by Jody Hedlund
“How much did we earn this week?” Elise asked. The first day they arrived, no one had questioned Mr. Hewitt about the amount of their pay. Miss Shaw hadn’t made any indication either. Elise supposed the other workers felt the same as she did, that they were grateful for the employment, no matter the wages.
But now, after a week of hard labor, Elise wasn’t so sure she was grateful.
Mr. Hewitt stepped away from the steaming pot with fogged spectacles. He removed them and began wiping the lenses with the edge of his vest.
Elise peeled a strand of hair from her forehead and smoothed it back with the rest of her damp hair. “Would you be so kind as to tell us our traveling expenses as well as our weekly earnings?”
“I am keeping individual tabs for each of your accounts back in the office,” he replied as he wiped at his spectacles. “Not only of your traveling expenses, but also for your weekly room and board. So if you’d like to see your totals, you’ll need to come to the office. ”
Elise dreaded to see the amount of debt she’d accumulated. Miss Shaw had indicated that the cost of the train ticket had been $15.20—a slight reduction in the normal fare—but that hadn’t included any of the meals during the journey. “Very well. But surely you can tell us how much we’re earning.”
Mr. Hewitt replaced his circular spectacles onto his nose, peered through them, then removed them and began wiping again. “We are paying each of you one dollar and fifty cents per week, which works out to exactly one dollar after deducting the cost of your room and board.”
“Only one dollar a week?” Elise knew she shouldn’t feel shocked or angry. The Engle sisters didn’t blink or even pause in their steady labor at the pronouncement. But Elise felt a rush of frustration at the realization her painful efforts from before dawn until after dusk would only earn her one dollar a week.
“It’s a very fair wage for a woman.” Mr. Hewitt held up his glasses and examined them. “I’m quite certain you wouldn’t make anything close to one dollar and fifty cents a week if you’d remained in New York City.”
His words cut off any reply she could make. She wouldn’t have been making anything if she’d stayed in the city. She was lucky to have any work at all. On the other hand, such intense labor as laundering surely deserved more compensation than one dollar and fifty cents a week. Didn’t it?
When she’d worked in the tenement as a seamstress, she made one dollar and sixty cents per week, only ten cents more than now. But she was certainly working more hours here. And it was harder work.
Besides, at a dollar a week, she’d earn just four dollars a month. At that rate, she wouldn’t be able to pay off her traveling expenses for four months, if not longer. Four months of beating laundry with nothing to show for it. Four months of not being able to send any money back home to Marianne and Sophie. With such low wages, it would take years to save enough to purchase train tickets for them to join her in Quincy.
She swallowed the bitterness that rose in her throat. So much for her dream of finding a better life in the West, of starting over, of perhaps even making a new home for her family and fulfilling her promise to Mutti to take care of Sophie and Marianne, as well as provide for Olivia and Nicholas. With the way things were going, all she’d managed to do was place thousands of miles between them with no hope of being reunited.
But then what did she expect? Hadn’t Fanny warned her how the Quincys treated the railroad workers they hired? What made her think they’d be different toward anyone else they employed, especially women? She’d never understood why women were paid less than men. When she worked in the sweatshop sewing vests, she’d resented the fact that she could often work faster and more meticulously than some of the men, yet they were paid nearly double her wages.
Mr. Hewitt finally replaced his spectacles and waved his hand at the dolly she was still resting against. “Miss Neumann, since you apparently like to dally at your work, perhaps I should consider reducing your wages.”
Reduce them? He wouldn’t dare. Her ire was already stirred. His threat only whipped it into a froth. “Why, Mr. Hewitt, I thought a good Northerner like yourself and the Quincys would certainly be abolitionists.” Although Elise wasn’t well-educated on the slavery debate, recently everyone was talking about the skirmishes in Kansas between those who opposed slavery and those who were for it.
“Of course, we’re abolitionists.” Mr. Hewitt looked at her warily. “The Quincys have never owned slaves and never will.”
“Is that really true, Mr. Hewitt?”
He puffed out his chest. “It is most certainly true.”
“With the long hours, low wages, and difficult work, we women might as well be your slaves.”
The room became so silent that Elise could hear the distant hammering of the construction workers above the bubbling of the soapy water in the copper pots. The Engle sisters had halted their work and were staring at Elise with wide eyes.
Mr. Hewitt’s boyish expression turned sullen. “Well, Miss Neumann, if you think you’re being treated like a slave, then I have the perfect solution for you.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“You may pack your bag and leave on the next train.” He made folding motions with his hand that would have made her smirk under normal circumstances. But the reality of what she’d just done hit her with the force of a steam whistle blowing its top.
She’d just gotten herself fired.
Thornton knew he was being a coward, hiding away in his office whenever the newly hired women employees came around the depot. But he wasn’t ready to face Elise yet. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to tell her the truth, that they could only be friends. He was afraid if he saw her, he might do something stupid, like pull her into his arms and kiss her again, which would only complicate the situation even more.
Besides, he didn’t want to see the hurt and disappointment on her face when he apologized for leading her on. She was sure to be heartbroken. And it would all be his fault. He should have been more careful during the train ride to keep an appropriate distance from her, instead of leading her to believe there could be more between them.
He stared at the open ledger in front of him and flapped his pencil back and forth. His windowless office was stuffy and dark and depressing. The flickering light of the oil lamp on the cloudy day didn’t cheer him. Neither had Hewitt’s news that Quincy now had more construction projects than Bradford’s town of Wellington to the north.
Instead he shoved away from his desk and stood, stretching his arms toward the ceiling and holding in a yawn. He’d stayed up too late reading one of the books he’d purchased when he was back in New York City. This one was a first edition of Institutes of Christian Religion by John Calvin, an excellent addition to his rare-book collection.
“Time for another cup of coffee,” he mumbled and reached for the mug on his desk. The black liquid at the bottom was thick with coffee grounds.
If only Mrs. Gray could make a pot of coffee worthy of being called by the name. What was it about train depot coffee, anyway? In all his stops, he couldn’t think of one place that actually had decent coffee. Did the stationmasters have a conspiracy to make travelers’ lives miserable? Maybe they were having a contest among themselves to see which depot could serve the worst coffee?
He ambled out of his office, nodded at Mr. Gray. Tall and thin, with a smattering of gray in his beard and mustache, the stationmaster was writing in the ledgers spread out before him, keeping meticulous notes of the number of passengers, wagons, income, and a myriad of other details. With Mr. Gray’s years of experience running stations in rural New York, Thornton was grateful he’d been willing to transfer to Quincy so quickly.
Thornton moved past the ticket counter into the deserted waiting room. Only the room wasn’t deserted. A lone woman sat on one of the benches with a bag at her feet. In contrast to the scuffed leather of her worn boots, the bright blue and gold of her fancy bag seemed out of place.
When his ga
ze traveled up to the woman’s profile, to the pert nose and chin, his heart gave an extra beat. “Elise?” Her name fell out before he could stop it.
She turned abruptly, causing her long hair to swish. He’d never seen her with her hair outside of a coiled braid. Now it fell in thick waves over her shoulders and down her back. The damp blond was a shade darker as though she’d recently washed it, and it was simply breathtaking. When her blue eyes connected with his, he couldn’t speak past the tightness in his lungs.
Although he’d tried over the past days not to feel anything for her, all at once his longing for her came rushing back like a wave that couldn’t be contained. In person, she was so vibrant and fresh and beautiful and alive, he wanted to be with her. Just the sight of her made him forget every objection he’d had to spending time with her.
“Hi,” he said, not caring that he was grinning like a young boy experiencing his first crush. “How are you?”
She didn’t return his smile. In fact, her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared before she lifted her chin and looked away from him. “I’m doing splendidly.”
Her words were icy. And he caught the hint of sarcasm in her pronunciation of the word splendidly. His grin faltered. He followed her gaze to the clock behind the ticket counter. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. Shouldn’t she be working? “What are you doing here at the depot?”
“Oh, I’m sitting here because I haven’t had the chance yet to test out the benches.”
He arched a brow. “And do they meet your specifications?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to sit here for at least two more hours before I’ll be able to tell.”
His attention returned to the clock. If the Chicago-bound train coming north was on time today, that meant it would be arriving around five. In two hours. He glanced again to her bag, to her coat, to her hat on the bench beside her.
“You aren’t leaving, are you?” he asked, a strange urgency forming in his gut.
“Whatever gave you the idea I’d ever want to leave this little paradise?”
He glanced at her bag again. “Then you’re not going?”
She blew out an exasperated breath. “Yes, of course I’m going. On the five o’clock train.”
The panic in his stomach swelled. “But you just got here. I thought you needed the work.”
“I need paid work. Not slave labor.”
“Slave labor?” What was she talking about? Hewitt had mentioned that he’d placed Elise with the two washerwomen, even though they didn’t technically need her help. His assistant indicated it was an easy job for Elise, since the other two women were tough and experienced and could carry most of the weight of the work. Thornton had assumed it was an ideal situation for her, that she wouldn’t be overly taxed and tired.
“Why don’t you talk to your slave driver?” She tossed a nod toward the door, where Hewitt was entering, his notebook in one hand and his pencil in the other. He was studying his figures and notes and hadn’t noticed Thornton standing in the middle of the depot.
“Hewitt,” Thornton called.
The young man looked up with a jerk of his head. “Sir?”
“What’s this I hear about you being a slave driver?”
“I-I don’t understand . . . what do you mean, sir?”
“Apparently, Miss Neumann feels as though she’s being treated like a slave.”
The man’s sights dropped to Elise. His confusion was wiped away with a scowl. “Oh. Her. Don’t mind her. She’s just sore because I fired her.”
Thornton’s racing heartbeat came to a standstill. “You fired her?” His tone came out harsher than he intended, causing Hewitt’s eyes to widen.
“Yes, sir. She was complaining about the work and her pay. I addressed the problem swiftly and severely to teach all our employees a lesson that we expect them to work hard without complaint.”
Elise snorted. “The only lesson you taught was just how inconsiderate and unjust the Quincys are. But I guess that should come as no surprise, should it?” Her eyes spit accusations at Thornton.
So his identity was no longer a secret. Somehow she’d learned who he really was. He should have guessed she would eventually. In some ways he was relieved the truth had come out.
“The Quincys treat their employees just as well, if not better, than almost anyone else,” Hewitt said. “You should have realized just how lucky you were that Mr. Quincy hired you in the first place.”
“Lucky?” Her voice rose. “Lucky to work fourteen hours every day? Lucky to work in the heat and the steam and with the lye that chafes my hands until they bleed?” She held up one of her hands and revealed red, chapped skin that was cracked in numerous places.
At the sight, Thornton’s stomach clenched. He started to reach for her hand, but she rapidly returned it to her coat pocket.
“Lucky I’ll have to work for months before I get myself out of debt to the Quincys? Lucky I won’t have a single penny to send home to my sisters to help them?”
With each of her assertions, Thornton’s dismay swelled.
She stood, shoved her shoulders back, and faced Hewitt with all her wrath. “Exactly how lucky am I, Mr. Hewitt? Why don’t you tell me what I have here to be so grateful for?”
“You had a job,” Mr. Hewitt insisted.
“A job that will kill me before I can pay off my debts.”
“It’s a job.” Hewitt’s tone brooked no further argument. “Any number of women out east would trade places with you in an instant if given the chance.”
“Then let them.” She plopped back onto the bench and reached for her carpetbag. Thornton caught the faint tremor in her hand before her fingers closed around the handle and she tucked the bag closer to her legs.
“We didn’t need you anyway,” Mr. Hewitt said. “You were an added expense we simply can’t afford.”
Thornton shook himself free of the sickening sense of surprise that had held him captive during the exchange between Elise and Hewitt. Was she speaking the truth about how unbearable the work conditions were? In the short times he’d spent with her, he hadn’t taken her for the type of woman to exaggerate a situation. She was a proud woman, and he suspected she’d downplay her hardships rather than try to win sympathy from others.
She’d certainly been desperate to consider leaving her family to venture into the unknown. He’d witnessed her sorrow during the trip. She wouldn’t have left her siblings if she’d had any other choice. So to allow herself to be fired? From her new job? The first week of her employment?
Something was wrong. And he needed to get to the bottom of the predicament.
“Mr. Hewitt,” he said, cocking his head toward his office, “I’d like a word with you alone.”
Hewitt hesitated.
Thornton began striding toward the ticket counter. “Now.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man scurried after him.
For the next quarter of an hour, Thornton stood in his office listening to Hewitt describe his encounter with Elise earlier in the day. From the way Hewitt described Elise, she was nothing more than a greedy jezebel who wanted a handout rather than working hard for her wages.
Yet, after a perusal of Hewitt’s detailed notes regarding the hours and pay scale for the women, Thornton could understand Elise’s frustration. How could she help her sisters if she would remain in debt to him for months?
“Can we not pay the women more?” Thornton asked.
Hewitt shook his head. “Part of the reason we hired them was because they provided a cheaper source of labor, which allows us to invest in other things—like the schoolhouse.”
Thornton could perhaps waive their train fare for the ride to Quincy. It was the least he could do. Quincy Enterprises and its railroads didn’t charge the Children’s Aid Society for the children they brought west for placing out. They could do the same for the women, couldn’t they?
He rubbed a hand across his eyes and tried to wipe away the weariness. The blast of t
he train whistle told him the southbound train was arriving. It wasn’t Elise’s train. Thankfully. But the screech of metal against metal reminded him he had to figure out something for Elise or she would be gone from Quincy and out of his life all too soon. And he wasn’t ready to let her go. Not yet—even though a part of him warned that hanging on to her would only complicate matters.
Hewitt pushed his spectacles up on his nose and glanced toward the door. He needed to take inventory of the new supplies arriving.
“Go on,” Thornton said, letting his shoulders sag. “But our conversation isn’t over. Clearly we need to come up with a better plan for the women.”
“Very good, sir.” Hewitt gave a salute, but it lacked conviction. Then he exited the office and strode toward the back door of the depot.
Only a few passengers were getting off. Quincy didn’t have much to entice any travelers to linger, not even a savory depot meal or pleasant cup of coffee. Thornton had to change that somehow, someway if he hoped to make Quincy successful. But for now, he simply had too many other issues demanding his attention.
One young man hurried across the platform and yanked open the depot door. When he stepped inside, he started toward the ticket counter with a purposeful gait. His tired, sun-bronzed face was set with resolve.
At the sight of the young man, Elise jumped up and called out, “Reinhold?”
The man halted so abruptly he almost tripped over his own feet. He swiveled toward Elise, and every trace of tiredness left his face. His eyes rounded, and a smile of such relief lit his face that Thornton guessed him to be family.
“Praise Gott,” the young man said, starting toward Elise with long strides that echoed all the determination in his expression.
“Reinhold!” she said again, then ran toward the man and flung herself into his arms.
A sharp pang sliced into Thornton’s chest. He’d expected Elise to react to him that way, like she had when they’d parted at the depot in Chicago. But she’d been anything but happy to see him.
