, only fabrics manufactured here in Lowell. I’m told there are some new offerings from the Tremont Mill.”

  “Indeed. And they are quite lovely. I’m certain you’ll find something to your liking,” the older woman replied as she led Daughtie toward the middle of the store. “All of these,” she said, pointing toward a long wooden table piled high with folded cloth.

  Daughtie approached the table and giggled in delight. “It’s hard to believe I have so many choices. These are beautiful.” The sight of the gorgeous fabrics was almost enough to erase the painful headache she had suffered throughout the day.

  “I thought you might be pleased,” Mrs. Whidden remarked while pulling out an especially colorful piece of damask fabric from the bottom of the pile.

  Daughtie carefully evaluated the choices, finally limiting her selection to six before glancing at the clock. Eight o’clock. There would be sufficient time to take the samples to Liam for his inspection. Grasping the package of cloth under her arm, she waved good-bye and hurried out the door.

  She was nearing Liam’s house when the thought of actually seeing him and delivering the fabrics caused an unfamiliar stirring. Was it seeing Liam’s reaction to the textiles or purely seeing Liam that was creating her excitement? The thought startled her. She regarded Liam with the same respect and attention she had always afforded others. Why, then, did she feel this strange exhilaration? Her mind raced back to conversations she’d had with Bella when her friend had first fallen in love with Taylor Manning. Daughtie’s eyes widened. Bella had mentioned her heart occasionally fluttering with excitement when she first began to fall in love with Taylor. Was she falling in love with Liam Donohue? Yet he was a friend—nothing more, nothing less, she cautioned herself while walking up the steps to his porch.

  She reached out and knocked on the door, realizing her hand was trembling! “It’s the cold,” she said aloud, hoping to convince herself. It’s anticipation over seeing Liam, a small voice inside her head whispered. A bewildering uncertainty plagued her. Instinctively, she rubbed her throbbing temples, hoping the pressure would ease her distress.

  A smile captured Liam’s lips the moment he opened the door. “Would you look who’s here! Come in, come in.”

  He stepped aside and waved Daughtie forward. “Let me take yar cape. Ya’ve chosen a frigid night to be out and about, lassie.” He hung her cloak and turned back to his guest. “Don’t misunderstand—I’m always delighted to have a lovely lady appear on me doorstep.”

  Daughtie felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She doubted Liam would notice. Surely the freezing temperature had already colored her complexion to a bright pink. “I stopped by Whidden’s,” she explained, holding out the package to justify her visit.

  “Ah, I see. I’m guessin’ this is the fabric,” he replied, untying the cord and pulling back the brown paper. “Let’s take them in the parlor and see what ya’ve brought me.” He hesitated a moment. “But first, let me show you something else,” he said, beckoning her down the hallway.

  Daughtie followed behind him, stopping when they arrived in the kitchen. Her eyes widened at the sight. There were barrels and wooden boxes stacked all about the room. “What is all of this?” she quizzed.

  “Provisions!” His voice was filled with a joyful pride. “I’ve been doin’ as ya told me, gathering as many provisions as I dared. Mrs. Whidden did question the number of blankets I’d been buyin’,” he said with a chuckle. “I told her my family might be coming to visit and they were a cold-blooded lot. She appeared to accept my explanation.”

  Daughtie stood on tiptoe, peered into several of the boxes, and nodded her approval. “This is wonderful,” she said while still lifting lids and eyeing the contents. “However, you must get it put away—hidden from sight. What if someone came in here and saw all of this?”

  “Besides myself, ya’re the only person that’s been in this kitchen since the day I moved in. I’m not expectin’ visitors.”

  “But, Liam, if you’re suspected of harboring slaves, they’ll go through your entire home. If the authorities should find all of this out in plain sight, there’s little doubt of what they would think. They’d never even give you a chance to answer questions before hauling you away.”

  “I s’pose ya’re right about that. Guess I’ll be needin’ to make me some good hidin’ places. I think the men and boys will be safe enough out in the barn, and there’s ample space to store some blankets and a few clothes. For sure we can’t be storin’ any food out there, though—the coons and possums would have it eaten before any runaways arrived. I’ve made a couple of good places upstairs for any women and their youngsters. I built a false wall in two of the bedrooms. Long as they’re quiet, there’s no one could detect what I’ve done,” he proudly announced.

  “I’m amazed at all you’ve accomplished. It doesn’t appear you need any help with your preparations.”

  “I sent word me house was ready. Now I just have to wait and see if anyone comes,” he said, leading her back down the ha
llway.

  Daughtie patted the folds along the side of her dress. “I have something here to share with you, too,” she said, reaching deep inside her pocket and retrieving a letter. “From Prudence Crandall.”

  “Really? She wrote you a letter?”

  “She encouraged me to correspond with her. This is her second letter.”

  “You never mentioned you intended to write her.”

  “I know. I feared she wouldn’t reply,” Daughtie stated simply. “But she seems quite pleased to answer my missives. Listen to this,” she said, lowering her voice as though she planned to include Liam in some dark conspiracy.

  Seating himself, Liam folded his brawny arms and gave her his full attention. “All right, I’m listenin’.”

  “I want you to hear this one paragraph,” she said before looking back down at the letter. “‘The girls and I continue to persevere, although many of the townspeople are steadfast in their determination to see me and all of my girls removed from their community. Their anger grew deeper this week when I enrolled two more girls. The house was pelted with rotten eggs and rocks. Two windows were broken, but I give thanks that none of us were injured. Continue to pray that we’ll be protected and that God will soften the hearts of those who persecute us. I will not give in to these tormentors unless I fear for the lives of my charges. They are such capable young ladies, eager to be educated. Each one will make fine contributions to our country, if only given the opportunity.’ ” Daughtie refolded the letter and tucked it back inside her pocket. “I’m deeply saddened Miss Crandall and the girls must endure such treatment.”

  “I agree, but ’tis good to know she hasn’t given in to the ruffians. She’s determined to educate her students, and I believe it will be takin’ more than rotten eggs and a few rocks to frighten her off.”

  “You’re right. The best thing we can do is what she’s asked: pray.”

  Instead of responding, Liam jumped up from his chair like he’d been hit by a bolt of lightning and began spreading the pieces of cloth across the cherry dining room table. “These are quite lovely. All from the Lowell textile mills?”

  “All from the Lowell textile mills,” she affirmed, loving the sound of his lyrical Irish lilt. “You can choose the drapery fabric from among this group, and we’ll use your choice of two other favorites for the overstuffed furniture in this room.”

  “Only two? That may prove difficult.”

  “We can use some of the others in the bedrooms, dining room, and library,” she suggested while seating herself in one of the chairs that would soon be upholstered with fabric. While Liam directed his attention to the cloth, Daughtie began to once again massage her temples.

  “Headache?” Liam inquired, turning toward her.

  “Yes. I can’t seem to rid myself of the pain. It’s been a nuisance most of the day.”

  “Here, let me,” he said. Without awaiting her consent, he moved behind the chair and began to gently massage her temples with his broad fingers while gently moving his thumbs in a circular motion at the nape of her neck. The chokehold of pain banding her head began to ease as he continued to massage her head. Her eyes closed in relaxation. She knew she should stop him—but she didn’t. His ministrations were much too soothing.

  When the throbbing finally began to subside, she raised her hand. “Thank you. I’m feeling much better,” she said. “It appears you’re a man of many talents.”

  “My mother suffered with headaches. From the time I was a wee lad, I would massage her head until the pain would leave. It’s good to know I haven’t lost my touch. Now tell me, what’s causin’ your muscles to knot up in pain? Is it Miss Crandall’s letter?”

  “No,” she murmured.

  “When the muscles get knotted up like this, it’s usually caused by worry. You know, keepin’ yarself tense, not lettin’ the body relax itself. If it’s not Miss Crandall’s situation that’s causin’ ya to fret, what is it that’s been weighin’ so heavy on yar mind?”

  Daughtie gave him a forlorn look as he pulled a chair directly in front of her. “It’s all the discord at the mills. The turnout’s been scheduled for the first of March, and that’s only a few days away. Unless the Associates change their minds about the decrease in wages, I fear many of the girls are determined to strike.”

  Liam nodded. “I thought you’d made up your mind about that issue back when the idea of a turnout was first proposed by Ruth and the others.”

  “You’re right, and I was vocal in my disagreement. Then a few days later, when I refused to sign the petition they were circulating, Ruth wouldn’t even speak to me. She gave me the silent treatment for two full days.”

  “That was probably a blessin’ in disguise,” Liam said with a chuckle.

  “True, for she hasn’t stopped nagging me ever since. She presents the petition to me on a daily basis, telling me she knows I’ll soon come to my senses.”

  “And does this petition say ya agree to walk out with them?” Liam inquired.

  “It says we’ve been wronged by the Corporation and cheerfully agree not to enter and work in the mills on the first of March or any time thereafter unless our wages are restored to what we received prior to the date of the turnout.”

  “And so it’s not just an agreement but a cheerful agreement they’re wantin’?” he asked, his full lips turning up into a wide grin.

  “I think the girls want to emphasize to the Corporation that they’re happy to go without their wages. I thought Ruth might come to her senses when they dismissed a girl over at the Suffolk Mill, but even that didn’t faze Ruth.”

  Liam’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “So they’ve actually fired someone?”

  “Yes—Mary Wickert is her name. They said she was holding meetings within the mill during dinner breaks and stirring the operatives into such a state of agitation that by the time they returned to work, the girls couldn’t concentrate and production suffered. Of course, Ruth said the charges were totally unfounded. However, Lucinda Seawart works at the Suffolk. She was in the library last night and told me that the accusations were true. She said the supervisor told Mary to cease the meetings at the mill or she’d be terminated. So when Mary met with a group of girls the next day during the dinner hour in the mill yard, they sent the agent to escort her into the office and fired her—they even escorted her to the boardinghouse and waited while she packed her belongings. She was told to never set foot on Corporation property again. Wouldn’t you think terminating Mary’s employment would give the girls pause to wonder about their own futures?”

  Liam nodded. “Aye. But just as we believe helpin’ slaves escape is vital, these girls obviously believe their cause is justified. Perhaps it is; I don’t be pretendin’ to know.”

  “I don’t think you can compare the two, Liam. The slaves didn’t choose to leave their homes and become the chattel of white plantation owners. However, these girls made a decision to come here and work in the mills. I realize they thought their income would continue to increase rather than decrease, but the contracts don’t even address the issue of a wage reduction.”

  “I understand, but there are times when people get swept up in the tide of a movement such as this and feel obligated to go along with the crowd. They fear bein’ singled out as unsympathetic to the cause. ’Course, I’m not one for signin’ things like petitions, so whether I agreed or not, I’d refuse to sign their paper. I believe a man’s word should be his bond.”

  “Even if I did agree with the strike, I don’t concur with the remainder of what they’ve tacked on to the petition.”

  “And what is that?”

  “If you sign the agreement and then don’t turn out with the others, you’re then required to pay five dollars to be used for some benevolent action in the town. Even with that added language, the girls are signing; their anger over Mary’s dismissal has caused many more to sign up.”

  “And has all of this now caused you to change your mind?”

  “No,
I don’t think we should strike. It’s just that the actions of Ruth and her supporters leave me feeling alone.”

  “Surely there are others who stand in opposition, aren’t there?”

  “Yes, but they don’t have to sleep in the same room with Ruth. Besides, with Ruth acting as an organizer at the Appleton, all of those who come to our house favor the walkout.”

  “Isolation is a difficult thing. You find yourself in a position of bein’ so much the same as those around you and yet very different,” he said in a soft voice.

  She glanced up into his eyes. “You know exactly how it feels, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I know about loneliness and separation. I’ve lived with them ever since comin’ to this country.”

  “How have you managed?” she questioned, her voice no more than a whisper.

  “I keep busy with me work and me dreams.” His voice was low and husky.

  Daughtie trembled at his nearness. She held her gaze on his face, unwilling to lose the feeling that was growing within her. The wonder of the moment filled her with awe.

  “I’d be thinkin’ that prayin’ and such might come as a comfort to you,” he added.

  Daughtie forced her thoughts to reform. “Yes, it does. I rely heavily on God for comfort—especially when I’m . . . particularly . . . discouraged.”

  He leaned forward and surprised her by taking hold of her hands. “Like now?”

  She nodded, almost afraid to speak. “Yes. Like now.” She bit at her lower lip to keep Liam from seeing how it quivered. Her stomach did flip-flops, leaving her wavering between wanting to run away from Liam and longing to run to him.

  “I know it’s hard for you to endure, but I admire your strength. I admire most everything about you.”

  For a moment Daughtie thought he might kiss her, but the clock chimed the hour and Liam quickly released his hold and sat up straight. “We should be gettin’ ya back to the boardinghouse. It’s bad enough ya go keepin’ company with me like this—with no other womenfolk around to keep things good and proper. But to be comin’ home late . . . well, now, there’d be no end of grief for ya.” His brogue thickened with the emotion of the moment.