Those few words erased Morgan’s short-lived calm. Renewed fear gripped him in a tight hold. “Why?” Both men stared at him. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “I’m sorry. I was taken aback by your news.”
“Yes, well, there are a multitude of patents for a variety of looms. In order to secure a patent, any differences in the design must be shown in detail. From what my friend explained, it’s a rather lengthy process and I’ll need to remain patient.”
“If it does prove to take a long time, no one else could come along and patent a circular loom before you, could they?” Morgan held his breath while he waited for a response.
“I’d like to believe that would be impossible, but I can’t be certain there wasn’t a similar design submitted before mine. Much depends upon the differences and, of course, the date of submission.” He let out a sigh. “Getting the patent approved was another reason why I wanted to hold off before beginning production.” He folded his large hands together. “Besides the lack of a patent, my friend has heard some other disturbing news.”
Morgan didn’t realize he’d clenched his hands until his fingernails now bit into the flesh of his palms. He waited, his anxiety mounting with each passing second. He wanted to ask, but the question stuck in his throat.
“What was that, Cyrus?” Mr. Hale leaned his arms atop his scarred wooden desk, his gaze fastened on the inventor.
“While he was attending a social function, he overheard some of the wealthier members of the Boston Associates having a discussion.” He looked at Morgan. “The Boston Associates are the investors who own and operate the Lowell Mills, and I believe a few of them are investors in some of the mills here in Manchester, too.”
Morgan nodded. “I see.” He dared not mention that he was well aware of the Boston Associates and who they were.
“So, as I was saying, these men were discussing a new piece of machinery they are in the process of developing. My friend didn’t hear a great deal, but later he spoke to one of the men who was deep in his cups.”
Morgan scooted forward in his chair. Part of him wanted to shout that he was responsible, that he’d left the drawings unprotected. But another part warned him to remain silent. The latter part won the battle. He stared straight ahead, held his breath, once again waiting.
“And?” Mr. Hale arched his brows.
“My friend told me the man spoke of a machine that would create a new kind of fabric. But his words were slurred, and we don’t think he knew what he was talking about. Nevertheless, I remained in town hoping to discover more information, but it proved fruitless. My fear is that this man may have been talking about the seamless bags. He said the idea was something new, yet it was also old. Well, the production of fabric for bags is old, while the seamless bag will be entirely new.” Mr. Baldwin shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of it. Apparently, the man became suspicious when my friend continued to question him, so he stopped. He didn’t want the man to alert anyone else that some stranger had been making inquiries about the machine. And it was difficult to know just how inebriated he was by the time the two parted company.”
Mr. Hale leaned back in his chair and stroked his jaw. “I don’t know, Cyrus. Maybe I don’t want to believe there’s a problem, but what that man shared with your friend doesn’t make much sense. I don’t think you can jump to the conclusion that he was referring to our circular loom.” He frowned. “It’s just not possible that anyone’s gotten wind of what we’re doing here. Up until the prototype was assembled, none of the workers even knew what was being created. They still don’t know what it makes—they simply think it’s a strange-looking new loom.”
Mr. Baldwin pushed to his feet. “I hope you’re right. I would hate to think we’ve gone to all this work and great expense only to fail.”
Minutes later, the three men parted, Mr. Hale to oversee the workers, Mr. Baldwin to his home, and Morgan to work alongside the men producing the new machines. The hours passed in a slow procession of mixed emotion and worry. By day’s end, Morgan left the mill yard feeling like a failure. He feared the worst about the new machine being produced in Lowell. He feared he hadn’t properly protected the drawings. He hadn’t yet been helpful in improving working conditions at the mills. And given the financial condition of Stark Mills, he doubted there would be sufficient funds available to make any changes that would benefit the workers.
With his parents’ decision to move forward with the circular loom by “borrowing” money from the Amoskeag Company, they had placed the Stark Mills—and themselves—in jeopardy. To make matters worse, a competitor might secure a patent for the circular loom before Mr. Baldwin—and it could be Morgan’s fault. His world seemed like something out of a dark comedy. Right now, the only good thing in his life was Mellie.
Morgan groaned when he spotted his father’s groom waiting near the canal bridge. This could mean only one thing: He was being summoned by either one or both of his parents. The groom leaned against one of the bridge supports. As Morgan passed by, the man discreetly slipped a note into Morgan’s hand.
He slowed his pace as the throng of workers walked around him. Once alone, he opened the missive and stared at his mother’s impeccable handwriting. His assumption had been correct. He was being summoned home to meet with his parents. The note said it was imperative he come to see them this evening.
This evening? Did his parents not recall how difficult it was for him to make an appearance on such short notice? If he departed for home before eating supper at the boardinghouse, there would be numerous questions along with a stern reprimand from the boardinghouse keeper. A day’s notice was required from residents wanting to be absent during mealtime. He would hear about the keeper’s need to be frugal and the cost of wasted food. Of course, the food wouldn’t go to waste—there were several men who would be happy to eat Morgan’s share. That fact wouldn’t appease the keeper, however.
He climbed the steps of the boardinghouse, his decision made. He’d quickly eat supper, rush to see his parents, excuse himself in time to get to the photography shop before closing time, and escort Mellie home.
After shoveling down his supper, he hurried toward the front door. His hasty departure resulted in a volley of hoots and hollers that followed him out the door. The men were certain he was off to meet Mellie. He wished they were right, for he expected the meeting with his parents to be far less enjoyable.
His parents were waiting in his father’s office when Morgan arrived home. His mother tsked as she greeted him. “I do wish you’d take the time to change into proper attire before you come home, Morgan. Seeing you in those shabby work clothes distresses me.” Disgust laced her words. “I hope you at least brushed off some of the dirt before you came inside.” Her attention settled on the empty upholstered chair.
“I can stand if you’d prefer, Mother.”
“Don’t be silly. Sit down. We have some good news to share.”
After giving the back of his pants a swipe, Morgan dropped into the chair beside his mother. He could use a bit of good news. “I’m eager to hear.” He glanced back and forth between his parents.
His father cleared his throat. “First of all, we’ve repaid the money to the Amoskeag Company. I know that was of great concern to you, as it was to me.”
His mother frowned. “I was worried too, William.”
His father offered a weak smile. “Yes, of course, my dear.” He returned his gaze toward Morgan. “In any event, your grandfather has been most generous, and the company books are once again in balance. There should be no problems arising from the brief loan that was made to fund the new looms.”
Morgan couldn’t meet his father’s eyes. That his parents continued to refer to the stolen money as a loan weighed heavily on him. He was thankful they’d returned the money, but that didn’t change the fact that it wasn’t a loan. He shuddered to think what would have occurred if they’d been unable to return the money before the missing funds were discovered.
&nbs
p; “Thank you for letting me know the money has been returned. It’s still difficult for me to believe the two of you . . .” He shook his head and let his voice trail off. “Never mind. I’m thankful it’s over.” He looked at his father. “I will sleep better at night knowing you won’t be going to jail.”
His mother squared her shoulders. “All’s well that ends well—as I knew it would.”
“I’m glad to see that one of us was so confident.” Morgan glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I need to return to town now.”
His mother reached over and placed her hand atop his. “Not yet. There’s one more thing. Your grandfather is coming for a brief visit at Christmas. He’ll be here for my annual Christmas party, and we expect you to be present.”
“But—”
“I don’t want any excuses. If someone recognizes you, so be it. I don’t know if anyone you’re in contact with at the mills will be in attendance, but it matters little. Time with your grandfather is of greater importance than pretending to be a common workman in the mills.”
His father nodded. “You need to be here, Morgan. Even if you should be recognized, your work in the mills is nearly complete. By Christmas we should be in production with the seamless bags, so—”
“But that isn’t why I originally wanted to work in the mills, Father. We haven’t even discussed the working conditions and some of the improvements I think would help the employees and also increase production.”
His father shook his head. “If you go unrecognized, there’s no reason you can’t stay and continue your investigation. However, that isn’t going to be your life’s work. And if it happens to end in the next few weeks, then that’s that.”
His father’s words cut the air like the slash of a sword. He’d thought his father supported what he was doing, but now it appeared as though he cared little about making changes at the mills. Instead, he was willing to maintain the status quo. But after the things Morgan had witnessed in the mills, and the things he’d heard from Mr. Mann, he didn’t feel he could be content with the status quo ever again.
Chapter
seventeen
MORGAN RETURNED TO TOWN WITH HIS MIND HOPSCOTCHING from one troubling thought to the next. Perhaps his father was right and Morgan shouldn’t have posed as a mechanic and gone to work in the mill. Maybe he should have taken his father’s advice and accepted a manager’s position.
No matter which way he turned, it seemed he couldn’t be completely honest with anyone. On several occasions he’d considered telling Mellie the truth, but each time he’d backed down. How did one tell a person he’d come to care deeply about that their relationship had been built upon a lie? Would she still want to be with him once she learned he was Morgan Stark and not William Morgan? What would Mr. Hale and Mr. Baldwin think when they discovered who he was? He’d stepped into this new identity thinking he could do good, yet each lie had required another. He was beginning to have trouble sifting the lies from the truth.
He bowed his head against a blast of cold wind that pricked his cheeks. Though he was shivering in his wool coat, he continued to plod through the icy weather at a listless pace. It was near closing time and he should hurry, but his eagerness to see Mellie was mixed with dread. He’d have to explain his late arrival, another lie needing to be told. He was building their relationship on a heap of lies that he feared was going to crumple and destroy any hope of a future with her.
Mellie was tidying up the shop when he arrived. Broom in hand, she looked up as the bell over the door pealed its familiar jangle. From the look on her face, he couldn’t determine if she was angry, hurt, or simply surprised that he’d finally appeared. With her eyes downcast, she continued sweeping the plank floor. “I was worried something had happened to you. An accident at the mill or that you’d taken ill.”
He wiped his shoes on the rug inside the door. “I’m sorry. I should have let you know I was going to be late.”
When he didn’t offer anything further, she stilled the broom, held it against her shoulder, and waited. There was little doubt she expected something more. Instead of lamenting his earlier lies, he should have been thinking of another one—one that would explain why he’d been late.
“I had to attend a meeting about a project at the mill, which I didn’t know about until closing time. There wasn’t time to get word to you. I had to be at the meeting immediately after supper.”
After another swipe of the broom, she looked up. “Sounds like a unique meeting if it was after working hours and they required a mechanic to be present. Were all the mechanics present for this meeting?”
He swallowed hard. She didn’t believe him. He couldn’t fault her—he wouldn’t have believed it, either. “No, just me.” He attempted to gather his thoughts. “It had to do with the drawings I was studying in the back room. Mr. Stark needed some additional information.”
“Mr. Stark? Then that truly was an important meeting. I’ve never seen Mr. Stark. One of the girls told me he seldom comes down to his office at the mill yard anymore. Tell me, what does he look like? Is he kind or fearsome?”
Morgan wasn’t certain if she now believed him and was simply curious, or if this was a test because she hadn’t trusted a word he’d said. “During our meeting, I’d say Mr. Stark was rather neutral, neither overly kind nor overly fearsome. He was pleasant, probably because he was relieved to hear there had been good progress on the project. What else was it you asked?” He hesitated, but before she could answer, he continued. “Oh yes, about his appearance. He has white hair and rather sharp features. I’d say he’s about my height with a medium build.”
She placed the broom and dustpan in a tall cabinet, then turned to him. “And is his office quite fine? Where is it located? I was told it was in Stark Number One. Is that correct?”
“I believe that’s right.”
“How did you get into the mill yard? I thought the gates were secured throughout the night. Did Mr. Stark use his keys to let you in?”
She definitely didn’t believe him, of that he was certain. She was asking too many pointed questions. Either she wanted to trip him up or hoped he’d come around and tell her the truth.
“The meeting was at Mr. Stark’s home. That’s why I was so late. He lives a fair distance from town.”
“Oh? And you walked, or did he send a carriage?”
He withheld a sigh. He was digging a hole so deep, he’d likely never claw his way out. “I rode a horse. I was told there would be a horse at the stables near the edge of town.”
“I see.” She took off her apron, tucked it beneath the counter, and removed her coat from the closet. He hurried to her side and helped her. “I’d enjoy hearing about the Starks’ home. I’m sure it must be magnificent. Perhaps you can tell me on our way home.”
He nodded. “If you’d like.”
After fastening the thick braid clasps on her coat, Mellie walked to the rear of the store. Morgan remained by the counter while she advised Mr. Harrison she was leaving for the night. When she returned, he pulled open the door and followed her outside. She placed a gloved hand in the crook of his arm and held tight to her bonnet with the other. The cold, stinging wind had worsened in the short time he’d been in the shop. Although he disliked the unfavorable conditions, the freezing air had curtailed any further conversation. Most evenings he would have been disappointed, but tonight he was thankful for the silence.
Arriving at her boardinghouse, she opened the front door and then turned to him. “I look forward to hearing about the Starks’ home tomorrow—unless you have another meeting.”
Before he could kiss her cheek or bid her good-night, she hurried inside and closed the door against the churning wind that threatened snow at any moment.
Mellie had rushed up the main flight of stairs before she stopped to catch her breath. After walking home in the freezing wind, her teeth were still chattering. When she reached the end of the hallway, she let out a long sigh. Someone had closed the attic door. She
didn’t want to accuse the girls who slept in the second-floor bedrooms, but she didn’t think Phebe, Clara, or Cora would have closed the door. They wanted as much heat as possible during these cold nights.
Her thoughts skittered back to Morgan and his account of the evening’s events. His tale had taken her by surprise. She would never have guessed he had been attending a meeting at the Starks’ home. That a mechanic would be summoned to the home of the mill owner to discuss a project made her mind reel. Still, she’d been told by more than one person that Mr. Stark seldom came to his offices. Perhaps he preferred to remain at home and have his employees meet with him there. Who could say? Certainly not a lowly loom operator like herself.
As she ascended the steps, Mellie heard whispers and moaning—or was it crying? When she arrived at the top of the stairs, she stopped short and struggled to take in the sight. Cora sat on one side of Phebe, Clara on the other side. Phebe rocked back and forth on the bed with both hands covering her face. Low, soulful moans escaped from deep in Phebe’s chest.
At the sound of Mellie’s footsteps, Phebe dropped her hands and looked up. Her dark lashes were wet with tears, her eyes swollen and red. Tendrils of damp black hair clung to her face and heightened her pasty complexion.
Fear shot through Mellie as she struggled to speak. “What’s happened?” She took a step closer to the bed, but Cora stood and motioned Mellie to the other side of the room.
Phebe grasped Cora’s hand. “You don’t have to go to the corner and wh-wh-whisper.” She hiccupped.
Cora motioned toward the stairway. “Did you close the door?”
Mellie nodded as she moved to the bed and sat beside Cora. She wasn’t certain if she should direct her questions to the twins or Phebe. She extended her arm and touched Phebe’s hand. “Are you ill, Phebe? Would you like me to go fetch the doctor?”
Phebe shook her head. “No.” Her chest heaved as she inhaled a breath and lifted a crumpled paper from her lap. “This says it all. I wi-wish I could die. It sh-should have been m-me.” Her body collapsed against Cora as she wept.
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