Reluctant Brides Collection

by Cathy Marie Hake

“I made my sisters dolls last Christmas. I still have the papers I used as a pattern.” Isabel knelt by the small oak chest of drawers all four of them shared and searched for the pattern she’d made. For a moment, her heart ached to cuddle her sisters again. It had been two long years since she’d seen them, but she couldn’t spare the dollar it would take to travel home and back again. The thick packet of letters in the drawer testified to the passage of time and served as a reminder that Mama loved her and needed her help.

  A glittering gold ribbon wrapped around the letters. Grandma carried that ribbon in her bridal bouquet, and Mama did, too. By rights, Isabel’s older sister should have gotten the ribbon; but Hannah and Abe surprised everyone in church one day by standing up and asking the parson to wed them. Hannah carried no bouquet to tie with the cherished ribbon. She’d happily pledged her vows and gone home to live in the little cottage on the outskirts of the village where her husband sharecropped.

  Last Christmas, Mama sent the precious ribbon with a sweet, sweet letter—she’d apologized she hadn’t managed to scrape together a few cents for a gift, but postage would add on a cost she could ill afford. Instead, she’d tucked her beloved ribbon of gold into the letter with the pledge to pray for Isabel as the sun’s first rays streaked the morning sky.

  Each time Isabel touched that ribbon, she felt close to her family. Her three little sisters and Mama would need her to send money home for many years to come. Isabel’s heart grew heavy when she realized she probably wouldn’t ever carry the ribbon in a bridal bouquet.

  Chapter 3

  Carter pulled his thick, black wool greatcoat tighter and headed across the courtyard toward the office. The five o’clock bell chimed, calling the employees to work. He hoped Jefford would be self-indulgent enough to sleep a bit later. After all, the last thing Carter wanted was for the overseer to hover while he examined the books.

  Last evening, Carter’s mother expressed her irritation when he stated his plan to return to the mill again today. “Your father paid others to see to that. So do you. Indeed, you pay them exceedingly well. The profits are such that we’ve been able to live comfortably. Stay home. Belinda Atherton and her daughters are coming to tea tomorrow.”

  Another good reason to be at the mill. Carter had hastily turned down the invitation.

  He left the house early, before his mother could involve him in her matrimonial machinations. Her idea of a suitable wife revolved around wealth and breeding. She’d be delighted to match him with a brainless, simpering girl whose only interests were shopping and attending soirees. Carter wanted nothing to do with a “biddable” socialite; he had more important issues to mind. Mother, bless her compassionate soul, would understand—especially if he went home for supper tonight and shared with her his plan to wait on God’s timing instead of rushing to the altar. At the present, cotton—not courtship—demanded his attention.

  Virtually nothing had changed since he left except that Jefford ran the mill even more harshly. Carter and his father parted on less-than-comfortable terms. Father felt betrayed when Carter stated he fully understood and supported the mill workers in Lowell, who went on strike and took other actions to protest low wages, long hours, and poor working conditions. His father’s anger rose even higher when Carter stated that he held similar concerns about Steadman Textiles. Mother soothed Father’s fury by suggesting Carter merely hadn’t enough knowledge of the world to understand the situation. They’d sent him to Europe with the expectation he’d go on a Grand Tour, rub elbows with idle, rich young men, and come to see the benefits of his station in life. Instead, he’d spent his time visiting other textile factories and making notes of techniques and labor management.

  When he received word that his father died at a card table from a violent heart spell, Carter knew the time had come for him to return to Eastead. For all of Father’s wealth, he’d not been able to take a cent to his grave. Carter mourned the fact that his father stayed so busy seeking wealth, he’d never sought the Lord. The young man resolved to set a different course for his own life.

  Then, too, Carter felt a heavy burden weighing down on his shoulders. It fell to him to recompense his father’s wrongs. God was the God of justice. The Bible clearly warned the sins of the father were visited upon the son. Aware he bore the responsibility of making restitution and appeasing God’s pending wrath, Carter vowed to do all that was in his power to cancel the curse and receive God’s blessing.

  The office building door was unlocked, so Carter pushed it open and hastily lit an oil lamp on the small table beside the door. Half a dozen strides carried him to the bookkeeper’s office. He inserted a key into the lock and let himself in. He’d not let Jefford know he possessed a key. At first, he’d been willing to believe the overseer had tried to be a diligent steward of the responsibilities he carried. Now, he couldn’t be sure the overseer warranted his trust, so until he inspected the books and records, Carter chose to keep some matters to himself. The moment Jefford arrived today, he’d realize the new Steadman owner held keys—but by then it would be too late to doctor the financial records.

  Carter put the lamp on the corner of the cherrywood desk and took a seat. For the next two hours, he pored over the books. Indeed, the records showed impressive business accomplishments—Steadman Textiles averaged six million yards of cloth each year. Carter knew a pound of cotton yielded three and one-fifth yards and that a bale of raw cotton usually weighed 361 pounds. Quickly scribbling on a nearby slate and using those facts, he checked the figures in the ledgers. Indeed, everything checked out as it ought.

  Heavy footsteps made him aware he’d soon have company. Carter turned around in time to catch sight of the mill’s overseer as he crossed the plank floor with a lumbering gait.

  “Mr. Steadman! Had I known you wished to review the books, I’d have brought you here yesterday.” Harlan Jefford gave him a brisk nod as he peeled out of his stylish, heavy wool coat.

  “I appreciated the tour you gave me. I didn’t want to take more of your time while I went through the mundane matters.”

  “I do my best to see to each and every detail.” Having hung his coat on a brass wall hook, Jefford stepped over to the desk and jabbed a beefy finger toward the ledger. “The books prove it. Even after your father died, I kept the mill going and made sure it brought in just as much as when he’d been here to inspect the finances.”

  “There’s no doubt Steadman Textiles turns a remarkable profit. Your zeal is noteworthy.” Carter watched his overseer’s chest puff out with pride. Sweeping changes would no doubt irk this arrogant man. That didn’t matter. Carter had taken the reins, and he wasn’t about to let someone else decide on the path. “As you’re so capable, I’m counting on you to help make the changes go smoothly.”

  “Changes?” Jefford’s shoulders stiffened.

  Carter gestured toward a hard-backed chair. “This is a good time to outline the reorganization. Have a seat.”

  Shaking his head sagely, the overseer dragged the chair across the plank floor. Its legs scraped in loud protest, then the seat creaked under his considerable weight. He leaned back and jutted his chin toward the desk. “Those books show Steadman Textiles is turning the best profit it ever has—far and away above what the other mills are doing. Tampering with a good system isn’t wise.”

  Carter stared at him.

  Jefford shifted uncomfortably. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you’ve been gone a good long while. I mean you no disrespect. Give yourself a month or so to get a feel for how things run around here. No need to rush into things.”

  “Your concern is duly noted,” Carter said in a soft tone that would have warned anyone who knew him that he was doing his utmost to rein in his temper.

  Jefford’s head bobbed, and a patronizing smile accompanied his next words. “Your father and I built a good system here. He approved of how I run things.”

  “My father and I disagreed on some of those issues. I am now the owner. I expect your full loyalty and
cooperation.” Carter closed the ledger, having seen enough. He stared straight at the overseer and watched the man’s jaw tighten and his face grow florid. He didn’t know Jefford well enough to guess whether the reaction indicated wounded pride, frustration, or anger.

  “You know Steadman Textiles inside and out. You will be pivotal in instituting the revisions.”

  “No one knows the mill better.”

  Carter couldn’t be sure if Jefford had agreed with his praise or was making a point of stressing his own significance. “Several of the changes are beneath a man of your importance in the scheme of things around here.”

  Jefford tugged at his gold silk waistcoat. He looked more like a prosperous bank owner than a mill overseer. “Your regard does me proud, sir. I consider it my duty to keep on top of things—everything.”

  “Agreed. That’s why we’re meeting now.”

  “Things changed while you was away. Used to be farmers’ daughters who worked here. Nowadays, I get them Irish gals. More than a third of the workers are potato eaters.” A glint lit his eyes. “Willin’ to work for less, too.”

  “So that is why the pay dropped from $3.50 a week to $3.25?”

  “Ayuh.” A smug smile crossed Jefford’s face.

  “And you’re still charging $1.25 per week room and found.”

  “The boardinghouses are better than what those lasses ever had back home.” The overseer leaned forward. “Saving a quarter per worker each week adds up to a tidy sum. It boosted the profits. Your father came up with that notion himself.”

  “I am not my father.” The iron in Carter’s voice made it clear things would change. “Pay is to be brought back up to $3.50 a week, effective today.”

  Jefford’s eyes bulged. “For all but the Irish, right?”

  “For all of the women. The book of Ephesians says, ‘Now, therefore, you are no longer strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.’ I’ll not hold with treating the Irish women any differently than the others.”

  “If that’s what you order.”

  Though Jefford’s tone made it clear he disagreed with the decision, Carter didn’t care. He suspected the overseer wouldn’t be any happier with his next words. “There are other issues we need to address at once.”

  Chapter 4

  Mr. Jefford looks like he sat on a pincushion,” Kathleen whispered to Isabel as they gathered in the aisles of the weaving room.

  Isabel shot her a quicksilver smile, then turned her attention back to the overseer. Standing on an overturned salt box, he stuck out above all of the women’s scarved heads. His brows beetled into a dark vee, and he kept huffing like a steam engine coming up to speed. Never before had the women been ordered to gather for a meeting before the day began. If the overseer needed to make an announcement, he waited until mealtime so as not to lose a moment of labor.

  Hands on his hips, he clipped out loudly, “Henceforth, you will all tend only two machines…one machine for the new laborers for the first fortnight.”

  Isabel drew in a surprised breath. Only two looms?

  “That better not mean he’s cutting pay again,” the woman behind her grumbled.

  Oh, if it does, I won’t be able to send Mama enough to take care of everyone back home!

  “Rows One through Eighteen will work their usual stations, but Nineteen through Twenty-five are to fill in the gaps formed by the reduced responsibilities.”

  Mary let out a relieved sigh. Isabel grabbed her hand and squeezed it. They wouldn’t be separated.

  “Now get to work.” Jefford scowled and flapped his hands like he was shooing away a flock of pesky hens.

  Weaving felt different that morning. Isabel couldn’t decide what gave her the odd sensation her world had changed. Perhaps it was because she didn’t have to scurry madly about to tend three looms. She still needed to work at a steady pace, but even then, it almost felt like her job had slowed from a horse race to a hayride. Mayhap ’twas that her threads didn’t seem to break as often at this speed, so she didn’t have to tie as many weaver’s knots. Then, too, Pegeen now wove on her other side, and her cheeky smile had a way of lifting Isabel’s spirits.

  Midmorning, a pair of men came into the weaving room. Instead of leaving the windows closed as was customary, they opened each of them a few inches for almost an hour. The fresh air smelled and felt wonderful.

  As the women filed down the stairs on the outside of the building to go to dinner, Kathleen tilted her head toward the blackened brick walls. “Now can you beat that? All along, Mr. Jefford said the breeze would dry out the room and make the threads break. Hasn’t done anything at all.”

  “It blew out some of the hot oil and the thread’s stale potato starch smell.” Mary’s deep brown pelisse parted as she reached around to retie the length of pink-and-white-striped fabric that served as her new apron. “I’m ever so grateful.”

  “The air’s so wet from the snow, it couldn’t dry anything out,” Kathleen decided.

  “Hot and humid—that’s what they want,” one of the women behind them said. A smash piecer, she knew more about the weaving room than anyone else. “Get a room dry or cold, and the threads snap all over the place. What with the steam heater going, they could leave the windows open on days like this and we’d all be better off.”

  Isabel compressed her lips, then cast a look around. “I’m worried. If we’re not weaving as much fabric, then profits will fall. They’ll either pay us less or dismiss some of us.”

  “Saints preserve us! I hope not!” The woman in front of Isabel turned and gave her a stricken look. “I’m needin’ that money to fetch my sister here. I figured ’twould take me another four months to earn her passage. If they cut our wages…”

  “And the orphanage needs money,” Mary added. “Last night, Aunt Amy told me she expects me to keep a fair portion of my earnings, but if they drop our wages, I’m going to try to keep her from finding out. It costs a fair amount to feed all of us girls.”

  “Speaking of food,” Kathleen moaned, “I hope we get something better for lunch today. You know I’m not one to complain, but we used to eat well. They’re holding out the same dollar and a quarter each week for room and found, but the meals aren’t half as good as they used to be.”

  Isabel shuddered. “I agree. I know I ought to be thankful for a full plate, but they’re buying the cheapest food they can now. I couldn’t gnaw through the gristly meat in the stew last night.”

  “Aunt Amy makes such good food.” Mary sighed. “She didn’t get cross with me about my ruined dress. She just gave me a hug. I’m glad I still get to live at Kindred Hearts.”

  “Did you tell her about us making dolls for the girls for Christmas?” Isabel slipped into the dining hall and shed her cape.

  “Oh, yes! And Ginger is so sweet. She offered some of the yarn in her knitting bag so we could make hair. If you make the dolls and faces, we’ll match the hair for each of the girls.”

  “Oh, can’t you just see red looping curls on Patty’s or brown ones on Ruthie’s?” Isabel laughed as they all sat at the table. “We ought to match the color we embroider the eyes, then, too.”

  Moments later, the kind, dark-haired man from the previous day strolled over and stopped by the head of their table. He flashed an urbane smile. “I see you got an apron, Miss Mary.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you, sir!”

  Isabel paused a moment from passing a bowl of potatoes to Kathleen. She smiled at him. “And we thank you, too, for the fabric. We’ll be making lovely dolls.”

  “At the risk of being thought an eavesdropper, I’ll confess I overheard you discussing them. It occurred to me, you might need cotton to stuff the dolls. I delivered a roll of batting to your boardinghouse.”

  “How thoughtful of you!”

  “It was nothing. I’ll be here, moving the looms for the next week. Perhaps you could bring the first one in so I can see how she turns out.”

  “It’
s the least I could do,” Isabel murmured.

  Kathleen twisted around. “Moving looms? Why?”

  The man gave her a puzzled look for a moment. “I thought you’d been told we’re removing some of the looms.”

  “No.” Isabel gulped. “Is there a problem? Are the mills cutting back?”

  His hazel eyes darkened, and he clamped his lips together.

  “I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position, asking you to reveal your supervisor’s plans,” she stammered. “It’s just that we all count on every bit we earn. Most of the women here are trying to put by money to send a brother or son to school. Some are saving to bring a relative over from Ireland.”

  “I understand.” He nodded and cast a glance about the room.

  “That’s me,” one woman volunteered. “I’m bringing me sister over. We were hoping she’d find a job here at the mill when she came. Isabel—her mama’s a widow and has a flock of bairns back home, and Mary shares her pay wi’ the orphanage.”

  “God blesses those who see to the widows and orphans.” The man’s smile warmed enough to melt an icicle in an instant. “Put your trust in the Lord, ladies. He’ll provide.”

  Once he walked off, Isabel quickly finished dishing up her meal and ate. When she went down the center walkway in the mill, she spied the kind stranger in a knot of other workmen. Tall and broad shouldered as he was, he stood out even in their midst. Throughout the rest of the day, she caught occasional glimpses of the men through the swirling lint as they unbolted looms from the floor and dismantled them.

  If the mills were turning out less fabric, using fewer machines, and serving cheaper food, then Steadman Textiles must be in trouble. Before fear overtook her, Isabel thought, Trust in the Lord…. From the looks of things, she was going to have an opportunity to exercise her faith.

  Two days later, Carter looked to the side as he finished rolling up a blueprint. “Miss Isabel,” he said in greeting to the young woman who stood before him.