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 . . .
He sped up. Maybe he shouldn’t bother subjecting himself to his boss’s moods anymore and just quit, for how could he handle seeing David married to Marianne now? Only nineteen days had passed since she’d stopped in at the office, and he was about to leap out of his skin wondering what she was doing, how she was faring. Never mind that he’d hoped she’d stop seeking him out.
“Hey! Watch out!”
Down the street, a woman in a drab, brown dress carrying no fewer than five plump paper bags stopped short as an ice wagon turned out of the Liscombe gate. With her dark hair and high cheekbones reddened by the nippy morning, she looked just like Marianne.
Great. Not only was he still daydreaming about a woman he’d told himself not to think about anymore, he was imagining her, too.
She stood near the gate, waiting for someone to get out of her way, when she looked back toward the second-story windows above him.
Marianne didn’t have a twin, but goodness, the woman looked just like her.
But surely Marianne owned no dress like that, nor would she be in this area of town without a driver. Definitely not carrying an armload of things she’d ha
ve handed to a servant.
The woman slipped past the mill gate and headed into work, but her grace, her poise, the way she moved . . . he’d recognize her walk whether she wore rags or silk. What on earth was Marianne doing at the mill?
He weaved his way through the crowded sidewalk and nearly ran across the street to keep from losing sight of her. “Marianne!”
She stopped for a second and looked the opposite way, but after a short hesitation she continued on.
“Excuse me.” He dodged a group of women.
A delivery truck rattled out of Liscombe’s big iron gate. The second it passed, Calvin jogged across the entryway, straight for the prettiest woman heading to work, even if her hair was off-kilter in the back. “Marianne!”
She stopped and spied him this time. The paper packages slid in her arms, stealing her attention.
“What are you doing?” he called, despite being winded. Evidently he needed to get out of his office chair more often.
She readjusted her packages and continued in the direction she’d been going. “I’m going to be late for work.”
That stopped him. “Work?”
The Lister heiress would never need to work.
“Yes, at the mill.”
“At the mill?” Perhaps he’d daydreamed so much he’d slipped into one, for nothing she was saying or wearing made sense.
She rolled her eyes at him, but the soft smile she reserved for teasing him softened the gesture. “You told me I wouldn’t be able to endure my life if I married you, that I was too spoiled or fragile to work someplace like the mill, so I decided to test that out for myself. So far, I’m alive, whole, and not crying myself to sleep. What do you think?” She stopped and smiled so brightly, he wasn’t sure if he’d missed something she’d said.
“What do I think about what?” Did this mean she hadn’t given up on marrying him?
Stupid heart. No reason to start beating so hard. This bright, young, wealthy woman wouldn’t go through with trading her prestigious last name for his.
She stepped closer, causing his heart to ramp up its chaotic motions. “I meant, does surviving two weeks of mill work prove to you I’m not a flibbertigibbet?”
Oh, he most certainly knew she was a woman to be reckoned with.
“No?” she asked. “Then tell me what else I need to do to prove my love is true, and I’ll do it.”
His body ached to swoop her up and test out that love with a kiss right now, which would cause scandal, and then he would have to marry her. Which suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
He stepped back and rubbed his temples, forcing his brain to focus on something other than his desire to take her in his arms. “What are you doing with those paper bags?”
Her beaming expression dimmed, making it even harder not to gather her up and try putting the smile back on her face.
“These are for the Moore sisters.” She repositioned the top bag that teetered atop her stack.
Why had he stood there like a dolt and not taken them for her? He took the top three. “Who are the Moore sisters?”
“Five young ladies who work with me, from age ten to eighteen. They have so little to eat, I couldn’t possibly sit across from them and watch five girls share one meal while I have more than enough for myself.”
His heart ached for her, in more ways than one. She might be able to do without, but she’d not be able to endure watching others struggle.
Her neat little eyebrows quirked. “Why are you shaking your head at me?”
“You only just proved one of the many reasons you can’t marry me.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand how helping people could possibly be a reason for disqualifying me as good wife material.”
If marrying her could forever banish that hurt expression, he’d wed her in a heartbeat—but a wedding was only a solitary moment in time. “Oh, I’m certain you’ll make an absolutely wonderful wife. You’re the most generous person I know—”
“Which means . . . ?” That hopeful look was back on her face.
She had to start hating him sooner or later for all the times he kept wiping that hope away. “Which means, if you marry me, your ability to do charity goes out the window.” And if there was one woman who couldn’t keep from helping when she saw a need, it was Marianne.
“It does not.” Her face scrunched like a toddler being told no. “You’re charitable. Last month you spent hours reshingling a widow’s roof.”
He couldn’t help but smile a bit at how adorable she looked. “Only because your parents and the deacon supplied the material.”
She lifted her brows as if she’d won a point. “Which doesn’t negate that you’ve done charity work. So why couldn’t your wife?”
“Don’t you see?” He clenched his hands to keep from touching her, giving in. “Your heart is so generous you’d burst at having to see needs go unmet. My budget for giving is small. Mostly all I have is time. And since marriage generally leads to children, children who won’t have nannies or fat bank accounts to see to their needs, our time and money would soon be spent feeding and caring for them.”
Her eyes warmed. “And how many children do you see us having?”
He stepped back and cleared his throat. “We shouldn’t have any children when there are plenty in need already.” There were countless children unloved, ignored, and forced to work for no real reward. He knew that better than most. He and his siblings had been farmed out to extended relatives after their father couldn’t keep them together any longer. And yet just the thought of her having his child . . . He shook himself and pointed to her lunch sacks. “How would you feel knowing that marrying me would keep you from helping the Moores? I can’t afford to feed five strangers every day.”
She put her hands on her hips, her expression growing perturbed. “That wouldn’t keep my parents from helping. They won’t even bat an eyelash over these measly expenditures.”
He didn’t exactly want to get on her bad side, but if it would turn her from him so she could continue enjoying the life God had blessed her with, then perhaps that was a good thing. “Right, you’re helping the Moores with your parents’ money—not mine. If you marry a rich man, you’re in no danger of impoverishing yourself to the point you’ll be the one in need of charity—”
“And if I don’t want to marry a rich man, but the poor man I love?” Her voice was suffused with irritation and brokenness.
His resolve to keep from causing scandal and kissing her for all she was worth was crumbling with each second he stood there watching determination, utter longing, and fleeting hope fill her eyes.
He turned to look at the mill, the entrance filling with mostly women and children as they converged inside. He looked back at her lunches. “As my wife, there would be little money available to help the Moores and all the other needs you’d see. You might be able to help some, but you certainly couldn’t help all. I don’t think you could handle that.”
Her jaw worked, and she stared at the bags in her hands.
As much as he knew she had to give up this romantic notion of shucking wealth for love, watching her come to terms with it hurt. But she’d rebound. She’d be cherished by whichever man—
“Here.” She shoved all but one of the remaining lunches into his arms, her expression grim, her voice warbling. “You’re right. I’ll have to restrict my charity to what would be within your means.” She clenched her own lunch with whitened knuckles.
Well, she could help the Moores for a while if she married him, but if the Lord blessed them with child upon child . . . how could he guarantee his children wouldn’t end up in the same predicament he and his siblings had been in?
He couldn’t. And that was why he’d determined never to have any.
God didn’t always keep people safe. He allowed people to fracture, to implode, to hurt. Marianne believed she could be content in a marriage to him, but his own mother hadn’t been able to stand the poverty they’d fallen into and h
ad left him, his five siblings, and his father to face the worst time in their lives alone. And though he knew his father had loved him, without their mother’s help, he’d had to abandon them, too.
His aunt and uncle had taken him in and seen to his needs, but not a week went by without one of them reminding him of how he ought to be thankful they’d taken on the burden that he was.
“Are you all right?” Marianne looked up at him.
He shook his head and wiped away the deep frown that had taken over his face. “If you stay with your parents or marry a man blessed with a bank account that can withstand disaster, you’ll be far better off than with me. I have enough to survive the good times, but if I hit a rough spot, it’ll be nothing like your father’s worst year. With me, you couldn’t give according to your heart’s desire. You’d have no servants to attend you—”
“I understand.” She shook her head as if she actually did.
His heart heaved with finality, and he tried not to crush the lunch bags in his arms.
She threw back her shoulders. “I understand you haven’t seen me live as anything but a wealthy woman and so you can’t be sure I value relationships over dollars, so I’ll continue on and prove it.”
He blinked.
“Since you’re right about us not being able to rely upon anyone else, I’ll search for a place of my own tonight. Where would you suggest I look?”
All right, he knew she was tenacious, but . . . well, certainly she wouldn’t go through with this. Not when she saw what sort of accommodations she could afford. “With what you’re likely making, you’d only be able to manage a shared bunk at a boardinghouse or a small apartment in Southtown Village.”
“I’ll go to Southtown, then. However, I don’t know where that is.”
Exactly. “It’s not anywhere you ought to be, Marianne.” The rows of shacks south of the mill were one of the worst areas of town. “You belong at home.”
“My home is wherever my heart is.” She tilted her chin up. “If you won’t believe me when I say I’ll be content with you, then I aim to convince you with my actions. I’ll work here until then.”
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