A Perfect Silhouette

by Judith Miller

  He turned toward her and tilted his head. “You’ve been able to capture my good looks in such a short time? I can hardly believe it.”

  She laughed and held up the silhouette. “I’m not responsible for your outward appearance—you have God to thank in that regard. However, I’ve done my best to capture your profile.”

  Morgan stared at the cutting. How had she been able to cut such a perfect likeness in so short a time? He took the cutting and placed it atop a piece of paper on the counter.

  She moved from her chair and stood beside him. “If you’re not pleased with the silhouette, you’re not required to purchase it. I don’t want unhappy customers.”

  “Unhappy?” He shook his head. “No, quite the opposite. I think your work is excellent.” He reached in his pocket and counted out the coins.

  She thanked him, then gestured across the store. “What about a frame? If you plan to give your silhouette as a gift, I think it’s special to have it mounted in a frame. Mr. Harrison has a very nice collection here. If you’d like to select one, he can frame it for you. You can pick it up tomorrow evening.”

  “Yes, I believe I would like to have it framed. Could you help me choose one?”

  Together they surveyed the collection, but he wasn’t certain which one would be best. “What would you suggest?”

  She picked up a black oval frame, then placed the silhouette on top of the white background. Only an inch of white surrounded the cutting, but it looked perfect. Giving a nod, she handed him the frame. “I like simple frames so that those viewing the silhouette or picture aren’t distracted by the frame. But if you prefer something fancier—”

  “No, no, this is perfect. I agree with your choice.”

  “Good. Besides, this is much less expensive than those gilded frames.” She placed the frame and silhouette on the counter. “It will be ready for you tomorrow.”

  “And will you be here tomorrow?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m going to be working here every evening. You can tell your friends. Perhaps they’ll want to have silhouettes made to send to their families or sweethearts back home.”

  “I’ll do that. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He glanced over his shoulder as he strode toward the door. For some inexplicable reason, he already missed her.

  Chapter

  nine

  LIKE THE OTHER WORKERS, MORGAN LOOKED FORWARD to Saturday afternoons, when the mills closed at five o’clock and the gates wouldn’t reopen until Monday morning. The boardinghouse keeper served supper early on Saturdays to allow the men extra time for their evening activities. Most Saturdays, the men had finished their meals and were on their way to town by five-thirty.

  “Going into town this evening, Morgan?” One of the men pointed his fork in Morgan’s direction.

  “Maybe later. I have some other things I need to do first. What about you? Going back for more dancing lessons?” He hoped his questions would divert the conversation away from his plans for the evening. “I didn’t hear if that girl you liked so much was at Granite Hall last night.”

  The fellow bobbed his head with such enthusiasm it looked as if it were attached to a spring. “She sure was, and she was waiting just for me.” He wiped the gravy from his lips and grinned. “She stayed in my arms for every lesson—kept talking about the ball in October. I think she wants me to be her escort. I’m giving the idea some thought, but tickets are a dollar each. That’s pretty steep for two tickets.”

  The fellow sitting next to Morgan shook his head. “Whew! That’s more than I’d pay. Maybe if you don’t ask her, she’ll buy her own ticket and be there anyway. If I was you, I’d take my chances.”

  “What would you do, Morgan?”

  Morgan looked across the table. “I suppose it depends on how much you want to be with her. If you like her and have enough money, I say you should invite her and pay for her ticket. You can’t tell about ladies. If she must buy her own ticket, she may refuse you as a dance partner throughout the evening. Would it bother you to see her dancing with other fellows?”

  “’Course it would.”

  Morgan nodded. “Then you’ve answered your own question.” He pushed away from the table and made his way to his room.

  He wanted to escape before one of the men made any further inquiries about his intended whereabouts for the evening. The additional free hours would permit him time to go home, visit with his father about the meeting with Cyrus Baldwin, and then head to the photography shop for his silhouette—and hopefully a visit with the young lady who’d captured his interest there.

  During their time together last evening, he’d forgotten to ask her name. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked his name, either. That could mean a couple of things. Either she’d been so smitten by his good looks that she’d failed to ask, or she’d been completely unimpressed and didn’t care enough to inquire. Then again, perhaps like him, she’d simply forgotten to ask. He preferred to believe his final thought was correct.

  Once he was certain most of the men had departed, Morgan ran downstairs, walked a short distance from the boardinghouse to be sure no one would see him, then hailed a carriage. Before long, the driver guided the horse and carriage around the circular entrance and came to a halt in front of the portico.

  Morgan stepped down, tossed the driver a coin, and tipped his hat. He waited until the carriage rolled off, then hurried to the front door and entered the house. He’d made it through the foyer and was passing his mother’s sitting room when her high-pitched command stopped him.

  “Workers and servants to the rear door. How dare you walk—” She stopped midsentence when Morgan turned to look at her. She shook her head as if trying to make sense of the young man standing in her home.

  “It’s me, Mother.” He grinned. “You’re just not accustomed to seeing me in my work clothes.”

  Her gaze slowly trailed from the top of his head to the floor, where his work boots had deposited remnants of dried mud. “Morgan Stark! I can’t believe you’d enter through the front door looking like that. What if we’d had visitors?” She clasped a hand to her bodice and visibly paled. “How would I ever explain? Why, I’d be the laughingstock of Manchester.”

  “No need for concern, Mother. There are no visitors at present. If there were, you could say I’m one of the hired help who hasn’t yet learned to use the rear door.” He shrugged. “Simple as that.”

  “It isn’t simple at all. The truth is that you shouldn’t be working in the mill with all those, those . . .”

  “Common people?” He tipped his head.

  “Well, yes. You come from good stock and you’re well educated. I still can’t understand why you insist on this silly experiment of yours—or whatever it is.”

  There was no use debating with her. It would accomplish nothing. “Is Father in his study?”

  “He is. And I’m sure he’ll be every bit as disgusted with your appearance as I am.” She flitted her hand toward the doorway. “Just go and see if I’m not correct.”

  He hesitated a moment and arched his brows. “You did insist that I come and visit you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I did, but not looking like that.”

  Hiding a smile, he sauntered down the hallway. He rapped on the door and entered the room, where his father was studying figures in a ledger. Mr. Stark glanced up, and a look of surprise shone in his eyes before he gestured to one of the chairs. “Good to see you, my boy. From your appearance I’d say you’re still employed at the mills.”

  “I am, and I apologize for not contacting you more frequently.”

  His father waved the comment away. “No need to concern yourself. It’s more important that your identity remain a secret. Still, it’s good to see you.”

  Morgan scooted forward in his chair, excited to share news of his visit with Mr. Baldwin. He related their discussion and his examination of Mr. Baldwin’s drawings before detailing their time spent in the various machine shops to compile infor
mation about production of the looms.

  “There’s a great opportunity here, Father. But unless you move quickly, I fear Mr. Baldwin will take his invention to another company, and you could lose out on a product that may reap a fortune in the coming years.”

  “What’s this about losing a fortune?” Both men turned toward the door. Morgan’s mother quickly closed the distance between the doorway and desk and sat down in the chair beside Morgan. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

  “We’re discussing business, my dear. We’ll join you in your sitting room when we’ve finished our talk.”

  Instead of leaving, she settled back in the chair. “I believe I’ll stay. Any talk of losing a fortune is a discussion that interests me.”

  Morgan arched a brow. “Truly? I seem to recall your telling me you considered such talk dull and tasteless. Even guests weren’t permitted to discuss business during your dinners and social gatherings.”

  Morgan’s mother removed a handkerchief from her pocket and toyed with its lace edge. “Your recollection is correct. However, we’re not dining, and this isn’t a social gathering. When there’s talk of losing a fortune, I have an intense interest.” She pinned her husband with a hard stare. “If we’re in financial straits, I should know such a thing.”

  Mr. Stark tapped the ledger book resting on his desk. “We’re not teetering on the edge of financial ruin, but I don’t have sufficient funds to invest in the new project I’ve been discussing with Morgan.”

  “One that could greatly increase our wealth?” She pursed her lips and waited.

  His father gave a slight nod. “Possibly, but there’s never a guarantee when you invest in a new product or the development of an invention, and this project involves both.”

  Morgan wasn’t certain if he should continue or if his father wanted to call a halt to any further discussion while his mother remained in the room. Finally, his father sighed. “If you’re going to remain during this discussion, I need your word you will not breathe a word to anyone—not even one of your lady friends. This can’t become tittle-tattle at your teas or garden parties.”

  His mother straightened her shoulders and tilted her head. “Really, William. I do understand how to keep my lips sealed. Have I said anything about Morgan and—this?” She waved toward his clothing and curled her lip. “Besides, you never know when a woman can bring a bit of insight to a problem.”

  Morgan could have mentioned several times when his mother hadn’t been able to maintain her silence. He worried she might drop an enticing tidbit while attempting to impress one of her friends. Nevertheless, this was his father’s decision and so he wouldn’t argue the point.

  His mother frowned and gestured for them to begin. After a quick glance at his father, Morgan explained the basic idea of the circular weaving machine and how, if developed, it would be used. He then repeated details of the meeting with Cyrus Baldwin.

  “Oh, I do like Cyrus. He’s so eccentric, don’t you think, William? Anything he invents will be wonderful.”

  “We’re hoping his invention will prove sound.” He offered his wife an indulgent smile. “Continue, Morgan.”

  Morgan nodded. “From what I could gather, Mr. Baldwin prefers the prototype and subsequent machines be produced and utilized in Manchester. And he wants work on the prototype to begin as soon as possible. Unfortunately, to do so means a substantial investment of funds with no guarantee the machine will function as expected.” Morgan paused and looked at his father. “So, there you have it. He did say he would like me to continue working with him if the owners are able to raise the necessary funding.”

  His mother squared her shoulders and arched her neck. “I am so proud to hear Cyrus Baldwin is impressed with my son.”

  “I’m proud of him as well, Ruth, but we must be careful to remember that we can’t whisper a word of this to anyone. Such pride and excitement could cause us to misspeak.”

  “You mean I might misspeak.”

  “Now, Ruth, I included myself in that remark. I have to catch myself from time to time, too. I know you wouldn’t intentionally say anything, but it worries me that you’re involved in this conversation. Sometimes not knowing can be a good thing.”

  “That may be true in some cases, but I think you’ll be pleased I’m here after I tell you that I have a possible solution to your dilemma.”

  That was enough to spark Morgan’s interest. “What’s your idea, Mother?”

  “Well, I need the answers to several questions before I know for sure.”

  “What sort of questions?” Morgan asked.

  “The questions are for your father.” She pulled her chair forward, rested her arms on the desk, and met her husband’s gaze. “Are there any surplus funds available in either the Stark Mill accounts or the funds you oversee for the Amoskeag Manufacturing Company?”

  “There are operational funds in the Stark Mill accounts to meet our month-to-month obligations without difficulty. However, the capital funds were depleted earlier in the year when we constructed the new building. That sizable project required significant loans from the bank. Securing any additional loans wouldn’t be possible until I’ve paid off the current ones—and that won’t happen for ten more years.”

  She gave a little nod. “What about the Amoskeag accounts that you handle?”

  His brow furrowed. “That money isn’t mine. Granted, I’m a shareholder, but my position as treasurer of the group doesn’t give me access to use those funds for an investment in Stark Mills.”

  “Hmm.” She tapped her chin with her index finger. “But this project is going to benefit the Amoskeag Manufacturing Company. If the prototype for the circular loom proves successful, the future looms will be manufactured by the Amoskeag Company. They’ll be making money through the production of circular looms just as they do from all the other looms and equipment in the shops.”

  “That may be true, but beyond monthly expenses, use of any Amoskeag funds must be approved by the board.”

  “Well, there is enough money in the Amoskeag funds if you had the board’s approval, correct?”

  “That won’t help, Mother.” Morgan shook his head. “The idea is to keep this entire project secret so that other textile mills don’t manufacture the looms and begin production of the bags before us. We could always move forward later, but it’s the first operation that will secure the customer base. And that’s a huge advantage. In order to win them, we’d need to sell for a lesser price, which would likely be impossible given the expense of beginning a new operation.”

  His father nodded. “And given the fact that the Amoskeag Manufacturing Company has board members who are also partners in other textile companies, we wouldn’t want to tip our hand before we’re certain the design will be successful.”

  His mother appeared undeterred. “Here’s my idea. You withdraw funds from the Amoskeag funds, so that Cyrus doesn’t go to someone else with his design. I’ll write to my father and ask that he give us a loan for whatever amount you’ll be taking from the Amoskeag Company. You then replace the funds before anyone knows they’ve been withdrawn.”

  “No, absolutely not, Ruth. I simply will not consider your idea. Even if I did, there’s no guarantee your father would agree to such a large loan.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course he will. After all, I’m his only heir, and one day the money will all be ours anyway. Besides, I’ll let him know that his money will be returned in full—with interest if he’d like—just as soon as we begin to realize a profit.” She inhaled a breath and continued. “I’d tell you to wait until I receive the funds from him, but arrangements for such a large sum may take a bit of time. And since Morgan has said that time is of the essence, we need to tell Cyrus the funds are available.” She dropped back in her chair as though she’d presented them with a fait accompli.

  Morgan cleared his throat. “I, for one, am opposed to this.” He looked at his father. “You could be charged with theft and be sent to prison, F
ather.” He turned to his mother. “I know you’re well-intentioned, Mother, but I don’t think your idea is wise. Frankly, I wouldn’t want the Stark Mills involved in the project unless there’s some other way to secure the funds—something aboveboard.”

  “Morgan Stark!” His mother’s complexion burned red with anger. “How dare you speak to your father and me in such a manner. Accusing us of illegal practices. Why, I never! What I’ve suggested is no different from borrowing through a bank.”

  Morgan pushed to his feet. “I don’t agree, Mother.” He lifted his jacket from the back of the chair. “And I believe Father won’t agree, either.” He shrugged into his coat. “I’m going to leave so the two of you can talk in private.” He moved to the door, then turned toward his father. “If you secure funding, I suggest you contact Mr. Baldwin. There are a few other matters I had planned to discuss with you concerning the mills, but those can wait for another time.”

  A host of chaotic thoughts plagued Morgan as he returned to town. In her desire to be of help, his mother had seemingly lost her moral compass. Surely his father would manage to set her thinking along a different path than the one she’d proposed. The fact that his mother would even consider such an idea nagged at him and caused him to question her principles. But for now he’d set aside all thoughts of her proposal and instead concentrate on visiting with the young lady at the photography shop.

  Why hadn’t he asked her name?

  A mother and her three children who had visited the photography shop last evening entered the shop shortly after Mellie arrived. The mother drew near and gestured to the threesome. “I’ve decided to have you make silhouettes of the children. My parents live in Ohio, and they’ve never seen any of them. The silhouettes will make a wonderful gift—one I can afford.” She stared longingly at Mr. Harrison’s photography equipment. Mellie could almost read her thoughts. More than anything, the mother wanted a daguerreotype of her children. Perhaps if Mellie spoke to Mr. Harrison, he would lower his price a little for this woman. After all, if the mother was going to pay for three silhouettes and frames, it would end up costing her almost the same amount. And if she had a daguerreotype made, she could sit with the children, as well.