The Daring Ladies of Lowell (9 page)

“Yes, they are, Mr. Fiske,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“There are things happening that people are worried about.”

“We’ll get to that. Let me tell you a little about the history of our company first and why we do things the way we do.”

Five minutes later he was still talking. Alice eyed him steadily, trying to nod in the right places, afraid of taking even a sip of her tea.

“I think Miss Barrow is familiar with our background, Father,” Samuel said, breaking in finally. He could see the shine of perspiration on Alice’s forehead. She shouldn’t have to sit here and endure his father’s standard lecture.

“That’s good, Samuel. Cut him off, he goes on too long all the time.” His grandmother was stirring on the divan, her voice surprisingly robust. “Let’s hear about the problems the girl is here to tell us about.”

Alice took a deep breath. She had written them all down, choosing the proper words; let them help her now. “We are plagued by the heat when all the machines are running,” she said. “Cotton fibers float in the air. We breathe them in. If we were able to open windows, we could breathe better.”

“My dear, if you opened windows, the cotton would dry out,” Hiram said.

“Surely there’s a compromise.”

“Surely you’re not strangled for breath,” Daisy broke in. “Nothing so melodramatic as that?”

“Forgive me, I don’t consider it melodramatic. The fibers get into our lungs, and we cough up cotton balls.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“And those who suck thread through the needles ingest even more. At the mill, they call it the kiss of death.”

“Oh, well, here’s the melodrama,” Daisy pronounced.

Alice flushed, unsure what to say next.

“The girls do seem to have respiratory problems,” Samuel said quickly. “We’re getting reports.”

“Well, why haven’t I been told about them?” Hiram looked at his son with irritation.

This wasn’t the time or place to remind his father that he preferred to ignore reports of problems at the mill. “I’ll inform the overseers to do so more frequently,” Samuel said.

“Well, what else, miss?” Hiram’s tone was one that had made more than one executive step back.

He was not just trying, he was
expecting
to intimidate her. Her fingers tightened in her lap. She would be forthright and simply say her piece. “Mr. Fiske, there are numerous safety problems.”

“Please elaborate.”

“Part of our job is to clean the cotton out of our machines at the end of each workday. But the machines sit so high, we can’t reach up far enough to clean them thoroughly. And a couple of times, the cotton has ignited. Fire is a true danger.”

“Surely there are stools to stand on?” Hiram shot back.

How could he not understand what she was saying? “We’ve tried; the stools are not high enough,” she said. “And we worry greatly about the belts—they come too close to the workers.”

“What does that mean?”

“The girls’ hair gets caught up in the belts,” she explained. “We work very fast, and we get tired and less cautious near the end of a long shift. One girl was almost killed a few weeks ago.”

“You young women should keep your hair in tight buns. It’s only proper hygiene,” Mrs. Fiske interrupted.

Hiram was getting restless. He pulled out his heavy gold pocket watch and checked the time. “It’s almost dinnertime, I see. Miss Barrow, any factory has hazards. Do you not think we worry about your safety? Doesn’t housing, money in your pockets, and food on the table count?”

“Of course they do, Mr. Fiske. But I’m trying to tell you about working conditions.”

“As to those respiratory problems, we’ll see what Dr. Stanhope has to say. Now—we’ve done something for you, and you could do something for the company. Here’s my proposal: I would like it if you agreed to be our voice—our interpreter, if you will. If there are concerns, we could explain our mission and goals through you to the other employees.”

Alice leaned back in her seat, making sure to hold tight to her gloves, her throat constricting. These people knew nothing. No, that wasn’t it. They
wanted
to know nothing. Samuel caught her eye. She wondered first if he understood—there was a bemusement, a separation from all this, in his expression. Or was that only what she hoped to see?

“I wouldn’t feel qualified for that, sir. I’m sure you are the best interpreter of your goals. I can only tell you what I think is not working right and ask you to fix it.”

Hiram frowned. “You may be passing up a good opportunity, young lady.” His eyes glazed over, not exactly cold. No, worse than that: indifferent. He glanced again at his watch and stood, tugging at his waistcoat. “We’ve spent enough time here. Let us move to the dining room.”

Everyone stood quite dutifully and filed through the door to the dining room, with only Samuel holding back. He offered his arm to Alice. With only a second of hesitation, she took it and joined the group.

T
he dining room was beautiful. Glorious, luminous rose-painted walls, elaborate moldings—and another oil painting of the same formidable ancestor Alice had spied in the entrance hall. Samuel’s grandfather seemed to be staring at her, judging her, silently telling her she did not belong.

She looked around, unsure what to do next. A servant pulled out a chair, nodding to her expectantly. She gathered her skirt and sat down—relieved to hide her shoes under the hanging linen cloth—then looked up. The dining table at which she now sat was almost dwarfed by a large chandelier overhead that was ablaze with flickering candles. The effect was breathtaking.

“I do hope you like sweetbreads,” Samuel’s mother said.

“Of course,” she responded, wondering what they were. She hardly heard the conversation at first, which was monopolized by Hiram, leaving her a little time to get her bearings. She stared at the delicate, shimmering silver table setting in front of her. So many forks; so many spoons. But Mrs. Holloway had given her a brisk lesson on the cutlery she would face. She could manage it all, surely.

But when the dinner dishes were brought in by servants, she could not help an audible gasp. Two tureens of soup, one at each end of the table. Then a roast joint on a gleaming china platter rimmed in gold, placed with flourish in front of Hiram. Clearly, he was to dismember it with formidable knives.

A fowl dish was brought in next. Alice thought it was roast duck, but the orange slices, parsley, and other condiments hid its shape, and she wasn’t sure. The servant handed her a plate with some strange food. She felt a shiver of alarm. What was this?

“The sweetbreads are delicious,” Samuel said, flicking a glance in her direction.

Grateful, she nodded, feeling less vulnerable. She sipped soup, nibbled at the fowl—yes, it was duck—and realized finally that no one was paying attention to her at all. She need not fear scorn. She might as well be a statue in one of Boston’s numerous parks. The Fiskes had decided she was invisible.

Only once did Daisy turn to her. “You said you make cameos?”

“I do.”

“Do show me your work. If you’re skilled enough, I might commission you to make one for me at some point.”

Alice started to respond, delighted, but Daisy had turned away without waiting for an answer.

Disaster came with dessert. Even though Alice cut carefully into a cream pastry, it slid from the fragile china plate with dreadful speed and dropped onto the richly hued carpet. She could almost see the heavy cream sinking in, the stain spreading. God, how could she be so clumsy? “I’m sorry,” she said, jumping up to find a cleaning cloth.

The young maid who had served her tea was already bent over the stain, cleaning it up. She stood after finishing, casting a triumphant glare at Alice; oh, the message was clear. You are who you are, and no pretensions.

Alice lifted her eyes to the table and began an apology to her hostess. But Mrs. Fiske, a blank look on her face, was chatting with Daisy. Hiram was giving orders to a servant. None of them seemed to notice; not out of politeness but because, to them, she wasn’t even there. Was she wrong? Her gaze shifted to Samuel, studying his face. What was it she saw? Chagrin? No, embarrassment. He was embarrassed for his family, not for her. How she knew that, she couldn’t say.

He stood. “I want to thank Miss Barrow for coming,” he said, cutting into the chatter of his family. “She had the gumption to face us here tonight.” He felt a stab of anger, seeing in her eyes the knowledge of her complete invisibility at this table. He wanted to ease this recognition, to allow her a graceful exit. How did he do this without sounding patronizing? “The truth is, we are not easy people to face; I’m sure you’d agree,” he said to her.

Alice, surprised, gave him a tentative smile. The others stared at Samuel.

“Miss Barrow, my sincere appreciation. We will follow up on your concerns.” He gripped the edge of the table, catching the sympathetic eye of his grandmother, now fully awake—the one anchor in this family he had always been able to count on. “Mary Beth”—he turned to the servant—“will you please show Miss Barrow to her room? The carriage for her trip back will arrive at eight in the morning.”

Samuel turned and strode out of the room, surprised at his own sudden anger. What was he doing? He had allowed his self-control to drop. But watching that young woman tiptoe her way through the rituals of a world she obviously knew little about had impressed him, leaving him troubled.

DECEMBER 20, 1832

T
he ride home was clattery and bumpy; the weather wet and dismal. There was no sun today, just a sky of sullen, gray clouds. It all matched Alice’s mood as she stared through the window out onto a wintry terrain.

All this visit had done was make the Fiske family feel better about themselves. They knew nothing about the people who worked for them. She was usually indifferent to that; it was a truth acknowledged with a shrug and a laugh and forgotten on payday. Why had she come? It had been the allure of stepping inside a fantasy; that’s what it had been. And she had wanted it, and now she was angry with herself. All they saw was a waif, a supplicant. A woman who knew nothing of the proper etiquette for wearing gloves. She squeezed her hands together, taking comfort from the soft leather of her friend’s gift. Lovey would have something wonderfully acerbic to say about the whole experience.

“I hesitate to say this to you, but I do wonder—why did you invite me?” she had asked Samuel just before stepping into the carriage. He was one of them, even after those graceful words at the dinner table; she must be cautious.

“To discuss your concerns,” he said.

There were dark circles under his eyes. Could it be that he, too, hadn’t slept much last night? “But no one was interested.”

Her honesty made him falter. She stood so close, one foot on the lowest step of the carriage. She would vanish in a moment.

“I apologize for my family; I had hoped for something better.”

She looked up into his face. “Mr. Fiske, I thank you for your words at the table last night.” She took a deep breath. “You have been kind. But I believe I was brought here to feel awed and intimidated, someone to send back to Lowell with a nice story about sipping tea off of fine china, provided by the open-minded Fiske family. Please tell me—am I wrong?”

“Not entirely, and I tell you that in all honesty.”

She started to say more but feared she might endanger her job if she did so. Instead, she climbed into the carriage.

He reached through the open window, his hand only an inch or two from hers. “I will be at the mill next weekend,” he said, then paused.

His face was so close. She could have reached out and touched him. She waited. What was he asking?

“Perhaps I could show you around and explain how the mill was developed—”

“I’m on the weekend shift.”

“Well, then,” he said helplessly.

And then the carriage pulled away, hitting, she was convinced, every possible bump in the road on the way back to Lowell.

U
nsettled, Samuel watched until Alice’s carriage vanished from sight. He had given her every courtesy and had been treated rudely. He had every right to be annoyed. It was a train of thought with which he was familiar, but it didn’t satisfy, not today.

“Well, after hearing that little exchange, I’d say your flirtation with the Barrow girl didn’t quite work out.”

He wheeled around to see Jonathan standing in the doorway, looking red eyed, his clothes rumpled.

“Where have you been?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“I couldn’t care less, but Father was angry that you didn’t show up for dinner last night.”

“Oh yes, the ‘democracy at work’ dinner. Don’t you think we’re both getting a little too old to be doing his bidding every minute of the day? Maybe you aren’t, but I certainly am.”

Samuel willed himself not to respond. His brother looked too brittle, not just his usual mocking self. “Where have you been?” he asked again.

“Carousing, of course,” Jonathan replied. “And having a good time doing it. A little carousing wouldn’t hurt you, Samuel—might loosen you up.”

A flash of memory, a twist of melancholy, gave Samuel pause. There had been a time when Jonathan was little, adoring, looking up to his big brother, holding his hand, asking him questions. Still, there was something there in his brother’s eyes this morning that reminded Samuel of that younger boy.

“Let’s get you some coffee,” he said quietly, putting an arm around Jonathan’s shoulders. They turned and walked back into the house.

D
aisy sat alone in the dining room, picking at a boiled egg in a silver egg holder, flipping through a copy of
The Lady’s Book.

“What do you like so much about that magazine?” Jonathan said as he sank into a chair, yawning.

“Fashion stories, of course,” she answered promptly, closing it hastily. “There’s nothing else for me to do.”

Only Samuel noticed that she had pushed between the pages a scribbled piece of paper. Once before he had picked up such a slip of paper that had fallen from her magazine and saw a poem written in his sister’s hand. It had not been very good; annoyed with himself for having read it, he had said nothing.

“Why were you so unkind to Alice Barrow?” he asked.

“Oh, here we go, I’ve been expecting another display of indignation from you. Has it occurred to you that
you
were the rude one last night, dismissing your family as badly behaved? You can be so pretentiously noble. I’ll wager Father is furious.” She hit the egg with her spoon; when a thin spurt of yolk shot upward, she exclaimed in annoyance.

“Sounds like I missed something interesting,” Jonathan said as a servant began to pour him a cup of coffee and then rushed instead to Daisy’s side, murmuring apologies.

“I want a
six
-minute egg,” Daisy complained. “Not a
five
-minute egg, for heaven’s sake. Hasn’t the cook got that right yet?”

The maid took the egg cup, vanishing into the kitchen. Samuel watched her go, then stared at the morning light dancing over the fresh breakfast cloth, producing prisms of color.

“Daisy, this isn’t like you,” he began gently.

“Please don’t start on all that again,” she interrupted. “I’m just not going to try to defend myself to you anymore. I hate my life, and that’s all there is to it.” There were tears in her eyes as she pushed back from the table, pulling the soft belt of her morning gown close, and left the room.

“Poor Samuel, you really take it on the chin from us, don’t you?” Jonathan chuckled as he reached for a slice of buttered toast on the table. “Now of course, with Daisy gone, you can lecture
me.
Go to it, Brother. You’d better hurry. I have things to do today.”

Here was that familiar feeling of being weighed down by something ponderous, forced into a role. Samuel stared at his own coffee cup, weary. “No lectures,” he said.

The brothers sat in silence.

I
t felt good to be back. The other girls gathered around Alice, excited, laughing, filled with questions as they all sat down at their crowded table to eat pea soup and boiled corned beef.

What did she eat? What did the silver look like? Describe the dresses. Did you sleep on silk sheets?

She couldn’t disappoint them, and so she gave them bits of the fantasy they wanted, describing the chandelier in the dining room, the grand entrance, Daisy’s cameo.

“Was it like the pretty one you keep in a box?” Ellie asked.

“How do you know about that?” Alice asked in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie said, aware now all eyes were on her. “I saw a pretty box, and I peeked inside. Please don’t get mad; I never touched it.”

The child looked so chagrined, Alice felt sorry for her. “It was my mother’s,” she said. “I made it for her.”

“Why don’t you wear it?”

Alice smiled. “I don’t really know, but it reminds me of a happier time.”

The silence at the table was almost tender; all of them could remember other, happier times.

“And you know what? The one I made is prettier than hers.”

“Good,” Mary-o declared. “I don’t like her at all.”

The mood was broken, and all were cheery again. But Alice kept glancing toward the door. “Where’s Lovey?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Tilda said with a shrug. “We all know she’s usually here by now. Lovey’s not one to miss dinner.”

“Except when she’s having a bit of fun,” said Mrs. Holloway, putting a bowl of turnips and parsnips on the table. “I keep expecting her one of these days to up and go. She’s got a restless heart, that one.”

“Go?” Alice said, dismayed, putting down her fork. “She wouldn’t do that without telling us.”

Tilda patted her hand. “But she’s been here at this mill before and left without telling anyone and then showed up again. She’ll probably pop up in a few hours, it’s just her way.” Her voice turned wistful. “It does leave a gap when she’s not around.”

Alice stared at her bowl of soup. Lovey wouldn’t do that, even though she had her way of disappearing when she so chose. She might be off somewhere, but she’d be back for work in the morning. Wouldn’t she want a full report on the visit to the Fiske mansion?

That night Alice waited on the porch. After all were in bed and the boardinghouse was silent, she continued to wait. Once she thought she saw Lovey’s form hurrying toward her, but it was a trick of the shadows.

By five in the morning, still no Lovey. Alice stood, bones and muscles cramped and aching, and went inside. Surely she would be at her loom today, probably with some outlandish story.

No, Lovey was not at the mill. Alice felt her stomach cramping more and more with each passing hour. The others offered sympathy, but after a few jokes about missing Lovey’s jauntiness, they lapsed into uneasy silence. Only Delia spoke of her. “I have my little girl because of Lovey,” she murmured to Alice as they worked their looms.

All thoughts of Lovey were set aside late in the morning when a spindle cracked off a loom, flew through the air, and punched into a girl’s head. The girl, one of the Irish from Newton, was unconscious for five or ten minutes before she came around, and that caused a stir. Mill workers began meeting in little clusters after their shifts, indignantly complaining about old machines and careless overseers.

“And you,” said one man in an almost-hostile voice, pointing to Alice as she left work, “what did you find out in Boston? Are the Fiskes going to pay attention and do something?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I told them. I can’t make them do anything.”