The Daring Ladies of Lowell (6 page)

“The money,” she stammered.

“Not the camaraderie? New friends?”

“We sleep mostly when we’re not working.” A hiss from Lovey told Mary-o this was not a good answer, and she saw Hiram Fiske frown directly at her. “I mean—no, I mean…” Tears began to well.

Alice reached up and squeezed Mary-o’s hand, trying to give her courage. President Jackson, eyes narrowed, caught the gesture.

“You, young lady—yes, you,” he said, nodding toward Alice. “What do you think?”

Alice stood slowly, standing very stiff and straight. “Sir, we like the bank,” she said after pausing to calm her voice. She must do this right. “We make our own money, and we can save it in our own names. And nobody else can touch it.”

“That’s the girl with my bonnet,” Daisy said to Samuel. “Why is she speaking out like that? What does she know?”

“She’s new to Lowell, I think. She opened an account at our bank earlier this year.” Rather brave, Samuel thought, for the girl to speak up without being flustered in this daunting environment.

Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Really? And why did you notice her?”

Samuel was spared an answer when Jackson spoke again.

“A laudable accomplishment, my dear. And what is your name?”

“Alice Barrow.” She was a bit dizzy at her own impulsiveness, conscious of all eyes upon her.

“So, Miss Barrow—let’s hear more. What do you like
least
?”

Alice glanced quickly at the Fiske family, concentrating on Samuel, who leaned forward in his seat, as if awaiting her reply. Why did she think she could take a chance and be honest? She would ponder that later.

“Some of our working conditions, sir,” she said.

A sigh rippled through the hall, giving her shivers.

“And what might they be?”

“The cotton fibers—” She stopped.

“The cotton fibers?” Jackson’s eyes glittered slightly, a small smile on his lips.

“There are so many of them in the air.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“The girls breathe them in!” yelled a man’s voice from the back of the hall.

“I see. Anything else?”

What could she say? The long hours, the mandatory tithing? No. “Sometimes the machinery doesn’t…” She hesitated. She didn’t dare speak of the dangers, not here. “Can be hard to use.”

A roll of approving whispers was spreading through the hall. “Tell him more,” the same male voice shouted from the back. “About the accidents!”

Hiram Fiske jumped to his feet. “Thank you, Miss Barrow,” he said, walking quickly to the podium, clapping a familiar arm around Jackson. “We mustn’t use up any more of President Jackson’s time. Sir, we are honored by your presence. Thank you for your visit, it will be long remembered.” He raised both arms above his head. “A hand, please, for the president of the United States.”

Amid the ensuing applause, Hiram escorted Jackson from the stage.

Alice caught a fleeting glimpse of the president’s expression—she detected a self-satisfied smile and wondered: had she been manipulated? And Hiram’s face? Stony. She shivered, not for the first time.

“F
or heaven’s sake, just fire her,” Daisy said. “She spoke out of turn.”

Hiram Fiske, hands clasped behind his back, stopped pacing up and down in their suite of rooms at the Lowell Inn and viewed his daughter somberly. His jacket had been discarded and tossed over the arm of a high-backed chair in one swift motion as he walked into the room. The buttons on his waistcoat were clearly at maximum effort, straining over his ample girth. His color was too high.

“That would be unwise. There was real dissatisfaction in that crowd tonight, and it was triggered by that damnable Jackson. Making her a scapegoat would not resolve anything,” Hiram seethed.

“Oh, give her a pretty dress or something, she’ll be grateful for a treat.” Jonathan tried to hide a yawn, sneaking a look at his pocket watch.

“You have things to do?” Daisy asked archly. “And with whom, Jonathan? One of Jackson’s ‘bright, intelligent faces’? Not that any of those girls looked all that bright and intelligent to me.”

“Stop teasing,” he retorted. “What I do is my own business.”

Hiram ignored them both. “We’re becoming a target for those who would organize our laborers, and I want it stopped.”

“We could plant spies in the mill,” Jonathan said.

“That’s useless; they’re always spotted, sooner or later.”

“Did something happen between you and Jackson when you left the stage?” Samuel asked.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“That bastard wanted to hear complaints, he as much as admitted it. He’s trying to force my hand, pressing me to show my ‘democratic values.’ What he really wants is to embarrass us.” Hiram fell into a glum silence.

Samuel walked over to the fire and picked up a poker to prod the smoldering embers. The flames burst upward, healthy and cheering. He stared at them, thinking. It would help to do something—something unexpected that might soothe the discontent they had witnessed that night.

“You look serious, Samuel. Any ideas?”

“I’m thinking about how to show those ‘democratic values,’” Samuel said, still staring into the fire. He loosened his vest, replaced the poker, and turned to face his father. “What if we invite one of the mill workers to our home for a dinner meeting?”

“What kind of idea is
that
?” Jonathan said.

“A democratic one, actually.”

Hiram looked thoughtfully at his elder son. “I don’t want any malcontents haranguing me, and certainly not in my home.”

“We would have control over who was invited,” Samuel said. “It would show our concern and give them a hearing.”

Hiram didn’t respond immediately. He crossed his arms and walked over to the window, staring out for a few moments at the town he had built. He turned around slowly. “It could work,” he said. “But we must retain control.”

“So how do we guarantee that?” Jonathan said.

“We could invite a mill girl,” Hiram said. “A girl would be more manageable than a man. We could feed her, listen to her, make her feel important.” His face brightened. “I like this.”

“She could be something of an emissary, perhaps.”

Hiram shot his elder son an appreciative look as he resumed pacing. His face was brightening. “Yes, someone who could placate troublemakers with a little authority after getting a hearing in our home. A bit of orchestrated democracy.”

“I’d make it that girl who spoke up,” Samuel said. He remembered his first encounter with the flustered young woman intent on opening a bank account. There had been some grit there.

“Then we’ll do it.”

“Oh, you must be joking,” Daisy said, letting out a thin, incredulous laugh. “You missed your nap today, you really should—”

Hiram stared hard at his daughter. “Do not patronize me,” he said in a voice that brought them all straight. “I am the one who makes decisions here. I remind you, that hasn’t changed.”

“Yes, Father.”

There was a momentary silence in the room.

“Well, if you want someone to approach that girl for you, I nominate Samuel.” Jonathan yawned again, then grinned in his brother’s direction. “Stalwart Samuel, that’s who.”

“Why Samuel?” Hiram asked.

“Because he knows that girl.”

“I don’t know her at all,” Samuel interjected.

“You helped her open an account at our bank, isn’t that true?”

“I didn’t
help
her, and you know it.”

“Right.” Jonathan’s eyes flashed a challenge. “What you were really doing was rescuing her from me. Guiding her away, opening the door, tipping your hat—trying not to let her be sullied by association with your dastardly brother.”

“Damn it, you are impossible.”

“And you, sir, are a stiff, proper prig.”

Hiram slammed his fist on a table. “May I remind you gentlemen who you
are
?” he said evenly.

“I’m just saying the truth,” Jonathan said.

“Far from it,” barked his father. The anger under his words silenced both sons. “You are indulging yourselves. The members of this family do not cheapen themselves by indulging in petty quarrels. We
teach
civility; we don’t destroy it. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Jonathan replied.

Hiram pointed at him. “You’re the one always on the edge of trouble,” he continued. “Don’t think I don’t know about your escapades with those mill girls. I had to send the last one packing. Will you get it through your head? Our reputation depends on offering
respectability.
”

Jonathan wilted into his chair, saying nothing.

“Samuel”—Hiram nodded toward his elder son—“I don’t care whether you know this girl or not. I care what you do for me now.”

“Just let me know what that is, Father,” Samuel said. His fingers curled tight, gripping the back of a chair. He should be above stupid flare-ups with his brother by now. But Jonathan still managed to push him beyond what he was willing to endure.

“I want you to find out where this girl lives, and I want you to invite her to meet with us in Boston. What was her name?”

“Alice Barrow.”

“Good. We will discuss the problems she has mentioned and tell her we will work together to continue to make this mill a fine place for young women to establish their independence.”

“Very good, we will yank her out of enemy territory and take over her concerns,” Jonathan said.

“If she wears that hat of hers, I’m not coming,” Daisy broke in.

Hiram did not take his eyes off of his elder son. “Well?” he said.

“I’ll do whatever you want, of course.”

Hiram broke into a grin. “This will be a fine family example of democracy at work,” he said. “I’ll tell your mother to expect an overnight guest next week. That should give her time to calm her nerves.”

“We don’t know yet if the girl will be willing,” Samuel objected.

The others stood still, staring at him. His father had a shocked expression on his face; Jonathan’s mouth curved in amusement; his sister simply looked blank.

A strange feeling—contrary to his nature, he had just displayed a radical point of view. The girl, whoever she was, had a choice.

S
amuel stood out on the balcony after all the others were asleep, gazing at the stars that cradled the town in an arc of light. He breathed deeply. The air was crisp and cold.

He loved this town. There was something here, something not easily confined—a sense of possibility and energy. It excited him. It was tantalizing in part because it both affirmed and contradicted the brilliantly ordered nature of the place. His father had produced an economic model of both grace and precision. But something unpredictable was flowing through the veins of this country, something not nearly as contained as the Merrimack River. His family had done much good. He knew it was his job to carry on the family legacy. But how, was the question. His thoughts turned to the woman who had stood so straight in the hall, not shy about answering a question from one so lofty as the president of the United States. She did indeed show grit. Yes, that was the right word, and it was a trait he admired. One to be fostered in those who worked for the family’s mill. Again he took a deep breath. Whether his mother raised a fuss or not over hosting a mill girl, he was glad it was going to happen—with the girl’s consent, of course.

A
lice once again lay sleepless in her bed, staring up at the ceiling. The other girls had chattered on about her bravery in answering President Jackson’s questions, and all she could think of was how her words might imperil her future. She wanted to talk to Lovey, but she was already asleep. “I’m not brave,” she whispered out loud. “I’m a bit frightened, and that’s the fact of it.” As she finally drifted off, the one comforting thought was the memory of Samuel Fiske’s face. He might not be a friend, but she sensed a kindness to him, or was she fooling herself? Enough.

T
he clock was striking three when her eyes flew open. She lay still, listening. A splash of something against the window. Gravel. She crawled out of bed and looked outside. Lovey was standing there, a warning finger to her mouth. “Let me in,” she whispered. She gestured toward the kitchen door.

Alice crept carefully across the beds and tiptoed downstairs to the door. The lock clicked as she turned the key, and she prayed no one had heard.

“Did you know I was gone?” Lovey whispered from the porch, shivering. “I bundled all the pillows to make it look like I was sleeping.”

“You fooled me,” Alice said. Her worry spilled into anger. “What are you doing, risking everything to sneak out like this? How could you be so thoughtless?”

The sober look in Lovey’s eyes silenced her. “I deceived you, I’m sorry. I’m trying to resolve a problem,” she said.

“That’s too vague. Where were you? Flirting with Jonathan Fiske?”

“Flirting?” Lovey tried to laugh, but there was no mirth in her voice. “I can’t explain it properly, not yet, but I will. Please stay by me, Alice.”

“I wish I understood you better.”

Something quivered in the air; Lovey seemed to be on the cusp of telling her what it was. But all she said was “Please.”

Alice was still trying to bank her anger. “I’ll stand by you, no question about that. But these late-night vanishing scenes of yours are more than bold; they are reckless.”

“I frighten myself, truth be told.” Lovey briefly closed her eyes, then looked at Alice.

Her voice was so small and lost, Alice made no attempt to answer. She simply took her friend’s hand and held it tight.

T
he weather was turning sharp, with high winds howling around the girls’ heads as they crunched down into their coats and hurried across the bridge over the Merrimack River the day after President Jackson’s appearance. Lovey pulled out a handful of torn pages from her pocket and hung them onto her looms. They flapped and fluttered as the machinery began to turn and work began.

“The foreman will notice; you’ve got too many pages,” Tilda warned, looking worried. “We can sneak them in here, but he can’t pretend not to see what you’ve posted.”

“What are you reading?” Mary-o asked. “More love poems?”

“No, the story of the prodigal son,” Lovey replied. Her eyes danced a bit too brightly.

“The Bible? You tore up the Bible?” Jane said incredulously. “That is sacrilegious.”

“It is? Why?” Lovey looked confused. It took a second for the others to realize she wasn’t joking.

“It’s all right; most churches say it isn’t,” Alice said quickly. “I read it somewhere.” She couldn’t care less about whether tearing up a Bible was sacrilegious; she wanted to erase the vulnerability on Lovey’s face.

The sound of shouting suddenly erupted from the end of the room, drawing all eyes. An angry Jonah Briggs was trying to bar the entry of a hefty man who was pushing back successfully. The man’s face was florid, its color heightened by a bright, twisted scar stretching from the folds of his neck to his ear. His feet were huge, and he used them to advantage, kicking hard at Briggs.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t come in here,” Briggs yelled as he fell backward.

A humorless grin spread over the man’s face. “I can’t? Well, looks to me like I already have.” He pressed forward, walking slowly now, peering into every face with the look of a hungry dog seeking food.

Delia moaned, motioning Ellie, who had just changed a bobbin on the shuttle, toward her. Ellie obeyed instantly, moving as quickly as she could.

“Who is he?” Alice said.

“Tom Appleton,” Delia whispered.

“Who is that?”

“He’s my husband. Tom wants Ellie. Oh, God, he’ll take Ellie.”

“Why does he want your sister?”

“She isn’t my sister, she’s my daughter.” Delia put her arms around Ellie, her knuckles turning white as she pulled the girl close.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Mary-o, putting her hand against her heart. “That’s not allowed.”

“I had no choice.” Delia’s voice was stronger now, even though pushed through gritted teeth.

The intruder was making his way steadily from one loom to the next, stopping only to shove the angry foreman back again into a corner with a whack.

The first one to move was Lovey. “Somebody take over my looms; look busy,” she commanded. Then she lifted her skirts. “Ellie, crawl under. I won’t move.”

Ellie sank to her knees and scrambled forward, obeying without a word.

“There you are,” the man said calmly, spying Delia. That grin again. “Lost your hair, I see. Not much left of you without it, is there? What made you think you could get away with this?”

“You don’t want her. You just want to hurt me.”

“For leaving? I would’ve kicked you out, soon enough. Give me the kid, she’s my property.”

“She’s not property.” Delia’s voice stopped quaking.

Tom Appleton, in a slow, easy motion, took her by the arm and twisted, hard. Delia let out a cry.

Briggs pulled himself from the floor and grabbed Appleton around the neck. Alice and the others came out of their shock and started pulling Delia away from Appleton’s grasp, shouting and screaming for help. Only Lovey stood still, concentrating, working one loom as if nothing were happening.

“What’s going on here?”

Appleton and the others turned in the direction of the voice. Samuel Fiske stood in the doorway.

“I’m here for my kid,” Appleton said.

“I don’t care who you are, you are not authorized to be here. Get out.”

“I don’t need any authorization to get my kid.” Appleton wasn’t grinning anymore. “This here woman is a runaway wife, I have rights.”

“Not to abuse her.”

“I have the right to do anything I want, and I want my kid.”

Delia found her voice. “She’s not here. I sent her to live with my sister.”

Appleton purred his reply. “You think I won’t find her? I will. And she’ll catch it for leaving the farm.”

Lovey stood silent, her skirt swaying slightly.

“I see no child here,” Samuel said, moving farther into the room. “I repeat—get out. Now. And leave Lowell immediately.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Samuel Fiske.”

Appleton blinked. The swagger seemed suddenly punched out of him. “Look, you own the place, and I don’t want no trouble with the Fiskes,” he muttered.

The foreman, back in charge, grabbed the man by the collar and forced him to the door.

The girls were now all staring at Samuel. He quickly decided that proffering an invitation to the woman named Alice Barrow to join the family in Boston seemed a bit awkward at the moment.

“I don’t think you’ll see any more of him,” he said.

“Thank you,” Delia said, holding a wrinkled handkerchief to her face, dabbing at her eyes. “Thank you for not letting him hurt me.”

“I could do no less,” he said, shifting uncomfortably.

Another voice cut in. “Regardless, sir. You could have let him do what he wanted to do, and the law would back him up. We all thank you.”

He recognized that voice. Alice Barrow was looking directly at him, which gave him a swift opening. “Miss Barrow, when your shift is over, I would like to speak to you in the central office, if you will,” he said.

She nodded, eyes widening slightly.

As he turned to go, a small girl crawled out from under Lovey’s skirts. “Mama,” she cried, her face stained with tears, as she ran into Delia’s arms.

Everyone froze. “Too soon, Ellie,” whispered Lovey.

Alice tried to find her voice. Lovey had been brave; now she had to be. “Mr. Fiske,” she said, “will you follow your kindness by refraining from firing our friend for being a mother?”

Samuel blinked. It was a challenge, not an obsequious request—no bobbing, smiling faces here. Yet there were rules. Only single, unwed women could work in the Lowell mill, that was his father’s dictate; married women and mothers were too easily distracted.

“There are rules—” he began. He stopped at the determined look in Alice’s eyes. No desperation, no supplication.

It really wasn’t that hard a decision after all. “I do not believe I saw any child,” he finally said. He tipped his hat, turned, and left the room.

T
he overseer’s office was a plain affair: straight-backed chairs, a narrow desk listing slightly, heavy curtains turned gray by age. Ushered in by a secretary, Alice found herself facing Samuel Fiske. She had forced his hand; he would have every reason to retaliate. He must be bringing some response to her speaking out at the Lyceum meeting, and she had made it worse. But she would do it again; if she and the others didn’t stand up for one another, who would? She braced herself: perhaps now she was about to be discreetly ushered out of the mill.

“Miss Barrow, I’m here to ask for your cooperation in satisfying concerns you and your coworkers seem to have about working here,” he began.

“Cooperation?”

“Yes. We believe—our family—that there are ways to resolve some of these issues and would like to discuss them with you.” He paused. The girl looked dumbfounded. Perhaps she wasn’t as quick as she had seemed last night; he wasn’t saying anything astounding, surely. He couldn’t help noting how her dark hair was looped upward in soft, casual curves, then swept into a topknot, exposing a long and graceful neck. Not a fashionable style, if his sister’s tastes were any guide. But quite attractive.

“Mr. Fiske, I am not sure what you want from me.”

“Your presence, Miss Barrow. At a—meeting.”

“What kind of a meeting?”

“To discuss—” He took a deep breath. “I wonder if you will oblige us by coming to dinner at our family home on Beacon Hill next Wednesday. We want to give you the larger picture of what the future is for the cotton mill in America.”

“And you want from me the smaller picture of what the present is for those of us who work here.”

“Yes, that’s it.” There was nothing wrong with this woman’s brain.

Alice stared at him. There was a flush on his cheeks—was he actually discomfited by her? What an extraordinary invitation. What could she say? What
should
she say? There was, of course, only one possible response.

“Well, then. I accept.”

“Excellent.” Samuel was already pulling on his leather gloves, a look of relief on his face. “I will arrange for a carriage to pick you up midday Wednesday and bring you to Boston.”

She hesitated. “Mr. Fiske, what if that man who threatened Delia comes back?”

“I don’t think you have to worry about him. The foreman got his name and checked him out with the police. He’s no suffering husband and father, he’s served jail time for starving his horses and breaking a few noses in various bar fights. He goes back to jail if he tries anything here again.”

“H
e invited you to
Boston
? To the Fiske
home
?” The girls around the dining room table looked at Alice, mouths agape. She pushed away her plate with its unappetizing meat loaf, wondering about its faintly pungent smell. Good thing she had held off telling her friends until dinner. The news would have swept through the mill in half an hour, and she still wasn’t sure what she had agreed to.

She nodded, passing a cookie to Ellie, who sat in her mother’s lap, exhausted, blue eyes fogging over with sleep. If Samuel Fiske could be trusted, there would be no more need for subterfuge, no more pretending she was Delia’s little sister—not at the boardinghouse, anyhow. Mrs. Holloway had initially bridled when she heard the story, a look of alarm on her face. “I’m not risking my job for this,” she muttered.

“But my dear Mrs. Holloway, if Samuel Fiske saw nothing out of place, why should you?” Lovey asked. “You weren’t there. What could possibly connect you to today’s events?”