Was there no place she was wanted?
Isabelle felt the weight of loneliness press against her heart as she turned toward the canal, losing herself in the surge of people walking along the street. She let herself be swept along with the others, mindlessly staring at the buildings she passed, mills in every state of construction, function, and disrepair lining the busy canal teeming with barges.
Several of the oldest buildings were now abandoned, a few of them blackened husks destroyed from within by fire. Isabelle shuddered at the thought of a spark that could take every machine, product, and person within a building and reduce them to ash that mingled with coal smoke to further darken the very air of the filthy city.
Soon she stood in front of a hulking building, stacks belching black clouds high above her head. A painted wooden sign proclaimed Osgood Cotton Mill, and etched into the door were the words “Manufacturers of Finest Cotton Products.” The building, though intimidating to look at, gave her a sense of borrowed pride.
Alexander had made this.
Her husband.
The man who asked nothing from her; indeed, not even her company.
She sighed. A woman jostled her arm as she pushed past her to open a door and enter the mill. Without realizing she had any plan to do so, Isabelle followed her inside.
Having never entered a mill before, she was not sure what she had expected. Her father’s coal mining business was run from a neat and airy building far from the mines. The privilege of being in charge, he had told her repeatedly, was that he didn’t need to dirty his hands.
Despite the unseasonal heat of the room, it appeared to be snowing inside. Drifts of white floated through the long room, swept on currents of air gusting from machines booming, squealing, and thumping. Isabelle fought the urge to cover her ears to protect herself from the uproar.
Huge machines hunched in rows, surrounded by men and women performing their tasks like dancers at a ball, bending, stretching, reaching in synchrony. The noise ran through the movement in a startling juxtaposition. After a few minutes of watching the orderly turmoil, Isabelle grew used to the deafening noise of the room until it settled in her ears to a growl.
A hand on her arm made her jump, and she turned to see Mr. Connor, Alexander’s engineer and frequent evening visitor to their home. A young man, he carried himself nonetheless with a confidence born of knowing his job. He looked surprised when he saw her face and recognized her. She saw his mouth moving but couldn’t hear him. She shook her head.
He leaned extremely close to her ear and shouted, “Mrs. Osgood, what are you doing here?”
An excellent question. If she had a quiet parlor, several cups of tea, and half an hour, she could possibly make him understand. That was not likely to happen. She turned her head and angled her mouth toward his ear so she could be heard. “I wanted to see the mill.”
If he thought it odd that she’d never seen the mill when her husband was in it, he said nothing. He nodded and motioned for her to follow him. As if he showed the owner’s wife around the facility on a regular basis, he made space for her to follow him through the room without interfering with the intricacies being enacted on every side.
Mr. Connor led Isabelle to a set of double doors. Upon exiting the work floor, they stepped into a foyer where a different set of doors led out to the street. Had she not followed one of the workers inside, Isabelle might have found this door and entered into the quieter lobby.
As Mr. Connor pointed out a maplike directory on the wall, Isabelle saw that each floor of the massive building held a separate workspace. If each level’s space was appointed like the main floor, this building could hold hundreds of roaring machines. She gave herself a moment to contemplate that this building, although five levels high, was one of the smaller mills in the district. The sheer volume of Manchester’s industry staggered her mind.
Now that she was out of the work floor and in the lobby, other senses began to register input. Isabelle’s nose itched with the onslaught of sharp scents; some, like burning coal and engine oil, she recognized, while others combined into a mysterious miasma of smells she could not identify. She thought now that she had expected the place to smell like a clean bedsheet warmed by the sun. It did not. Although it was unfamiliar, she sensed a comfort she imagined one could grow into—the scents of a place where one spent a great deal of time could either attract or repel.
Mr. Connor led Isabelle into a stairwell, pointing upward to signal they were going to climb. As soon as the door closed behind them, the sounds of the ground-level room muffled even further to a dull grumble. Though far from silent, the significantly reduced sound in the stairwell threw Isabelle off balance, and she reached out to cling to the stair railing.
“It’s a bit like putting your head underwater, isn’t it?” Mr. Connor asked, and Isabelle was reminded she had always found his voice unnecessarily loud when he spoke to Alexander in their home. There was one mystery explained.
Before he opened the door at the top of the stairs, he turned and asked her if she was ready. As she had no idea what she was about to experience, she didn’t know whether she was ready or not.
“I am,” she said.
In fact, she wasn’t.
The room was filled with rows and rows of metal machines, rolling spindles clanking. Men and women seemed to fly past her, and children who looked as young as nine or ten ran from one machine to the next, unhooking, rethreading, gathering, and clearing away whatever needed attending.
Mr. Kenworthy bustled past his workers to come greet Isabelle. He pumped her hand and said something, only a few words of which (“very kind, very pleased”) Isabelle could distinguish. Mr. Connor leaned close to Mr. Kenworthy’s ear and shouted something to which Mr. Kenworthy nodded. The portly gentleman handed the younger one a set of keys from his pocket.
Mr. Connor led Isabelle back to the main floor, turned at a break in a wall, and used the keys to unlock a door. He ushered Isabelle into the small but comfortable office and gestured to a chair. Closing the door, he again muffled the sounds of the work floor.
On the desk sat a small silver frame within which was a pencil-drawn miniature. She made herself bold to lean over and look at it, startled to see her own face. This must have been something her father had sent to Alexander in the time they were formalizing the marriage contract. All the prescribed details, rather unpleasant and archaic-seeming to Isabelle at the time, were beneath her notice. She only needed to know that she was marrying a successful man who would ensure continued business for her father’s mining operation. Her mother promised he was spoken of as very handsome. Isabelle had not assumed there was anything more personal in the arrangement.
Now, seeing this snug but pleasant workspace holding a drawing of her face, Isabelle felt a flush of pleasure.
Mr. Connor politely ignored Isabelle’s reaction. “This is Mr. Osgood’s office. He meets with clients here and interviews employees.”
Surprised, Isabelle asked, “He meets with the workers?”
“Aye. Asks about their experience. Monitors their well-being, is how he says it.” Mr. Connor continued. “He wants his workers to feel like this is their mill as well as his own. Many of the mills in the city cycle through workers. One sustains an injury or grows tired of his hours or how he’s treated and moves next door until that place disappoints him. But Mr. Osgood keeps his crews.”
Isabelle felt a swelling of pride upon hearing this. She knew, because her father told her, that Alexander’s mill was successful, but she’d thoughtlessly attributed that success simply to the quality of his product. Now she was beginning to understand that he had created procedures that led to more satisfied workers.
“It’s been eight years now since Mr. Osgood took ownership,” Mr. Connor said, “as you well know.”
Isabelle in fact had not known, and she was grateful Mr. Connor had the kind of pride
in his work and his employer that prompted him to offer such details.
“With each year’s profits,” Mr. Connor explained, “he replaces some of the original equipment. In the new mills, you see, nothing wooden is allowed to be inside the building. Too dangerous. With all the hot oil and the friction, many of the old mills experienced accidents. It wasn’t uncommon for a spark to ignite and the whole operation to flare into flame.”
Isabelle saw a shudder cross his shoulders. Remembering the hulking husks of burned-out buildings on the canal, she understood his reaction.
“Now, you’ve seen the floors where most of the machinery is made of solid steel, milled on the other side of the canal, poured and formed right here in the city. As soon as Mr. Osgood gets back on his feet, I reckon we can increase production and have all old equipment replaced within five years.”
Back on his feet. Isabelle silenced her urge to confide Alexander’s actual condition with Mr. Connor. Instead, she murmured a general sound of agreement and asked how he, a man so young, became such an indispensable part of Mr. Osgood’s team.
A genuine smile overspread Mr. Connor’s face. “When I started working here, I was a runner, still small enough to go beneath the looms and pick up dropped parts and change bobbins. When the owners decided to leave, Mr. Osgood offered to buy out the whole affair—building, equipment, and employees. All the workers had the choice to stay or go. I stayed.” His smile did not falter. “This mill has been a salvation for me.”
Isabelle felt a rush of gratitude that Mr. Connor’s experience had been so pleasant. She’d heard enough stories of the dangers to the bobbin runners of past generations to know her mind. She held strong opinions against mills employing children. From the safety of her childhood home, she’d often expressed her opinions. Loudly. But, as her father had once pointed out over dinner, if an owner threw the child workers out, they’d not eat. Which was worse, giving them work that endangered them or taking away the employment that put food in their mouths? Perhaps he could simply pay the parents more, but as soon as she thought it, she understood that the money would have to come from somewhere. Isabelle had realized then that there wasn’t an easy answer.
Mr. Connor continued. “Mr. Osgood insisted I attend school every morning and held my job for me in the evenings. I grew into my adulthood here in the mill, and Mr. Osgood has advised me and instructed me and trained me up.”
“And do you plan to purchase a mill of your own one day?” Isabelle asked.
“Ah, no, ma’am. I will work for Mr. Osgood for as long as he’ll have me. I have no desire to be an owner. I’m only standing in for Mr. Osgood while he’s ill. Can’t wait to get my hands back on the machines.” He explained that his usual work began near the end of a day, at the break between day shift and night, when he could walk each of the mill’s floors, listening, as he said, “to the voices of the machines.” Then, when the day workers left for the evening, he’d spend the night hours in the less-crowded areas repairing, maintaining, and cleaning the equipment.
This explained to Isabelle his tendency to bring Alexander back to the mill in the evening hours, a practice that had offended and hurt her in the past. She’d imagined Alexander was looking for any excuse to leave her company, when in fact, he was taking great care to ensure the safety of his machines, and therefore, his workers.
Taking her leave of Mr. Connor and thanking him for his time and attention, she exited through the weaving floor, catching drifts of cotton snow on her coat and hat.
As she walked down King Street after visiting the busy, swarming mill, the surge of the crowds on the street seemed less oppressive. Maybe Manchester wasn’t a heartless bustle of a city. Perhaps all these people simply had important responsibilities to attend to. As she looked at them each as a person with a meaningful destination, as opposed to obstacles or inconveniences, she began to realize that all citizens of Manchester took a role in the work. Some produced. Some sold. Some purchased. Some consumed. Some prepared, cleaned, entertained.
And perhaps even she, Isabelle Rackham Osgood, had a part to play in the life of the city.
When Isabelle returned to Alexander’s house—returned home, she corrected herself—she had time to change from her smudged and oil-scented dress before dinner. She chose the pink gown Alexander liked, tucked up a few stray strands of hair, and went downstairs.
Alexander was already seated at the table in his wheeled chair. He watched her walk into the room, and a small smile came to his lips. “Forgive me for not standing,” he said as she entered.
For a moment, Isabelle stopped still. This was by far the warmest welcome he’d given her since their return. And the healthiest he’d appeared.
His voice sounded stronger. Perhaps sitting up helped his breathing. The smile certainly helped.
“Mr. Osgood,” she said, smiling in return as she crossed the room to take the chair beside him, “I believe you’re joking with me. Take care, or I might learn to expect such a thing. Please keep your seat, sir. I can forgive this small lapse of propriety in this case.”
Heart full of his kind reception and thoughts of the pride his business had instilled in her, she leaned over and kissed his cheek before sitting in her chair.
When she looked at him again, his face registered a look of astonishment, but not disappointment. She warmed yet again with the understanding that she’d shocked him in the best kind of way.
Mrs. Burns brought in soup, and as Isabelle raised a spoonful to Alexander’s lips, she told him the story of the day.
“I wanted to pay a call on Mrs. Kenworthy, as she’s my only actual acquaintance in the city, but it was not an auspicious time.”
He swallowed and asked, “Was Glory very bad?”
Tipping the spoon into the soup again, she answered carefully. “I didn’t see her, of course, but it appeared the home was in a bit of a frenzy.”
Isabelle remembered the last discussion they’d had about the Kenworthy family’s choice to keep Glory at home and Alexander’s cruel remark about locking her up. Isabelle wanted to keep him far from thoughts of that sort, so she moved the conversation along quickly.
Voice airy and light, she said, “I found myself wandering along the canal and stopped to inspect Osgood Mill.”
He spluttered a bit, recovered his composure, and asked, “What was the result of your inspection?”
She thought of all the impressions she’d received in the hour she was inside. There was much she could choose to say. The mill was many things: Busy. Productive. Frightening. Loud. Full. Structured. Crowded. Smelly. Organized. Impressive.
She knew a conversation like this, begun with such a tentative goodwill and harmony, must be directed carefully. Her delight in experiencing a discussion that had lasted this long made her think carefully before she spoke. She felt the possibility of their words tipping him back to his anger and resentment.
She set down the spoon with which she’d been feeding him. Looking directly into his eyes, she said, “You’ve created something beautiful.”
Alexander did not speak, but he gazed into her eyes with something that could be interpreted as gratitude. Isabelle thought she could sit here in the candlelight and receive that gaze for hours.
Finally, he blinked and looked down.
“And your Mr. Connor certainly loves you,” she added, offering him another sip of broth.
After he swallowed, he said, “I don’t pay him to love me.”
She nodded. “And apparently you wouldn’t have to. That,” she said with a grin, “he’d do for free. He’s determined to keep your mill running functionally for the next several hundred years, proclaiming your virtues all the while.”
Alexander looked down again, and Isabelle was beginning to understand that it was his new way of dissembling. He couldn’t turn his head to avoid her eye, and he couldn’t simply evade like most people could with a shak
e of his head. In those few seconds, she realized how powerful the language of the body was and what a disadvantage Alexander had not to be able to use it.
She could tilt her head slightly to suggest either disagreement, flirtation, or sincerity. He must use words alone.
No, she thought. Not alone. He still had use of his fine brow, his expressive eyes, and his frown. Or his smile. The smile she’d seen more tonight than any other time in the recent past.
Perhaps it was the dress.
More likely it was the chair.
Should she mention it? Would discussion of his injury detract from the peaceful and happy conversation they were having? Impossible, she thought, to ignore the reality of their new life. “How does it feel to be able to move through the house tonight?” She asked, patting the arm of the chair.
“It is easier to breathe, and to speak, when I sit up.” He exhibited a moderate inhale and looked so proud that she vowed to never again take breathing for granted.
“And you’ve not . . . fallen?” She remembered the devastated look on his face as she knelt before him and pushed him upright that very morning—that morning that felt like years ago.
“I am strapped in.”
The words were spoken with no change of expression, but Isabelle felt a shock flash through her. He was tied to the chair in order to remain upright. She had an urge to explore the situation—to examine the straps he spoke of and see for herself. In her mind, ropes were fastened around his chest, over his shoulders, and beneath his arms. The vision she created was reminiscent of artists’ renderings of pillage and capture. It was impossible that the reality was as awful as her imaginings.
But no.
Nothing, she reminded herself, looking at her husband, was impossible.
She felt her breath hitch and commanded herself to remain calm. It would not do, not at all, to cry during what was, up until this point, the nicest meal they’d shared in Manchester. Certainly the best hour since Alexander’s accident.
Isabelle and Alexander Page 12
