by Rue Allyn
When he lifted his head, her breathing was as ragged as his. He saw flame in her green eyes.
His entire body blazed with longing.
He stood with his arms around her, held motionless by her astonished gaze. He relived the kiss for all the long moments he held her.
Too soon she slid from his arms. He took her fingers in his, lifted them, and kissed each one in slow succession.
“I believe I’ve made my point.”
She snatched her hands from his and put three paces between them. “You made your point? What exactly was your point? That I am defenseless before a man’s brute strength? That a woman’s needs must always come second to a man’s desires?”
“Yes. No.” He thrust his hands through his hair. “I meant to impress upon you that my feelings are a far cry from pity. That our marriage might even be pleasant.”
“You will forgive me if I fail to find your proof sufficient reason to accept your proposal.” The color in her face flared with her temper.
Confusion and hurt twisted in his chest. “What do you want, Mae? Declarations of undying love? We’ve known each other less than two weeks. Were I to make such a declaration, you would know it for a lie. I won’t deceive you no matter how much it might soothe your vanity.”
She trembled before him. Was it fear or ire’s strength? Her hand rose, fisted then fell to her side. Pressing her lips together, she turned and fled.
The scent of violets lingered in the air. How had he managed to make such a disaster out of something as simple as a kiss? Lydia had called him a fool for bungling his first proposal. He’d followed his aunt’s advice, applying the full force of his experience, and his meek little kitten had transformed into a lioness. The initial part of their interview had given him hope. He was happy to see her in better spirits, interested in something that would take her away from the manse and the memories there. Giving her permission to make small changes at Alden Cloth Works had pleased her, which delighted him. So he’d sought to please her again—and himself as well—with a kiss intended to remove any idea that he pitied her. The result had been explosive, an incendiary pleasure that he’d never experienced with any other woman. Then he’d made that stupid remark. I believe I’ve made my point.
Mae had obviously taken offense, despite his good intentions. She ignored all the evidence of her own response to his kiss. Well, he would not ignore it. In fact, he would make good use of that weakness. What he would not do would be to crow and strut when she surrendered and handed him his victory. Between her tender heart and physical passions, he would design a strategy guaranteed to win her to him and keep them both in delight for years to come.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mae and her party arrived at Alden Cloth Works on the bank of the Charles River promptly at half past nine the next morning. The mill manager was unavailable, but the assistant manager, Mr. Edwin Fitzwalter, escorted the group through the warehouse where the finished cloth was stored before shipping. They inspected the quality of the goods and the storage conditions as well as invoices for a variety of orders. Then Fitzwalter took them to his office.
Mae smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzwalter. Now I would like to see the manufactory.”
The man paled beneath his swarthy complexion. “Begging your pardon, Miss Alden, you don’t want to do that.”
“Why ever not?”
“The manufactory is no place for a lady. It’s dirty, and the workers are low people. Their speech and behavior are nothing for a lady to observe. I’m sure Mr. Damato would agree.” He cast a glance of appeal for support from the only other man present.
“Well, uh…” Glancing from Fitzwalter to Mae and back, Vincent seemed nonplussed.
While he dithered, Mae’s eyes narrowed, but she forced her smile to brighten then bolstered her courage with thoughts of her sisters and the certainty that she was right in her request. From years spent teaching millworkers and their children to read, she knew Fitzwalter was wrong. They may not have had all the advantages of birth and a superior education, but the employees were honest, industrious folk. “The cloth I saw in the warehouse seemed clean.”
“That’s right,” Lalie concurred.
“Oh yes. We take the greatest care to ensure that our products are shipped in the very best condition.”
“Then where does the dirt come from?” asked Mae.
“The workers, ma’am, and the engines and the cotton itself—together they produce sufficient dust and grime to ruin your fine dress.”
Her dress was of black twill. If he thought that fine then he shouldn’t be in the cloth making industry. He was obviously trying to appease her, as she’d often flattered Grandfather to forestall his temper. Was the assistant afraid for his job?
“Perhaps, Fitzwalter, you could explain why the workers are a problem,” Vincent finally suggested with a lofty tone.
“Well, none have any manners to speak of, and they might stare rudely. Most of them are orphans, immigrants or former farm women who need work so they can supplement family incomes. We have a few men, crude louts, who are hired to do heavy lifting as well as maintain the engines and water wheels. However, none of the workers have much idea of cleanliness. Beyond refusing to allow them inside the manufactory, if they arrive in too filthy a condition, we can’t do much besides requiring that they wash their hands before touching any materials.”
“Hmmm,” mused Mae. “I would find the engines objectionable because—”
“Oh, those are housed in a separate building due to the oil required to keep the parts moving and the coal used as backup when more power is needed than the river wheels can supply.”
“Does that happen often?”
“As often as we have large orders to fill on short notice. So yes, quite frequently, in fact.”
“I understand the mill operates for twelve to fourteen hours a day.”
“Yes, Miss Alden.”
“When you have large orders on short notice, do you increase the number of hours that the mill operates?
“Oh absolutely.”
“Must all the workers stay until the mill stops running?
“Most of them, yes. Though, on occasion we have put on a second shift. Having workers collapse from exhaustion would slow production.”
Lalie exchanged an empathetic glance with Mae while Vincent examined his nails, apparently uninterested in the topic, despite statements to the contrary made yesterday.
Mae kept her smile in place, though she wished she could bash Fitzwalter’s teeth in. Production seemed to be all he cared about. “Do you increase their pay when they stay longer hours?”
He shook his head emphatically. “Heavens no. We are very responsible with funds and run an extremely efficient operation. Mr. Alden never had cause to complain of a loss in profits because we overpaid workers.”
She bit her tongue on her outrage for the workers. “Just out of curiosity, how much are the manufactory employees paid?”
The daily wage he named wouldn’t buy a turnip, let alone pay the rent on a flat or feed a family of four.
“Thank you for explaining. Despite your concerns, I would like to tour the manufactory and will absolve you of any responsibility should your warnings prove accurate.” She looked him up and down, noting his pristine suit of broadcloth. “I notice your clothing has not suffered from being inside the manufactory. You do go there in the course of your work?”
The assistant manager’s neck reddened. “It wouldn’t do for me to greet dignitaries like you in grimy clothes. All of the management personnel wear smocks when inside the production buildings or engine rooms.”
“Yet the workers are not provided smocks?” queried Lalie.
The man blinked in surprise. “They are workers, miss.”
“Ah.” Mae’s tone implied an agreement she didn’t feel. “Please provide me and my friends with smocks, then guide us through every building.”
“But that will take hours.”
She raised a
brow. “Is that a problem? Perhaps I should wait for the manager to return.”
“No need. I’ll have smocks brought within five minutes.”
“Excellent. I will be certain to mention to the manager how helpful you’ve been.”
He paled again but said nothing, simply leaving the office. He returned in less than five minutes with smocks for all of them.
Once armored against dust and dirt, they set out on their tour. Fitzwalter led them through a number of storage rooms. Every space was packed to overflowing with goods to be shipped or production supplies. Surely the excess meant that production was up, which had to be good. Satisfied that she would see an efficiently run facility, Mae followed the assistant manager into the yard.
There her satisfaction fled. She hadn’t expected to see men, women and children with haggard faces and gaunt bodies in ragged clothing. Every worker pulled, pushed or carried some load nearly twice his or her size. The workers managed to dodge each other and the heaps of broken crates, rumpled papers and loose scraps of balled cotton dotting the yard at irregular intervals.
“They should have uniforms,” whispered Lalie. “Our housemaid would not use those rags to mop the scullery floor.”
“They cannot be expected to labor in silks and satins,” muttered Vincent. “They are just workers after all.”
Vincent’s continued ambivalence disturbed Mae.
Lalie seemed upset as well. “Work clothing must be good, sturdy material that protects—not rags that expose a worker to cuts and bruises.”
“Lalie has an excellent point,” Mae agreed. “Since this is a cloth manufactory, uniforms could become a walking advertisement for Alden products.”
“That makes sense,” Vincent murmured.
The three fell silent—the closer they got to the main factory buildings, the louder grew the machinery noise. “Don’t you have wagons or carts to help your workers move things?” Mae pitched her voice to be heard above the din.
Fitzwalter shook his head. “The yard is too small to allow for wagons. Also in the time taken to load a handcart, a worker could carry twice the material from storage to the manufactory and vice versa.”
A little less hurry would be better than allowing workers to break their backs. She kept her thoughts to herself. She wanted to see everything, and if he imagined she disapproved, the assistant manager might call a halt to the tour.
The heat of the day intensified in the crowded space, aggravating the stench of massed bodies and the acrid odor of burning fuel. Mae fanned her face with a hand and searched the sky. High walls prevented the smallest breeze from cooling the cobbles, and no tree overhung the barriers to provide shade. In a far corner near the river, a huge smokestack rose in the air and belched black clouds. Occasionally sparks would shoot upward then dissipate while falling toward the earth like the dull cousins of fireworks.
Simply crossing the yard was thirsty work, and she searched for a pump or rain barrel.
“Don’t you provide water for the workers?” asked Lalie.
“No work would ever get done. Water is not available in the yard. However, we keep buckets in each of the machine rooms. Those buckets are replenished every morning.”
Mae swallowed. How did the workers stand that? Withholding water for hours on end was cruel. “What, then, do they drink, and when?”
“Most of them bring small beer or jugs of tea and sip that when their work permits. They also bring their meals, which are taken in shifts outside in the yard.”
Mae kept her expression neutral, but inside she grimaced. At least the employees didn’t completely starve on the job.
While Fitzwalter droned on explaining this or that arrangement of supplies, she contemplated ways to provide healthful food and drink to the workers.
A cry of pain cut through the clatter and noise. Looking in the direction of the sound, Mae saw a young woman lying beside a two-wheeled handcart loaded with large baskets of cloth. Her skirt was caught in the spokes of one wheel.
“Are y’ daft?” Fury distorting his face, the man pushing the cart moved toward the woman. “Watch where y’re goin’ y’ stupid besom, or next time I’ll trample y’ on purpose and kick y’ fer good measure.”
It wasn’t until he ripped the cloth from the spokes, then hurried back to grasp the cart’s handles and move on that Mae realized he’d no intention of helping the young woman.
As fast as possible, Mae and Lalie pushed through the swarming workers, all of whom ignored the woman weeping on the ground.
“Are you hurt?” Mae knelt by the woman’s side. “Can you stand?”
“Here, you,” Fitzwalter shouted after the departing man. “Where did you get that cart? You know such things are not allowed in the yard.”
The man stopped and turned, doffing his cap. “Ah’m sorry, sur. I got a bum knee and wanted to keep up wi’ t’ other men. I’ll get rid o’ the cart.”
“Excellent.” The assistant manager made a dismissive wave, then shifted to shout at the fallen woman. “Look at this mess you’ve made.”
More girl than woman, the worker shook her head and looked up at Mae. “I di’n’t mean t’ spill anythin’, miss. I couldna see past the load of cloth I was carryin’.”
“Help me get her up,” Mae instructed Vincent, who’d finally managed to stroll his way through the stream of workers. He obeyed with ill grace. Mae and Lalie gathered the damaged cloth goods, while Fitzwalter looked on.
“Let me take the cloth,” said Lalie. “Vincent, escort this young miss to one of those empty rooms we saw. I’ll follow and help her use clean scraps of this cloth to repair her skirt.”
“I must object.”
Ignoring Fitzwalter’s protest, Mae turned back to the girl. “Go with my friends. They’ll help you so you may return to work.” She watched the three leave, wanting to be certain the girl hid no injury.
“Ahem,” Fitzwalter cleared his throat. “She’s ruined valuable cloth, Miss Alden. Company policy demands…”
She never heard the rest. As soon as the girl was out of hearing range, Mae turned on Fitzwalter. “I don’t care if God himself demands otherwise, you will not reprimand that girl for an accident. She is not at fault for the damaged goods, sir. The management is responsible for failing to provide a safe environment. Take care of your workers, and they will take care of your goods.”
The assistant manager’s face turned red. “You dare to tell me how to run a manufactory?”
“I dare to tell you how to be a charitable human being. I will take this subject up later with the manager. Now let us proceed. My friends will rejoin us at the earliest opportunity.”
• • •
“Thank you for guiding us through the mill, Mr. Fitzwalter. We would like to see the manager now.” Mae spoke with clenched teeth to hold back the anger that threatened to spill from her lips. A dog shouldn’t have to work in conditions like those in the mill.
“Mr. Willard Carver doesn’t like to be disturbed, Miss Alden.”
Mae followed Lalie’s worry-free example. “He works for the Alden estate, which includes speaking with me. Now will you take us to him, or shall we find him on our own?”
The idea of three unsupervised persons wandering around the manufactory seemed to horrify the man. “By all means. This way.”
In less than five minutes they sat in a well-appointed office—almost as elaborately decorated as her grandfather’s—being offered a modest tea of lemon cakes and oolong.
Carver wore an elegantly tailored suit over his plump frame, a silk vest and matching four-in-hand. Several rings adorned his stubby, greasy fingers.
She stared at the plate he extended to her and debated whether or not to accept his offering. Oily was the only word to describe Mr. Willard Carver. The sheen on his hair and skin was exceeded only by his unctuous manner. Mae shook her head.
“Thank you, no, sir. The tea will suffice.” She sipped at the oolong, which turned out to be of the best quality. Then she gave th
e lemon cakes a sidelong glance—her decision had come at no little cost to her empty stomach. Pray heaven it wouldn’t announce her hunger to the world and embarrass her as both crude and a liar.
The manager resumed his seat behind the desk and glanced at a small stack of sealed envelopes on the corner of the cherry wood behemoth. “I regret I was unable to guide you on your tour of the manufactory, but I had appointments and then urgent letters that required attention.” He tapped the envelopes. “The exigencies of a manager’s responsibilities, as I am sure you understand.”
He obviously wanted her to know she was less important than a few as yet unmailed letters.
She met Lalie’s encouraging gaze, then Mae lifted the corners of her mouth, hoping he would take the show of her teeth as a smile and not the attempt to hold back her remarks that it was. “Since you are so busy, I will come straight to the point. The conditions I saw in the mill are appalling. The environment is unsavory. The heat is excessive, and cotton dust clogs the air the workers must breathe. The machinery is dangerously sharp. I cannot imagine how you would even allow a child into the same room as those pincers, let alone force one to put his hands anywhere near such hazards. I saw chains on the ankles of some of the younger children. How dare you, sir? They are not slaves.”
With every word she spoke, Carver’s color increased, until she feared he would suffer an apoplexy in front of her.
“I’m certain Miss Alden merely wants to understand the manufactory operations better,” said Vincent.
Mae stared at the younger man. Was he trying to protect her from Carver’s obvious anger at the workers’ expense?
Carver ignored the interruption. “Miss Alden. The concern of you and your friends for the welfare of the lower orders is admirable but misplaced. You know little to nothing about the making of cloth or managing large numbers of laborers. In addition, you are not the owner of this mill. Thus, I feel no obligation to explain how we operate this manufactory other than to inform you that our equipment is of the most efficient design and our employment practices are all within the law.”
