A Fragile Design

by Tracie Peterson

  Matthew strode toward the other side of the room, wondering how Evangeline Moody knew that Lilly was with child. He offered the glass of port to William Thurston, who stood staring out the sitting room window. ‘‘With all those buds on the trees, it appears we’re going to have an early spring,’’ Matthew said.

  William startled at the words, appearing embarrassed as he turned around. ‘‘I was deep in thought. I didn’t realize anyone was close at hand.’’

  ‘‘Quite all right,’’ Matthew replied. He waited only until William accepted the glass before turning away. He didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation with a man he didn’t trust—especially this one.

  John Farnsworth, the Englishman in charge of the print works operation at the Merrimack, grasped Matthew’s hand as he turned. ‘‘Good to see you, Matthew. It appears you’ve got things well in hand for tonight’s meeting.’’

  William Thurston glanced over his shoulder, his features contorted into a sneer. ‘‘If a mobcap and frilly apron are all that are required to have things well in hand, I’d say that Kirk’s lackey is certainly prepared.’’

  Matthew’s jaw clenched and he could feel the blood rising to his cheeks. Farnsworth gave a slight nod of his head as he took hold of Matthew’s elbow. ‘‘I believe there’s a more intelligent level of conversation across the room,’’ John said, tugging at Matthew’s arm. ‘‘Ignore him. He isn’t worth your time or trouble, and nobody here values his opinion. That’s why he’s been standing by himself since his arrival,’’ John said in a hushed voice.

  ‘‘I know,’’ Matthew replied. ‘‘But he’s so puffed up—full of conceit. I’d like to take him down a peg or two.’’

  John laughed. ‘‘That’s your youth speaking, my boy. There are more effective ways to deal with the likes of William Thurston.’’

  ‘‘Such as?’’

  John gave him a sly grin. ‘‘Pray for him. Let God deal with William Thurston. Men such as William want to be the center of attention. He’s insecure and angry. A fist won’t change his heart—only God can do that.’’

  ‘‘You’re right, of course, but I’m not certain I want God’s grace to shine down upon that man,’’ Matthew replied. ‘‘Perhaps you should pray for me, John.’’

  John slapped Matthew on the back. ‘‘I’ll be praying for the both of you. How’s that?’’

  ‘‘Gentlemen, I believe everyone is here. Shall we get started?’’ Kirk inquired as he strode into the room. There was no doubt Kirk Boott was in command. ‘‘We have several matters upon which to report, and then I’ll be glad to entertain any questions or new ideas.’’

  The account grew lengthy as Boott reported on the Merrimack, Hamilton, Appleton, and Lowell Mills, carefully explaining the profits and expenditures of each mill. ‘‘Of course, the Lowell Mill hasn’t been in production long enough to show a profit, but I believe it will do so more rapidly than any of our other mills. I believe Nathan’s strong encouragement to expand into rug production was another stroke of genius. Our fine friend and associate Tracy Jackson has given me several contacts for overseas buyers, and orders within the country are burgeoning.’’

  ‘‘Hear, hear!’’ a few men called out, while others applauded loudly.

  Matthew watched as Kirk basked in the adulation for a moment or two before continuing. ‘‘I’m certain you are all interested in hearing about our latest projects. I believe Matthew Cheever can give you a more detailed report on those ventures,’’ he said while motioning Matthew to his side. ‘‘As many of you know, I’m relying on Matthew more and more as we continue to expand.’’

  This was Matthew’s first opportunity to speak before the assembled group, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself or Boott. Thanking Kirk, he took his place and told the men that projections were on target for the Middlesex Mill to begin production in the fall. There were murmurs of approval from the group.

  ‘‘During your tour earlier today, I’m certain you noted that even with a particularly harsh winter, Hugh Cummiskey and his Irishmen have continued to make excellent progress on digging and laying stone for the new canals required to power the Suffolk and Tremont Mills. Those two mills remain on schedule to open in 1832. As our capable agent-in-residence, Mr. Boott, has pointed out, there is great demand for our products both overseas and here at home, particularly in the South. Not only for rugs but many of our other goods, as well. We plan to expand the production of our lightweight Negro cloth for our southern states as well as warmer climates overseas. The demand has been beyond our highest expectations,’’ Matthew acknowledged. ‘‘Although the weather sometimes causes us to become innovative in order to continue work on these new buildings and canals during the winter, I think you will all agree that we have prevailed and excellent progress is evident.’’

  Once again, resounding applause filled the room. Somewhat embarrassed by the ovation, Matthew nodded and took his seat. Kirk stood and moved forward, basking in the continuing applause.

  At length the room grew silent, and Kirk continued. ‘‘We’ve had a profitable six months, gentlemen, and I trust the next six months will prove even more to your liking. Your vision for expansion has given birth to a thriving community,’’ Kirk complimented. ‘‘Questions or comments?’’

  Tracy Jackson raised his lit cigar into the air. ‘‘You didn’t mention the Catholic church. I’m sure we’d all like to know how that’s progressing, Kirk.’’

  Boott nodded his head. ‘‘Hugh Cummiskey tells me the final work should be completed by summer’s end. He’s looking for an accomplished stonemason before finalizing the interior work. We’re planning to invite Bishop Fenwick to come from Boston the last Sunday in August to preside over the first Mass.’’

  ‘‘Just what we need—more Irish,’’ William Thurston called out from the far end of the room. ‘‘They’re swarming into Lowell faster than flies settle on manure, and Boott encourages them.

  He spends as much time trying to make Cummiskey happy as he does all the rest of us combined.’’

  An uncomfortable silence hung in the air for several long minutes before Tracy spoke. ‘‘I hear tell there’s been discussion around town in regard to the schools, Kirk. Apparently there are those who think a better education should be offered. . . .’’

  Kirk held up his hand. ‘‘I’ve heard the talk, but I understand the murmuring comes from only a small faction of townsfolk. I doubt there’s anything of consequence to concern us.’’

  ‘‘Any issues that impact the community will in turn impact the Associates. We don’t want to be caught unprepared. Matters such as this bear watching,’’ Tracy warned.

  Taking a sip of the expensive burgundy liquid in his glass, Kirk leaned against his carved walnut desk before speaking. ‘‘Rest assured, Tracy, that the best interests of the Associates are always foremost in my mind. I will personally keep abreast of this matter and give you my word that you will be well informed on this and all other matters of consequence.’’

  ‘‘Good enough! I can’t ask for any more than that. We all know you’re a man of your word.’’

  Matthew sighed a breath of relief. The exchange between Tracy Jackson and Kirk had ended amicably. Kirk had spoken in a quiet, even tone, maintaining his deportment and composure, though Kirk’s mounting anger at Jackson’s comments had been obvious to Matthew. Perhaps the others had not noticed.

  ‘‘I, for one, would like to get back to the problem of the Irish. If, as Mr. Boott purports, the Associates are always foremost in his mind, why has nothing been done to control their growth in this town?’’ William Thurston grumbled from the rear.

  Nathan Appleton turned in his chair and faced Thurston. ‘‘I don’t think anyone else in this room shares your intense passion to rid Lowell of the Irish, William. The remainder of us seem to be in accord. We realize that these men fill a need. They work hard, and they’re willing to perform the necessary manual labor that no one else is willing to undertake—at least none that we’r
e aware of. We are also keenly aware that the married Irishmen desire to live together with their families. I can’t fault a man for wanting his family nearby, although you seem to spend a great deal of time away from yours, William. By all appearances, you spend more time in Lowell than in Boston, which I am hard pressed to understand. Aside from pursuing problems with the Irish population, what is it you do here in Lowell?’’

  A chorus of laughter filled the room as a crimson-faced Thurston glowered. ‘‘Mark my words—one day you’re going to regret that you didn’t take this problem seriously. One day you’ll come to me, hat in hand, apologizing for your shortsightedness.’’ The venom-filled words echoed down the hallway as Thurston made a hasty departure out of the house, the front door slamming with a resounding thud.

  Matthew had no idea what might be going through Boott’s mind, but his own thoughts suggested that Thurston was a man to be watched. As Nathan Appleton noted, no one was really all that sure what Thurston did in Lowell. His many visits were apparently given to some purpose—but what?

  CHAPTER 6

  Daughtie pulled an initial-embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed it to her eyes. ‘‘I don’t think I’m ever going to become accustomed to the world’s ways,’’ she lamented. ‘‘You know I’m not one to complain, Bella, but these people move so rapidly. Everything is measured by speed, both at work and at home. I feel like a pig being slopped when I rush to the table for a meal; there’s no time for manners or even the slightest civility. Why, just this morning Margaret was so intent on forking the last serving of bacon that she reached across me, her elbow striking my cheek. Even worse, she didn’t take a moment to apologize! And the noise—at work it’s all the machines, and when we come home, everyone talks at once. There’s no peace, no time to reflect or meditate. Tell me—is this how you remember the world? Because if it is, I can’t imagine why you wanted to return.’’

  Bella squirmed on her chair and gave Daughtie a pensive look. ‘‘Life here in Lowell is very different from what I experienced with my family. But I was living on a small farm, not in the city. Living here is unusual for everyone, not just us. Each girl who comes here must go through an adjustment.’’

  Daughtie’s chin drooped and rested on her chest. ‘‘I don’t think I can adjust to this life,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I don’t like it here, Bella.’’

  Bella’s mind was racing. She didn’t want Daughtie returning to the Shakers, for although she liked Ruth and the other girls, they didn’t understand her—not like Daughtie. She lowered her voice to avoid being overheard. ‘‘Give yourself more time. It’s too soon to make a decision. Only yesterday the supervisor said that you and I were already the best weavers on the floor. Didn’t his words of praise make you feel good? And I was thinking that we could take some Scripture verses and tack them to our looms. I know the supervisor sometimes frowns upon reading material, but many of the girls have pages tacked to their machines. We can memorize Scripture while we work. It will make the time pass more quickly, don’t you think? And we’ll spend more time alone. We can go upstairs in the evening when no one else is there and talk quietly.’’ The words spilled out, tumbling over one another in a panicked staccato.

  ‘‘Please don’t be angry with me, Bella. I’ll stay a while longer, but I wanted you to know that I’m giving thought to returning to the Society,’’ Daughtie hesitantly replied. ‘‘But I do like your idea about the Scripture verses. We can copy some verses tonight and begin memorizing tomorrow.’’ She gave Bella a wistful smile.

  ‘‘That’s the spirit. In time, we might both find Lowell to be exactly what we’re looking for.’’

  ‘‘But what about Jesse?’’

  Daughtie’s question caused Bella to sober. ‘‘What about him?’’

  ‘‘Don’t you wonder what happened to him? I mean, you were to leave the Society together. Don’t you want to know why he didn’t appear—where he might be today?’’

  ‘‘I don’t really think about him, at least not much. Like I told you before, Daughtie, I wasn’t in love with Jesse. He thought he was in love with me, but if he couldn’t even follow through on our plans and leave the village with me, then why should I give his kind of love a second thought?’’

  A persistent knock sounded at the front door. ‘‘Would you see who’s at the door, Bella?’’ Miss Addie called from the kitchen.

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am,’’ Bella answered. ‘‘I’ll be right back,’’ she promised Daughtie as she rose from her chair.

  Obviously the three girls sitting in the parlor with their gentlemen callers couldn’t excuse themselves long enough to answer the door, Bella decided. A prick of irritation assailed her as she glanced at the giggling girls, all too self-involved to be bothered.

  Turning the knob, she gave the door a tug. ‘‘Yes?’’ she inquired a bit more curtly than planned.

  ‘‘Well, good evening to you, too. Apparently I’ve come at a bad time?’’

  Bella felt the heat rising in her cheeks. A young man of about twenty years stood before her. A mass of straight hair fell forward over his eyes as he removed his felt hat. Raking his fingers through the blond strands, he gave her a roguish grin.

  ‘‘Were you going to invite me in? Or do you prefer standing in the doorway?’’ he quickly added.

  Jumping back, Bella nearly lost her balance as she made way for the handsome gentleman caller. ‘‘I apologize for my rude behavior, sir. May I be of assistance?’’ she inquired formally, closing the door once he had entered the hallway.

  ‘‘Why, yes, thank you,’’ the man replied, bowing deeply from the waist in mock formality as he once again thrust his tousled hair off his brow. ‘‘Taylor Manning to speak with Miss Addie, if you please. And you are?’’

  ‘‘Bella—Arabella Newberry of New Hampshire. I’ll tell Miss Addie that you’ve come to call. She’s in the kitchen,’’ she replied, turning to make her way down the hallway.

  ‘‘Good. I’ll just follow along behind,’’ he replied. ‘‘Miss Addie won’t mind if I call on her in the kitchen.’’

  Bella could feel his towering presence matching her steps as he followed her through the parlor, past a wideeyedDaughtie sitting at the dining table, and into the kitchen. ‘‘Mr. Taylor Manning to see you, Miss Addie,’’ she announced as they entered the warm kitchen.

  Miss Addie twirled around to face them with damp gray curls clinging to her forehead. ‘‘Taylor! What a surprise. It’s early—I wasn’t expecting your uncle just yet.’’

  ‘‘That’s why I’ve come. Uncle John asked that I advise you of the fact that he’s going to be detained. We have a meeting of the Mechanics Association this evening—’’

  ‘‘Come in the parlor, Taylor. I don’t entertain guests in the kitchen,’’ Addie interrupted as she pulled off her apron and tucked a few stray strands of hair into place.

  Taylor hesitated. ‘‘I’ve come merely to deliver Uncle John’s message,’’ he insisted.

  ‘‘Tut, tut, I’ll hear none of that. Come along—you, too, Bella,’’ she clucked. ‘‘Come along, Daughtie,’’ she said, grasping her by the arm as they reached the dining room. Daughtie took her place behind Miss Addie, the three of them resembling a brood of chicks following a proud mother hen. ‘‘Make room, ladies and gentlemen,’’ Miss Addie commanded the girls and their guests already assembled in the parlor. ‘‘Daughtie and Bella, this is Mr. Taylor Manning. He’s John Farnsworth’s nephew and because he has an artistic flair, he’s been hired on to work on the fabric designs.’’ She looked at each of the young women and then offered, ‘‘Taylor, this is Miss Daughtie Winfield and Miss Bella Newberry.’’ The girls curtsied and Taylor bowed.

  Taking a seat, Addie nodded for her three followers to sit down. Folding her hands, she rested them in her ample lap and smiled at Taylor.

  ‘‘As I said, I’ve come to advise you that Uncle John has been detained. There’s a meeting of the Mechanics Association,’’ he said, pulling out his p
ocket watch and glancing at the time, ‘‘for which I certainly don’t want to be late. Uncle John has agreed to assist a group of us who will be scheduling some lectures in the near future.’’

  Margaret and Harriet ignored their visitors and immediately turned their full attention to Taylor, both of them obviously besotted with his confident behavior and strapping good looks. Bella found their behavior annoying.

  ‘‘The other men must value your opinion greatly if you’re assisting with such important matters,’’ Harriet fawned in a syrup-sweet tone.

  Margaret nodded. ‘‘You must be very worthy of their trust.’’ She batted her lashes and lowered her head in a coy manner. Bella had to admit this was not something she’d had to deal with in the Society. She had to smile at the very thought of Sister Mercy lowering her head and simpering for one of the Brethren.

  Taylor squared his shoulders and nodded. ‘‘Why, thank you,’’ he replied, tucking away his watch. ‘‘These lectures are of enormous value to the men. They aid us in keeping abreast of current topics of importance. There’s absolutely no way of evaluating how much good these lectures and the library are accomplishing for the men, but I must say that I’m proud to be a part of this noble venture.’’

  ‘‘These lectures you speak of—are they only for the men, or may we attend also?’’ Bella asked as she perched on the edge of her chair. She’d opened her mouth almost before she’d given herself a chance for thought.

  The room grew silent. All of them, save Daughtie and Miss Addie, stared at her as though she’d spoken a foreign language.

  ‘‘The lectures and library are both sponsored and funded by the Mechanics Association, which is comprised of skilled tradesmen.’’

  Well, I’m committed to this now, Bella reasoned. I might as well continue. ‘‘The women working in the mills are certainly skilled workers.’’ She tried to keep her voice soft and nonthreatening. ‘‘I’m certain many of them would be pleased to spend a small portion of their earnings in exchange for a membership that would permit them to enjoy the valuable services you’ve so aptly described.’’