Jack of Hearts (11 page)

“But?”

“It is one thing to add up the price of raw wool and the cost of steam. It is quite another to walk the floor and not be able to hear yourself think! I never realized how noisy the looms are. And yet people seemed satisfied. Or at least, not dissatisfied,” she added. “Many of them didn’t seem to have any reaction to my visit. I couldn’t tell whether they appreciated it or not.”

“And the accident?”

“I must confess it is difficult to watch small children feeding the carding machines, but the safety precautions are made clear to them. The child who was injured evidently forgot to roll her sleeve up, and it got caught in the rollers.”

Sarah shuddered involuntarily. “It is hard for a small child to remember or even understand such precautions, though.”

“Yes, that occurred to me, too. But without the children’s wages, most families wouldn’t survive, would they?”

* * * *

Anne went to bed early and Sarah stayed up watching the fire in the parlor as it died down from flames to glowing orange coals and then began to go out. What would it be like to send your six-year-old off to a mill? she wondered. Or to hear that your daughter’s hand had been crushed in the machinery?

Years ago, when she realized she would be forced to hire herself out, when it became clear that despite her education and gentle birth, she would never enjoy any of the privileges associated with either, Sarah had felt very sorry for herself. Although the self-pity had diminished over the years, there were times even now when a wave of it would wash over her, leaving her feeling bereft of hope and joy. Then she would remind herself how lucky she had been. She was treated more like a friend than an employee. Her duties were very light, and she lived in virtual luxury in a beautiful house with plenty of food. And she was well clothed, she thought, fingering her dark blue kerseymere gown.

She had never given much thought before to where wool cloth came from, which was ironic, since she was employed by one of the largest manufacturers in Yorkshire. For all intents and purposes, her clothes came from the shops in Leeds. They would visit the draper two or three times a year and exclaim over his fine wools and muslins and lawns, never once wondering as bolt after bolt was placed in front of them who had woven the cloth, or even, indeed, if it could have been produced in one of the Heriot mills.

Tonight, however, she wondered. Had a child been injured in producing the lovely blue wool she was wearing? She loved this dress. It made her eyes look darker and bluer, it was comfortable and fashionable at the same time. But once upon a time before it became cloth, this wool had been fleece and had been fed into a carding machine by six- or seven-year-old hands.

But children worked all over England, Sarah told herself. If not in factories, then in mines or in chimneys. She remembered the chimney sweep who had come in just before they left London. His boy was a wizened little creature who scrambled his way up the chimney as though the devil were after him. As she recalled his master’s face, she wondered if the devil had indeed gotten after him. Sarah sighed as she scattered the coals. Families needed to live. She was helping her mother in both the house and the garden by the time she was six. It was the way things were. But as she made her way up the stairs, she wondered why the phrase “the way things were” always seemed to refer to the hardest aspects of human life and those associated with the poor.

“Tha see t’bitch, Ned? I saw her coom in through t’village, though I didn’t recognize her at t’time. If I had, I would have stopped her and told her a thing or two,” Tom added.

“She visited our floor and the sorting shed,” Ned answered quietly. He took a long swallow of ale and sighed appreciatively as it eased his throat, which was, as usual, dry and irritated after a day at the loom.

“I hear she announced a Christmas bonus,” his brother jeered. “That’s to show that Ned Gibson is a wrongheaded troublemaker to take notice of accidents and such. To show they couldn’t have a kinder employer than Miss Anne Heriot of Heriot Hall. Things aren’t so bad at t’mill, are they? Tom snorted and drained his glass. “And they’ll believe it, like the sheep they are.”

“It is not as though anyone cheered her,” Ned replied mildly, with an ironic smile. “And she did insist on seeing the shed. I’m sure Trantor wanted to hurry her in and out.”

“Does tha still think a polite conversation will enlighten her, then, lad?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to cheer her for coming, on one hand, for I’m sure no one wanted her here. And I also wanted to shake her till her teeth rattled. There she is, all dressed like a lady while my Nance makes do with twice-turned dresses. Driven in her own carriage and going to marry some sort of lord.”

“Once she does that, then tha’rt in the hands of Joseph Trantor, good and proper. She’ll be off on some big estate, enjoying herself in London, and never coom back here. If tha wants her attention, the time to get it is now.”

“You’re right, Tom,” Ned admitted. “I’ll have to go back.”

* * * *

The next day when Anne and Sarah appeared at the stable for their morning ride, Patrick was very quiet as he handed them up onto their horses. Usually he had something to say—a comment on the weather or a funny story he had heard in Wetherby.

It was a beautiful morning, cold and clear, and after warming up their horses, they had a fine canter along the top of the scar. Anne welcomed the exercise, for it took her mind off the mill. Although she knew her workers were treated well, the noise of the looms and the sight of the children in the shed had stayed with her.

Patrick was a silent presence behind them the whole ride, however, and finally Anne broke the silence.

“You are very quiet this morning, Patrick. Are you feeling all right?”

“I am fine, Miss Heriot, now that ye ask, but after reading that poster yesterday, I wondered if I should be talkin’ at all.” The underlying sarcasm in his voice was so patently out of character that Anne looked back, surprise on her face.

“I believe that the rules make sense at the mills, Sergeant Gillen,” Anne told him stiffly.

“Sure, and ye probably couldn’t hear yerself think in that place anyway, so why be wastin’ yer breath on conversation?” This time Patrick’s sarcasm was fullblown.

“My father’s workers are well paid and well treated. If they weren’t, our production levels wouldn’t be so high.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but they are not yer father’s mills anymore; they are yers. And if all that concerns ye is how they produce, then ye’re clearly thinking of yer workers hike ye think of yer sheep, Miss Heriot.”

“I will overlook your comments this time, Sergeant, because you are an excellent groom and because you saved my life. But I will not be lectured to by anyone on how I manage my factories.”

“What I am afraid of, miss, is that it isn’t you that does the managin’.” Patrick’s tone was softer, but Anne was still stung.

“Thank you, Sergeant. I will take your expert views into consideration.”

Sarah smiled as Anne spurred her horse ahead of them. Sergeant Gillen ran a poor second when it came to the use of sarcasm. She was surprised at him, though, for he clearly liked and admired Anne. She was also surprised at herself, for she should be indignant for Anne’s sake, but instead she was very curious to know what the sergeant had been referring to.

“Did you accompany Miss Heriot on her tour of the mill, Sergeant?” she asked him.

Patrick turned his good side toward her as she pulled her horse next to him. “No, Miss Wheeler. I was waitin’ just outside. But ye can hear the racket from there, I promise you. And I had plenty of time to read the rules that are posted. Can ye imagine what it must be like not to share a word with yer mate while ye work? To be dismissed for whistlin’, for sweet Jaysus’ sake… And I thought the bleedin’ British Army was bad!” When he realized what he had said, Patrick blushed and apologized.

“It is quite all right, Sergeant,” Sarah replied. “Is Anne aware of these rules?”

“Indade, because I pointed them out to her.”

“Are they unusual, do you think?”

Patrick sighed. “Likely not. I believe Trantor in that.”

“You don’t like Mr. Trantor?”

“I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” Sarah was surprised to find herself confiding in Patrick. “Anne’s father was a stern man. He had worked hard to raise himself up, and he believed in hard work. But he was a fair man. I don’t think that Joseph Trantor is.” Sarah hesitated and then went on. “He wanted to marry Anne.”

“God help her if she got into the hands of that one.”

“If he had Anne, he would have everything.”

“Then I hope she finds herself an earl or a duke quickly,” said Patrick with a wide grin.

Sarah gave him an answering smile, then spurred her horse ahead to join Anne.

Maybe Miss Wheeler wasn’t as much of a snob as he had thought, mused Patrick, as he watched her join her employer. And maybe he had better keep his gob shut, or he’d find himself out of a job!

* * * *

It was unfortunate that Ned Gibson chose the following Sunday to make another visit to Heriot Hall, for Patrick’s comments had made Anne defensive. She had admired her father and would not allow an employee of hers to criticize his policies, especially when she knew they were no different—no, in some ways, more generous—than others. She pushed down the small stirring of doubt and concern she had felt when confronted with the noise of the looms and the sight of those small fingers feeding the rollers. So when Ned was announced just before Sunday lunch, Anne made him wait in the hall until she had finished her meal and only then had him shown into the library.

He was young, close to her own age, she would guess. He had dressed carefully in what was probably his Sunday best. His suit was clean, although the cuffs were threadbare. He was a pleasant-looking young man, with reddish hair and hazel eyes that looked right into hers, although his face was expressionless.

“What did you want to see me about, Mr. Gibson?” she asked him in her coolest tones.

“I came a few weeks ago, Miss Heriot, while tha was in London. I wanted to talk to tha about t’mill.”

“I spoke with my workers on Tuesday, Mr. Gibson. I believe you were there.”

“Aye, but tha workers had no chance to speak with tha.”

“So you wish to thank me for the Christmas bonus, then?”

Ned was almost stung into telling her what she could do with her bonus, but he reminded himself that he was here for Nance’s sake. He’d be damned if he’d act like a grateful child, though, even if she clearly expected him to.

“Nay, Miss Heriot. I coom about Nance, my fiancée. She were let go a month ago.”

“I think Mr. Trantor may have mentioned her to me. It was for unwomanly behavior, I believe.”

“It were for whistling the morning after we got engaged, miss. She were so happy that she forgot where she was.” Which said a lot about Nance’s love for him, thought Ned, for it were near impossible to forget tha was in t’mill!

“I don’t think it was for whistling, Mr. Gibson, though I understand that
is
one of the offenses you can be turned off for. Mr. Trantor told me, and I do not wish to be critical of your fiancée, but he implied she was dismissed for improper conduct.”

Ned’s face flushed with anger, and it was all he could do to keep himself under control.

“My Nance is as good a lass as any in Yorkshire. She is responsible for her brothers and sisters, Miss Heriot. She needs her thirty shillings a week. We need it, or we can’t marry. I thought you could speak to Mr. Trantor for us.”

“Mr. Trantor is empowered to act for me, Mr. Gibson. If I interfere with his actions, I only make his job more difficult. I am afraid his decision will have to stand. But I do not wish any family to suffer at the holidays. I will make sure that Nance gets her Christmas bonus despite the fact she is no longer employed.”

Ned wished that she had handed him the money there and then so he could throw it in her face. But God knew, Nance needed it. His voice was shaking with suppressed anger as he said, “There is something else. Little Jenny Warren had her hand crushed by t’rollers in carding machine.”

Anne flinched at the picture his words conjured up. “I know, Mr. Gibson,” she answered in a softer tone, “and I have asked Mr. Trantor to continue her wages until such time as she can return.”

“Does tha think money can give her back her hand? T’doctor said she was lucky not to lose it, but she won’t be good for much now but cleaning the sheds. If tha stopped thinking of thaself as ‘Lady Bountiful’ and had t’old machines replaced, it would-do more for us than tha damned bonuses. But tha will only replace machines with ones that replace us,” he added bitterly.

“I do what has to be done to keep the factory profitable, Mr. Gibson. You should be thankful profits are steady, because all your jobs are dependent upon them.”

“Tha profits are dependent upon
us
, Miss Heriot, and not t’other way around.”

“I have nothing further to say, Mr. Gibson. You may count yourself lucky you still have a job after such an outburst,” she added, reaching over to pull the bell rope next to her. When Peters opened the door in response, she merely said, “Please show Mr. Gibson out.”

Ned turned on his heel and was out the door without a “Thank you for seeing me” or any such acknowledgement that he was lucky to have such a receptive employer, thought Anne. Well, she was not going to think of Ned Gibson again. She would concentrate on getting ready for her visit to the Astons.

* * * *

“But, Sarah, you must come with me.”

“Is that an order, Anne?” Sarah asked, trying to tease her friend out of her disappointment.

“If it is, it is the first I’ve given you, you must admit!”

“I know. But I truly would prefer to stay here, and you don’t really need a companion for a visit to such close friends. You and Elspeth don’t need me haunting you.”

“You know we both enjoy your company,” Anne chided.

“I just feel that I would enjoy having some time alone after all the socializing we did in London. I can’t really explain it.”