Irish Linen

by Candace McCarthy

  “Who’s going to get rid of him? Me?”

  “Has someone told Mr. Simmons?” Meghan’s fists clenched against her skirts. “Why is such behavior tolerated?”

  “I don’t know if Simmons has been told,” Mari said quietly. “W—everyone is afraid to lose their employment, Meghan. Our jobs are important to us. Each one of us is expendable. We have expenses … families.”

  Meghan had heard Mari’s slip of the tongue and saw the desperation in the young woman’s eyes. Mari, she realized, had been one of those bothered by Mathew Phelps. “There must be something we can do!”

  “What?” Mari said. “What can you or I possibly do?”

  The Irishwoman grew thoughtful as her gaze went beyond Mari to the workers who had lingered before leaving. “I told Phelps to release me. I said I’d rather lose me position than to endure his touch!”

  “You didn’t!” Mari exclaimed, sounding impressed.

  “Aye, I did.” Meghan turned back to meet Mari’s gaze. “And I’m still here.” She smiled as a thought occurred to her. “I may lose me employment yet, and it wouldn’t matter a wit to Phelps, but what if all of us stay together in this? What if we all refuse to work unless Phelps ceases his behavior or is dismissed from the mill?”

  Mari’s face glowed with excitement as she pondered Meghan’s suggestion. “It might work. He could afford the loss of one of us, but not all of us,” she said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Meghan’s expression softened as she eyed her friend. “Ye were vulnerable and scared.” Her blue eyes sparked with anger. “Just how Phelps wanted ye.”

  “I’ll speak with the others,” Mari said.

  “Aye, he’ll not get away with it again!”

  That afternoon, Mr. Mathew Phelps asked the young woman who worked at the station next to Meghan’s to come into his office. When Kitty Mason refused to go, the man was startled for a moment before he said something in an undertone that Meghan wished she could hear. Kitty glanced in Meghan’s direction, and the Irishwoman gave her a nod of reassurance.

  “You can speak to me here, Mr. Phelps,” Kitty said, loud enough for Meghan and several others.

  “The matter is a private one,” the man insisted.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Phelps, but I’ll not go into your office.”

  Mari Bright, who was monitoring the floor, moved to Kitty’s side. “Is there a problem, Mr. Phelps?” she said.

  The man glanced from one woman to the other, before dismissing Mari. “Kitty, if you wish to keep your position, you will follow me into my office immediately.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” Mari said.

  “When I want your help, I will ask for it, young woman,” he snapped.

  Meghan shut off her machine and approached the small group. “What is wrong?”

  Phelps glared at Meghan as if the whole incident was the Irishwoman’s fault. “You! Get back to your loom.”

  “I will not go back to me loom, nor will any of the others, unless ye change your attitude and your behavior,” Meghan said.

  The man sputtered. “You’re being insolent!”

  “And you’re a lecherous old man,” she returned politely.

  A ripple of laughter sounded about the room, and the man realized that all of the workers had stopped production. His face turned red with fury. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “We’re tired of your filthy hands on us!” Meghan said.

  He looked shocked by the accusation as he glanced about the workroom and the women staring at him. “You’ve misread my intentions,” he sputtered.

  “Have we?” Mari said.“I think not.”

  “Get back to work,” he ordered, “or you’ll all be without position or pay.”

  The women glanced at each other, and then one by one, they turned on their machines until only Mari, Kitty, and Meghan were left standing idle.

  “Meghan,” Kitty said.

  “Do what ye think is best,” Meghan said with a sigh. “I still believe he won’t release us. He needs us too much.”

  “You’re right,” Mari said. She faced the workers. “Stop your machines,” she ordered. “He’ll not release any of us, because he can’t lose us all. The mill needs us!”

  The machines on the weaving floor were silenced.

  “Mrs. Gibbons, there’s trouble at the mill!”

  Flora eyed the young man who’d come to the house at Mr. Simmons’s orders. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Has someone gotten hurt?”

  The lad shook his head. “Mr. Simmons said to tell ya that the women upstairs have shut down their looms.”

  The woman exchanged a look with her nephew. The two had been going over the business account books.

  “Would you like me to handle it?” Lucas asked his aunt.

  She nodded. “Thank you, Lucas. I’ll be over as soon as I finish up here.”

  Lucas rose from his desk chair, stretching as he stood. His gaze rested on the messenger, who stood waiting anxiously to follow Lucas back to the mill. “What happened?” Lucas asked as he gestured for the lad to precede him.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “But the women have shut down the machines,” he said.

  “Yes sir,” the young man replied. “All I know is that they’ve refused to work.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” Lucas grumbled as they exited the house and crossed the yard.

  Fifteen

  The weaving room was buzzing with nervous conversation from the women workers on the floor. Meghan stared at the stairs and wondered whether or not she’d done the right thing. She was sure that Phelps had gone to see Mr. Simmons. What if she’d guessed wrong? What if Simmons dismissed the whole lot of them? She’d be responsible that these women and their families went hungry.

  Her stomach knotted. She knew all too well about hunger. Dear God, what had she done!

  Meghan turned to the woman beside her. “Mari, perhaps ye should start up your machines.”

  Mari shook her head. “No, Meg, you were right. We shouldn’t have to endure Phelps’s behavior.”

  “But what of your families?” Meghan said with anxiety. “What if I’m wrong and ye all lose your positions?”

  The woman smiled softly as she rested her hand on Meghan’s arm. “Better to lose our jobs,” she said with sincerity, “than our self-respect. Besides, Flora Gibbons and her nephew must be fair people.”

  Meghan swallowed, and her gaze swept the occupants of the room. Self-respect wouldn’t feed a family in the long winter months ahead. These women would think differently about their decision if they had known hunger as she had.

  The level of sound in the room increased as the women shared their excitement and tales of their experiences with Phelps. A young man appeared at the top of the stairs and called for the workers to be quiet.

  “Meghan McBride,” he said when the noise had settled down. “Where is the Irishwoman, Meghan McBride?”

  “I’m Meghan McBride.” Her heart racing, she stepped from the group, drawing the man’s attention.

  He stared at her for a moment. “Follow me please. Mr. Simmons is waiting to see you in his office.” He turned abruptly and started down the stairs, apparently expecting her to follow without incident.

  Some of the women called out to Meghan as she followed the young man.

  “It’ll be all right, Meghan.”

  “We’re with you, Meg, if you go, we will, too!”

  Their words made her feel worse instead of better, for she felt responsible for the welfare of these women and their families.

  The young man was quiet as he led her down two flights of stairs. He spoke as they neared the mill foreman’s office. “Mr. Simmons has called the owner,” he said. “I thought you should know.”

  She acknowledged his warning with a nod, before he left her to enter the room alone. Her chest tightened as she raised her hand to knock on the office door.

  “Come in!” Simmons’s voice boomed.

&n
bsp; His tone made her flinch, and her stomach flip-flopped as she reached toward the doorknob. The door was jerked from her hand by Mathew Phelps who eyed her with a smug expression as he slowly moved out of her way.

  “Miss McBride,” Simmons said, “come in. Phelps, shut the door.”

  The triumphant gleam in Phelps’s gaze gave Meghan new courage. The man was lecherous, and his behavior shouldn’t be tolerated, she thought. Her resolve wavered for only a second as she studied George Simmons, who had treated her with a measure of respect, despite her factory inexperience and her Irish blood. According to Rafferty, most people in America were prejudiced against the Irish.

  George Simmons studied her with a gauging look. “Sit down, Meghan,” he said softly.

  Meghan sat, conscious of Phelps’s presence behind her.

  “Mr. Phelps has made some serious charges against you, young woman,” Simmons said. “He says that, because of you, the workers have shut down their machines.”

  “Aye,” she said. “ ‘Tis true.”

  The head foreman appeared stunned by her admission of guilt. “Why?” he asked. “Why on earth would you jeopardize your position?”

  Phelps had approached Simmons’s desk, and Meghan flashed him a look.

  “Hasn’t Mr. Phelps told ye?” she said.

  “He said that you refused to come into his office.”

  “ ‘Tis not true,” she said. “ ‘Twas another worker who refused … but with good reason.”

  “Whatever the reason, Miss McBride,” George Simmons said irritably. “You shouldn’t have told the women to shut down.”

  “It was all her, George,” Phelps said. “She’s been trouble from the day she came. She needs to be dismissed.”

  “Mr. Phelps, Mrs. Gibbons’s nephew and I will decide—”

  The door to the office opened, interrupting the foreman.

  “Simmons, Flora sent me. What’s the trouble?” a man said as he entered the room.

  Meghan felt the blood drain from her face as she recognized the deep voice. Dear God in heaven. It was Lucas! Lucas Ridgely was her employer’s nephew! Her thundering heartbeat nearly drowned out all sound. She felt light-headed and had difficulty drawing breath. From a distance, she thought she heard George Simmons explain the situation in the weaving room and her part in it.

  “Mr. Phelps claims that this young woman is behind the others.”

  “This woman is responsible for everyone shutting down their machines?” Lucas said with disbelief.

  George Simmons nodded. “Apparently. I’ve only begun to question her, when you came in. Would you like to have the honor?”

  “Most definitely,” Lucas said, “I’m anxious to know this paragon of a woman who can disrupt the entire operation of the mill.”

  Meghan bristled at his tone. She knew he was unaware of her identity, for she’d yet to turn around, but he had no right to sound so scathing. He didn’t know the workers’ reasoning. How dare he condemn her without hearing her story first!

  “What do you know of this, Phelps?” Lucas said as he approached Simmons’s desk. Meghan steeled herself for his outburst upon recognizing her, but welcomed the challenge.

  “I think it might be best if Mr. Phelps leaves,” George Simmons said, his gaze transferring from Meghan’s face to the weaving room overseer. “Phelps?”

  The man scowled. “But, Mr. Ridgely—”

  “Phelps …”

  “Fine!” he said angrily. He paused at the door. “Don’t you believe a word she tells you! She’s a liar and rebel, that’s what she is!” He then left the room.

  Lucas regarded George Simmons with an even look. “Why did you make him go, George?”

  “I didn’t like Phelps’s expression, Lucas, and I thought you’d like to get to the truth of this without his interference.”

  “I do,” the younger man said. For the first time, Lucas’s gaze settled on the woman in the chair; and he experienced a jolt, then a rush of warmth. It was Meghan McBride! He fought the urge to pull her from the chair and kiss her senseless … to ask her why she was here. Dear God, it’s Meghan …

  “Take my seat, Lucas.” George Simmons rose and offered him his desk chair.

  “Thank you, but I prefer to stand, George,” he said gruffly. Lucas moved to lean against the foreman’s desk. Crossing his arms, he studied the woman whose bent head prohibited him from seeing her face. Oh, but he didn’t have to see her face to see the brightness of her eyes and the pink fullness of her lips. He wanted to shout for joy. Meghan … He thought he’d never see her again.

  Suddenly, the implications of the situation registered in his brain. He saw the tension in her, and his joy dimmed, as he realized that she was the culprit at his aunt’s mill. Why did Meghan convince the workers to stop cloth production?

  Lucas scowled as he studied her. He wouldn’t— couldn’t—allow his lust for Meghan to affect his judgment.

  “Do you realize you could lose your employment?” Lucas said, staring at her bent head. He saw her nod. “What’s your name?” He couldn’t let on that he knew who she was.

  She glanced up and met his gaze. “Me name’s Meg- han,” she said mockingly. “Meghan McBride, and I’ve done nothing that isn’t justified.”

  Anger made him flush with heat. She glared at him with fury-laden blue eyes, and he felt his own frame stiffen as it occurred to him that this woman had lied to him about her fiancé. And she had caused trouble at his aunt’s mill. And—damn it—he hadn’t been able to forget her.

  “Is that so?” he drawled. “What could possibly justify shutting down an entire level of operation?”

  Meghan gazed into Lucas’s dark eyes and experienced a twisting in her stomach. This man had asked her to be his mistress. What will he say when he learns that the reason everyone had stopped working was because another employee had been much too forward with her?

  “Ye can blame Mr. Phelps,” she said, her look daring him to challenge her.

  “And what exactly did Mr. Phelps do?”

  “It’s not what he did as much as what he wanted to do,” she said, furious with his tone.

  Lucas raised an eyebrow. “Miss McBride, suppose you tell me exactly why you caused such trouble?”

  “The women workers are tired of Phelps and his lecherous behavior toward them!” she burst out. “It’s been happening for some time, but they feared losing their positions to do anything about it.”

  She felt satisfaction when she saw his face register surprise then displeasure. “Are you saying that the man’s been using his position to proposition the women workers?”

  Meghan could tell by his voice that he found the notion unbelievable and unacceptable. “Aye,” she said quietly.

  Lucas turned to the overseer. “What do you know of this, George? Have any of the workers come to you before?”

  Simmons shook his head. “No, this is the first occasion I’ve heard such a tale.”

  Meghan stiffened at his choice of words. “ ‘Tis not a tale I’m telling ye, Mr. Simmons. Ask any of the other women!”

  The man narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps I should do that.”

  “Meghan—” Lucas began, and then she saw his face change as if he’d realized that he’d almost revealed that they’d met before. “Miss McBride,” he corrected himself, “we’ll speak with Mr. Phelps on this matter. If he’s guilty of such behavior, we’ll handle the matter.”

  “Speak to the women, Mr. Ridgely,” she said. “Ye don’t honestly expect Mr. Phelps to admit to any wrong-doing, do ye?”

  “Mr. Ridgely will handle matters in his own way, young woman,” George Simmons said. “I suggest you keep your advice and return to your floor. I want you to see that the women start up their machines again. It’s Christmas Eve, and they’ll want to go home to their families knowing they still have employment.”

  “And if they refuse?” she asked.

  “See that they don’t refuse, Miss McBride,” Lucas said.

  Fortunately fo
r Meghan, the women agreed to start up their machines after she’d explained that the matter was being handled by Simmons and Lucas Ridgely. Meghan could only hope it was true. No man should be able to threaten a woman with the loss of her employment because she wouldn’t cooperate and enter a “relationship” with him.

  The room was noisy as the workers began to use their looms. Meghan went through the motions of starting up her own machines, but her mind was on Lucas Ridgely and their disturbing reunion. Lucas had been angry and scathingly biting. He certainly wasn’t the gallant gentleman who’d respected her wishes and went on his way.

  Her blood pumped harder as she thought of how well he looked … how handsome. No man had a right to look that good! He’d reentered her life just at a time when she’d nearly forgotten his appearance.

  Liar. She hadn’t forgotten a single feature of his, only minimized in her memory the strength of his effect on her. But one look at him again—even in anger—and her body responded of its own accord.

  “What time will she come?” the young woman next to Meghan asked another, pulling Meghan from her thoughts.

  “In time for our dinner,” Kitty answered.

  “Will we have cider again, do you think?” Ellie asked.

  Meghan glanced over in time to see Kitty nod. “And pastries,” the young woman said.

  Ellie’s face brightened. “Oh, her cook makes the best sweetmeats!”

  “Who are ye speaking of?” Meghan asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Mrs. Gibbons.” Mari Bright had come up from behind Meghan with a crate containing several spools of thread. The young woman smiled. “Mrs. Gibbons herself comes on the day before Christmas with food and goodwill for all her employees.”

  Meghan shifted uncomfortably. “Mrs. Gibbons must be a kind woman to be so generous.” Would the woman still come after the incident on the weaving floor? Meghan hated to mention her concern that the weavers would be disappointed.

  A short time later, a flurry at the stairway drew Meghan’s gaze in time to see Mrs. Gibbons’s arrival on the fourth floor. The woman smiled as she called out to her workers. Mathew Phelps rushed forward to help the woman with a tray of pastries, but the lady apparently wanted the honor of carrying the treats, for she wouldn’t relinquish the heavy platter.