Rules for an Unmarried Lady

by Wilma Counts

  “Quite nice,” Harriet commented as, having removed her gloves to take notes, she felt the texture of the kinds of fabric, ranging from the heavy stuff one might use in upholstery work to the fine, almost sheer fabric used in the most delicate garments.

  “Makes sense not to have all our eggs in one basket, so to speak,” Quint observed when the swatches to passed to him.

  Stevens nodded enthusiastically. “That is almost exactly the way our young earl’s father and grandfather expressed it!”

  “You mentioned transport as an expense,” Quint said. “Would you say that is the major expenditure of the mills?”

  Stevens raised a hand to rub along his chin before answering slowly. “It is certainly one of them, my lord. Obtaining the raw cotton is probably the major cost. In recent years the acquisition and maintenance of power looms has been hugely expensive. They are run by steam, of course, but still require the direct supervision of skilled weavers—and they are expensive in themselves.” He looked at Phillip directly. “I mentioned earlier, Lord Sedwick, that your great-grandfather was something of a visionary in seeing the possibilities of cotton in our industry. Your grandfather was, too, in seeing the possibilities of the steam engine in the production of textiles. And your father was enthusiastic about continuing his work.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Phillip said softly. “My father often talked to me about steam engines. He once introduced me to his friend Mr. Stephenson.”

  “Did my father, or my brother—or have you—or anyone else in this area—experienced any of the—uh—resentment—of the machines that has been reported elsewhere—say, around Manchester?” Quint asked.

  “You refer to the Luddites and their breaking of machinery, I assume.” Stevens’s tone turned rather grim, and he went on when Quint nodded. “I think Mr. Humphreys had an incident or two. I do not know the details, though he did dismiss a number of his workers with no notice whatsoever! At the time there was some apprehension and grumbling among our people, but the old earl and his son managed to quell it well enough. And they managed to keep all our people on the rolls too—that made a huge difference in the way our Sedwick folks accepted the machines.”

  Both Harriet and Chet had been taking notes as Stevens talked, Harriet in more detail apparently than Chet, but she supposed he would be reviewing the books later with Colonel Burnes. She made a mental note to herself to compliment Phillip later on about how attentive and courteous he was being through a discussion that would not usually intrigue a boy in early adolescence.

  Then Phillip surprised her as well as the rest of their company with yet another substantive question. “May I ask just how many people we employ in these mills?” Phillip colored slightly when all three men turned startled eyes upon him. He looked at Harriet and shrugged. She wanted to grin and hug him.

  Stevens coughed. “Hmm. I’m not sure I can give you a precise number, my lord, but that information will certainly be in the books Knowlin has for you. However, there two mills, five floors each, plus the cellar. Twenty-five to thirty weavers on each floor with an overseer and handyman on each as well. Plus cleaning people and groundskeepers. I would suppose it comes to around two hundred people.”

  “That many,” Phillip said, impressed.

  “How many of those might be women and children?” Harriet asked, aware that Quint, especially, took note of her question.

  “That, I am not sure,” Stevens said. “I am merely conjecturing, but I think about a third of the weavers themselves are women. We had to take on more women what with the war on the Continent, you know. And children are often used for odd kinds of jobs—usually in conjunction with whatever their mothers are doing. It is fairly common practice in textile mills, as I am sure you must know.”

  “How young are the children who come to work in Sedwick Mills?” she asked.

  Stevens began to look a little discomfited, but he answered forthrightly. “As long as they are working with one of the parents, we have a few as young as six, I believe. Our child workers are mostly between, say, eight and thirteen. However, most of our workers are adults—and most are men.” His voice had taken on a slightly defensive note.

  “I see,” she said, turning just enough to catch Quint exchange a look with Chet that she found difficult to interpret, but she was fairly certain that, in a different environment, he might have been rolling his eyes.

  Quint straightened in his chair, his hands on his knees. “Thank you, Mr. Stevens. I think you have provided us with a good overview of the workings of Sedwick Mills. Now, we would like to have a look around, if you would be so kind.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The five of them emerged from the small office building and climbed a few stone steps to the entrance of the nearest of the two mills, both of which sat on an incline that overlooked the Tayson river. Gazing upward at the brick building, Harriet could see each floor distinguished by a row of windows. Ivy crawled its way up much of the first and second story of each building, though it was cut away from the windows. Stevens led them up cleanly swept stone steps graced with a black wrought iron railing to the entrance, which was set off toward one end of the edifice. As they entered, Harriet could see that bare wooden stairs ran up the inside of the building, with landings at each floor leading off to a huge room of looms. From the landing at the entrance, there were stairs going down to the cellar, which Stevens explained contained storage for bales of raw cotton and laundry facilities for washing finished cloth, as well as a tool room. These interior wooden stairs were not so neatly tended as the stone steps outside were.

  Both these wooden stairs and the wooden floors of the loom rooms were dark and smelled of oil used in an attempt to keep the lint-laden dust at bay. This being a late summer day, several of the windows were opened slightly, but looked as though it been months since they had had a proper wash. In fact, they were so murky as to provide only filtered light—certainly too dirty to offer even a glimpse of a cloud or a patch of blue sky. There were a dozen large looms loudly at work as they entered, though Harriet could see that nearly everyone in the room was aware of the visitors in their midst.

  The new young earl and his companions were introduced to the overseer on the first floor who had obviously been expecting them. Standing near the first of the looms, he explained its workings and they examined the quality of the cloth it was producing. The overseer was a stocky man in his forties with a shock of brown hair, a florid complexion, and bit of a bulging belly. He was dressed aa a laborer in heavy tan cotton trousers, a lighter cotton shirt, and wide black leather suspenders.

  He explained, “This machine puts out one of our finer products. From here the cloth will be sent down to the cellar to be laundered, then up to the top floor to be printed. Probably end up in ladies’ dresses.”

  Harriet tried to stay in the background for the most part as she observed the surroundings and quietly took notes. After all, it was not her place to put herself forward. She trailed behind as the men and Phillip went from loom to loom, sometimes stopping to comment or ask or a question, mostly merely looking, occasionally nodding affably. She noted that the work force was, indeed, very much as Stevens had described it. She did see several young children performing simple tasks such as sweeping up excess lint, and she thought she could readily identify which of the workers were their parents.

  It was noisy. Besides the hum of the engines to run the looms, there were the loud thwacks and clunks and bangs of the process of making cloth. Occasionally a human voice called out a greeting or a warning, but for the most part Harriet found the workers rather a quiet lot.

  At one point, Phillip sidled up to her and, speaking in a low voice, pointed at a machine near them. “Aunt Harriet, do look at those children.”

  “What about them?”

  “That girl is no older than Sarah and that boy is no bigger than either of the twins.”

  “You a
re right, my dear. And there are at least two workers on this floor who are probably your age.”

  “I know.” His voice was dull.

  “Is something the matter?” It was the overseer who had noticed they were not trotting dutifully along in the “inspection tour” mode.

  “Oh, no,” Harriet dissembled. “I was just wondering what you use for light on truly dark days or late shifts.”

  “We have oil lanterns. Smelly, but they give off enough light to get the work done.”

  His reply brought to mind the smells of this environment. She quickly jotted notes about the oil on the floor, the dry smell of cotton lint floating in the air, and the occasional whiff of an unwashed body among the workers. It occurred to Harriet that her nephew was seeing a side of life he might never have imagined before. She had imagined it, but had rarely encountered it first-hand.

  The tour continued with little variation except in the type of cloth being produced here and there. They visited each floor of both buildings, for Quint said—and Harriet agreed—that it was important that Phillip make his appearance to all the workers, not to slight any group.

  On the fourth floor of the second mill, the tour was proceeding as it had elsewhere—the overseer this time a middle-aged man in black trousers and a black coat—when suddenly a woman working one of the looms near the door simply slumped to the floor. Harriet thought later it was a miracle that she had fallen away from the machine, for who knew what might have happened had she tumbled into the workings of the loom itself? She was a relatively young woman—probably about her own age, Harriet surmised. She was thin and dressed in a thin cotton dress that showed signs of wear, but seemed clean. She had smiled and greeted the visitors cheerfully as they had passed through earlier.

  “Mama!” a girl child screamed.

  They all turned abruptly, but Quint was the first to act. He squatted beside the woman and raised her to a sitting position. She was already coming around.

  “I—wh-what happened?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  The little girl, who could not have had more than seven years, now stood at her mother’s side. The child was dressed in the same cotton print as her mother and had the same shade of reddish-brown hair. “You fainted again, Mama.”

  “No. I couldn’t have,” the woman insisted, already trying to loose herself from Quint’s hold.

  “I am quite sure you did, madam,” Quint said, not allowing her to try to stand.

  “Please. Let me up. I’ll be all right.” She sounded more embarrassed than hurt, Harriet thought.

  “Just stay still a moment,” Quint ordered, his arm still supporting her shoulders as others gathered around. “Get yourself together first. Take some deep breaths.”

  “Papa says it’s ’cause she don’t eat nothin’—gives me an’ my brother her food when he’s not lookin’,” the little girl said.

  “Oh, Betsy, please—do be quiet,” her mother begged, clearly mortified.

  Harriet knelt next to the woman and asked softly but sternly, “When did you last eat, Mrs.—?”

  “Mrs. R-Reed,” she stammered. “Y-yesterday morning. I think.”

  “Good heavens!” Harriet said. She looked up at those gathered around. “The poor thing just needs some food.”

  “Here. Give her this.” Phillip held out something wrapped in paper. “It’s a biscuit. Mrs. Hodges always thinks I am going to starve to death before she sees me again,” he added sheepishly.

  Quint took the packet, unwrapped it, and offered the biscuit to Mrs. Reed. She brushed his hand away. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. Just help me up, please.”

  “You can and you will,” he said. “I am not letting you up until you take the first bite.”

  She heaved a sigh, but did as he told her.

  Quint glanced at the overseer for this floor. “Is there someplace she can sit for a while? And can you get her a drink of water?”

  “There’s a bench under the windows,” the man mumbled. “I’ll be right back with the water, my lord.”

  Hoping to spare the woman further embarrassment, Harriet helped support her as Quint stood and guided her to the bench, where she sat with the child standing at her knee. Harriet noted that she nibbled rather eagerly at the biscuit, but nevertheless broke off a bit to give to her daughter. The overseer returned with a ceramic mug of water, which he handed to Quint to give to Mrs. Reed.

  Harriet sat next to Mrs. Reed on the bench and looked up at Quint. Seeing concern and confusion in his eyes, she said, “Why don’t you and the others continue on and catch me up when you finish? I’ll sit with Mrs. Reed to see that all is well with her before we leave.”

  “Th-that is not necessary,” Mrs. Reed protested. “I am all right now. Truly I am.”

  Quint ignored her protest. “Thank you, Miss Mayfield.”

  Moments later, as her own party climbed the stairs to the floor above, Harriet sat with the mother and child listening to the clanks and thuds of the mechanical giants at work around the little threesome.

  Chapter 11

  Harriet sat quietly next to Mrs. Reed for a few minutes as the woman regained control of herself. She heard her say softly to her daughter, “Betsy, you go on back to your sweeping up. I’ll rejoin you in a few minutes.”

  “All right, Mama.” The little girl gave her mother a questioning look, but quietly obeyed.

  Harriet searched for some way to introduce any of the dozens of questions she felt she should be seizing the opportunity to ask when the floor overseer approached and held out a square of cloth with a piece of bread and cheese on it. “Here, Miz Reed. It’s a bit left over from me own lunch, but might tide ye over.”

  Mrs. Reed looked up and blushed. “Why, thank you, Mr. Pope. Th-that’s not n-necessary—”

  He shook the offering at her. “Yes, ’tis. Now you take it, woman. Don’t be lettin’ stubborn pride get in yer way.”

  “Yes, sir.” She took the food and he quickly retreated.

  “That was generous of him,” Harriet said to make conversation.

  “Yes. Mr. Pope is a nice enough fella. Not like some bosses, you know. Some are quick to use a whip or dock wages for the least little thing.”

  “Use a whip?” Harriet echoed, not bothering to hide her shock at the idea. She had seen no sign of overseers wielding whips this day.

  Mrs. Reed swallowed hard around a bite of the cheese and bread. “Well, not so much in Sedwick mills, mind you. I heard his lordship—the young lord’s da, ye ken—he didn’t approve of such. But it happens often enough in other places—like where my husband works in Humphrey’s mills.”

  “Good heavens,” Harriet murmured. She could see that Mrs. Reed was regaining her strength and composure and she began to ask her general questions about the life of a mill worker. She explained that she planned to write about the lives of ordinary people but in no way wanted to intrude personally and Mrs. Reed should feel free to avoid answering any question that made her the least bit uncomfortable. In fact, Mrs. Reed seemed rather pleased to be thus singled out and readily responded to Harriet’s queries. Afterward, Harriet was sure that when she finally wrote her articles, she would have much for which to thank one Mrs. Rosalee Reed.

  * * * *

  As Quint led the group back down the stairs, they paused at the fourth floor to pick up Harriet. She still sat on the bench where they had left her, though Mrs. Reed had returned to her duties. Quint searched Harriet’s face and thought she looked sad. He gave her an inquiring look, but she merely smiled, brushed at a wisp of lint in front of her face, and asked, “Are we finished then?”

  “Just need to pick up the books,” he replied, offering her his arm.

  When they were all settled in the coach, Quint could see that both Phillip and Harriet were unusually quiet. Thinking to break the conversational ice, he asked, “Did your day go well in terms of gathering
information for your work, Miss Mayfield?”

  “I think so. Yes. Thank you.”

  “And you, My Lord Sedwick,” he said lightly to Phillip, who once again sat with his aunt directly across from Quint and Chet. “Were you pleased at what you have seen in some of your principal holdings?” Quint could see that something was troubling the lad, who now turned worry-filled eyes to his uncle.

  “I-I am not sure. I do not feel that I know enough to be truly pleased or displeased. I feel so—so ignorant!” His last words were a hoarse whisper of despair.

  “This was your first real visit to the mills, was it not?” Quint asked.

  “Yes, but I did not expect to find so many really young workers—my age and much younger at the machines. I talked with one boy—he works twelve hours a day. Twelve hours. Works. I asked him if he ever had lessons and he just snorted at me. Then he looked scared.” He turned in his seat to plead with his aunt. “I tried to reassure him, Aunt Harriet, but—” He sighed.

  She patted his arm. “Never mind, Phillip. He will get over it.”

  “But he’s only ten. And there were so many of them—some even younger, like Mrs. Reed’s girl. Many of them—some adults, too, were dressed rather shabbily,” he went on. “Like those people we saw in that one section of London we drove through. You remember?” He barely paused for her to nod. “And that poor woman without enough to eat. I had no idea people were so deprived right here in our part of England.”

  A heavy silence filled the coach and they heard clearly as the horses’ hooves left the cobblestoned streets of the town and moved onto the hardened turf of the country road, and they continued to hear the jingling harness and turning wheels.

  Finally, Chet said, “Try not to take it to heart so, lad. Believe me when I tell you the poor folk in this area have it much better than many I’ve seen. And not just in England. ’Tis the way of the world.”