A Perfect Silhouette Page 6

  She sat down and rang for Lucy. “I simply cannot do that, Morgan. It’s far too confusing. Your father is William and you are Morgan. If I had wanted two Williams under one roof, I would have named you William. But I didn’t. Morgan is my family name, but now it seems it isn’t good enough for you.”

  “I’m now using your family name as my surname. You should be pleased.” He gave her a fleeting smile.

  His father pushed his plate to the side. “We both know there’s no reason to be offended by the change of name. It’s a necessity and it certainly isn’t permanent. I believe that William Morgan is a good choice.”

  “Of course you do. You always wanted him to be named William.” His mother turned to Lucy when she entered the room. “I’ll have my coffee now, Lucy. And it appears my husband and Mr. Morgan need their cups filled, as well.” Once Lucy had hurried off to the kitchen, his mother turned to him. “How soon are you leaving?”

  “As soon as I finish breakfast and change my clothes.”

  She let her gaze travel from his necktie to his suit jacket. “Why would you change your clothes? You look very nice this morning. I do believe navy is an excellent color on you. It brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  Morgan stifled a laugh. “I’m going to the mills to apply for a position as a mechanic, Mother. I don’t think many mechanics wear suits to work, and I don’t think the overseer will notice if what I’m wearing brings out the blue in my eyes.”

  His mother sniffed. “It’s rude to make sport of others, Morgan—especially your mother.”

  “I apologize.” He stood, approached her chair, leaned down, and brushed a kiss on her cheek. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going upstairs to change.”

  “Don’t you leave without telling us good-bye.” His mother’s response took him back to all the times he’d heard those same words. Each time he’d departed for school, she’d made that same comment.

  He lifted his hand to signal he’d heard her request before he left the room. Once upstairs, he changed into a pair of worn work pants and a faded shirt. Yesterday he’d sent his father’s stable hand into town to purchase three sets of new work clothes and then had traded the fellow for three sets of his worn clothing. The shirtsleeves were a little short, but otherwise the fit had been passable. He shoved the clothes into an old carpetbag and latched the leather tab. With the bag in one hand and a flat-billed cap in the other, he slung the jacket that still smelled of horses and hay across his shoulder and descended the steps.

  He strode toward the dining room but stopped when he heard his mother call out from her sitting room, “Workmen to the back, young man. Who let you in the front door?”

  Taking a backward step, he peered into the room. “I’ll remember that in the future, Mother.”

  “Morgan!” She clasped a hand to her bodice. “You look positively . . . awful.” She withdrew a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed the corner of her eye. “I can’t believe your father has agreed to this. You know there’s likely vermin in those boardinghouses, don’t you?” She shuddered.

  “I doubt that, Mother, but I don’t think my sensibilities are as delicate as yours.” He grinned and tipped his head toward the door. “I’m going to say my good-byes to Father and then be on my way.”

  “Well, do come here and give me a hug.” She opened her arms as he approached her and leaned down for a hug. “Dear me, what is that horrid smell?” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed.

  “The clothes are clean, but it may be the jacket.” He glanced at the coat draped over one arm. “I believe the odor is musty hay and sweaty horse.”

  “Morgan! You need not be so crass with your explanation.”

  “Sorry, Mother. I borrowed the jacket from one of the men who works in the stable.”

  She brought her fingers to her lips as if she might cry. “I simply cannot believe this is something my son would do. Please promise me you will end this foolishness quickly.”

  “I can’t promise how soon it will end, but I do promise I’ll not work as a mechanic for the rest of my life.” He glanced toward the hallway. “I really must go. I’ll be sending reports to Father, which I’m sure he will share with you.”

  That said, he hurried to his father’s office before she could further detain him. After a light tap on the door, he opened it and stepped inside. His father looked up and gestured toward Morgan’s clothing. “I see you’ve dressed for the occasion. Let’s see if you can fool Mr. Walters. He’s a shrewd man. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sees through that getup and calls your bluff.”

  Morgan brushed his hand down the front of his shirt. “I think I look like a workingman.”

  His father nodded. “You may look the part, but there’s more to it than the clothes. Do you think one of those men down at the mill could put on your suit and pass for a gentleman?”

  The cautionary words gave Morgan pause. “Perhaps not, but I think I’m prepared to convincingly answer any of his questions. If not, I’ll be back home before the noonday bells ring.”

  His father stood and walked him to the door. He patted Morgan’s shoulder. “Good luck, my boy. I’ll be eager to hear how things progress.”

  Before Morgan approached the black iron gates, he mussed his hair and settled the cap at the back of his head. His father’s comment had hit the mark, and he now worried that he might not get past the front gates. He pulled on the cord, and a man soon appeared behind the metal bars.

  He looked Morgan up and down. “What can I do for ya?”

  Using his thumb to point over his shoulder, Morgan met the man’s gaze. “I saw a broadside in town saying there were openings for mechanics.”

  “Got a reference letter?”

  Morgan swallowed hard. He hadn’t thought he’d be asked for references. “No, but I’m plenty skilled.”

  “Ain’t me you gotta convince. I’ll go see if Mr. Walters wants to talk to ya. Wait right there.” The man pointed his thick finger through the bars. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  Morgan leaned against the far end of the gate, his eyes traveling down the expanse of redbrick buildings. Was this a foolish idea? Maybe he should have given it more thought. There was still time. He could leave before the watchman returned. He glanced toward the hillside, then back at the mills. No. It was a sound idea and he was going to see it through—if he could get hired on.

  He startled when the gates rattled. “Come on. Mr. Walters’s clerk said to send you in.” He pointed to a door. “Right through there. He’ll take care of ya, and good luck.”

  Morgan tipped his hat. “Thank you.”

  The clerk wasn’t as friendly as the watchman. He looked up and motioned to a chair. “Sit there. Name?”

  “Mor . . . Morgan, William Morgan.” The clerk didn’t appear to notice that he’d stumbled over his name. In the future he’d need to be more careful.

  “The watchman said you have no references. Is that correct?”

  He nodded. “I saw a broadside—”

  “Yes, the watchman told me.” He stood. “Follow me.”

  There was nothing friendly about this fellow. He hoped Mr. Walters would be more cordial. The clerk handed the older man sitting behind the desk a piece of paper, told Morgan to be seated, and disappeared.

  “Tell me about yourself, Mr. Morgan. Start with your experience as a mechanic.” Mr. Walters leaned back in his chair, stared at Morgan, and waited.

  Morgan inhaled a deep breath. “To tell you the truth, my experience is somewhat limited. But I have a good understanding of machinery, and I think I could be useful to your company.”

  A half smile played at the man’s lips. “Our mechanics are expected to resolve difficult situations in a hurry. Everything from repairing broken teeth on a carding machine to replacing worn belts on the looms and much more. From the looks of your hands, it’s been a very long time since you’ve so much as tightened a bolt.” He placed his arms atop his desk and leaned forward. “Care to explain why that would
be?”

  Morgan inwardly cringed. Why hadn’t he thought about his hands? If only he’d kept them hidden or worn work gloves. He stared down for a moment. “I was attending college—studying to be an engineer. I was good at it, too.” He met the older man’s eyes. “I haven’t been able to find work as an engineer, so I figured the best thing would be to get myself to work as a mechanic. At least then I’d be around machines.”

  Mr. Walters continued to stare at him. “I’m going to guess you dropped out before you got your certificate and that’s why you couldn’t find a job as an engineer.” Morgan opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Walters waved him to silence. “I’ll give you a position, but it will be up to you and your overseer whether you keep the job. If I receive any complaints from him, you’ll be gone. Understood?”

  “Yes, understood. And thank you, Mr. Walters. Thank you so much. You won’t regret this. I promise.”

  The manager nodded. “We’ll see, Mr. Morgan. We’ll see.” He scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “Give this to my clerk. He’ll write a note to your overseer and give you directions to the mechanics’ building. And good luck to you.”

  Morgan smiled and nodded. How many times had he been wished good luck today? But if he was going to succeed in this endeavor, he’d need a lot more than wishful good fortune. He’d need the Lord’s help every step of the way.

  August soon faded into September, and although Mellie had planned to secure a second job, she’d been too weary to pursue the idea. She had settled into the daily schedule, yet her body continued to protest the long days standing in front of her frames. At night, cramps curled her toes and twisted her muscles with such ferocity that she’d awaken in pain. Not until she’d either paced the small space between the two beds or massaged her legs and feet could she go back to sleep. Clara suggested she change shoes each day, but that hadn’t helped. Instead, she’d ruined her good shoes slogging through the ankle-deep mud and mire created by the late summer rains.

  Mellie bowed her head against a gale wind as they neared the mills. The yawning gates would remain open only a few minutes longer. “Hurry, Cora.” She looked over her shoulder and waited until Cora was at her side. Cora wasn’t one to lag behind, but she’d been visiting with Abigail, one of the girls who roomed on the second floor.

  “Sorry, but Abigail was telling me about dance lessons at Granite Hall.”

  “Dance lessons?” Clara circled around Mellie and came alongside her twin. “Since when are you interested in dance lessons? We can’t afford that kind of silliness—and you know the lessons won’t be free. Any lessons come at a price.”

  “These lessons are free if you buy a ticket to the Grand Complimentary Ball that’s hosted by Mr. Vance and some of his students. Tickets to the ball are a dollar, but Abigail says the price for ladies’ dance lessons is only two cents.”

  “Don’t you think it sounds like fun, Mellie?” Cora arched her thin brows.

  “Yes, it likely would be fun.” Mellie attempted to lift her foot and cringed as the mud sucked at her boot and threatened to topple her forward. How she wished she had a pair of galoshes. “Right now I want to get inside before I’m swallowed by all this mud. I’ll be thankful when the rain stops and the mill yard finally dries.”

  Clara shrugged. “Once the rain stops, the sleet and snow begin. It will be springtime before this place dries out.”

  Mrs. Richards insisted the girls remove their galoshes or shoes and brush the mud off the hems of their dresses on an oilcloth she’d placed on the floor of the entryway. They did their best. Still, it was impossible to clean off all the wet mud, and the keeper’s complaints were almost as bothersome as their plodding through the mud.

  Cora tugged on Mellie’s coat as they ascended the winding brick stairs. “Would you think about attending, Mellie? If you go, I might be able to convince Clara.”

  “I hear you plotting, Cora. I’m not going to any silly dance. I’m saving my money to buy Christmas gifts for Mama and Papa, and you should do the same.”

  When they’d arrived at the spinning rooms, Clara grasped Mellie’s hand. They backed up against the cold, hard bricks while the other workers pushed around them and continued up the stairs. “There’s an opening in the weaving room. I told Mr. Fuqua you were a good worker and he should see about moving you upstairs with us. He said he’d talk to Mr. Comstock.”

  Clara hurried up the steps before Mellie could reply. When she was assigned to the spinning rooms, she hadn’t considered the possibility of being moved to another floor. The idea both excited and frightened her. Working near Cora and Clara would be pleasing, but learning to weave on the looms might prove more difficult than keeping watch over the spinning frames. She was a woman who had always enjoyed a challenge, yet working in the mills had already provided more of a test than she desired.

  Mellie had been at her frames for over an hour when Mr. Fuqua stepped into the spinning room. He stood near the door and spoke to Mr. Comstock for several minutes. The men glanced in her direction while they talked, and a few moments later, Mr. Fuqua gestured. She pointed a finger to her chest, uncertain if she should leave her frames. He nodded in return.

  “Keep a watch on my frames, Gertrude,” Mellie said as she hurried by the girl.

  Both men remained by the door when she approached, but it was Mr. Fuqua who spoke. “You’re being moved upstairs to the weaving room, Miss Blanchard. Bring your belongings with you.”

  She glanced at Mr. Comstock, who merely nodded and strode toward Gertrude. She’d likely be assigned to Mellie’s frames until another girl was hired. While gathering her lightweight cloak and bonnet, Mellie stole a final glance at Gertrude. With the girl’s look of wretched defeat etched in her mind, Mellie followed Mr. Fuqua up the steps.

  Before he opened the door to the weaving room, Mr. Fuqua came to a halt. Even with the door closed, he had to shout. “We won’t be able to talk in there. I’m going to have Miss Winters, Clara Winters, train you on the looms. You’ll work beside her. Listen and learn, Miss Blanchard. I’m fair with my workers, but I expect the same in return. No excessive visits to the necessary, no opening of windows, a note from your boardinghouse keeper or a doctor if you are sick. The contract you signed is valid no matter where you work in the Stark Mills. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then we shall get along just fine.” He opened the door and waved her forward.

  On her first day at the mills, Mellie had been in the weaving room for only a few minutes before Mr. Fuqua had whisked her down to the spinning rooms. Back then, the overseer hadn’t yet signaled to set the machines in motion. But today the looms had been in operation for nearly two hours. It took only one breath to notice the difference. Suffocating heat and humidity draped the room. The girls used handkerchiefs tucked at their waists to dab their brows. The clamminess of the place belied the brisk chill that had seeped through Mellie’s cloak earlier in the morning.

  She took a position beside Clara and forced a smile. The humidity and flying lint strangled her attempts to gain a cleansing breath. She’d encountered flying lint in the spinning room, but it hadn’t compared to this.

  Clara cupped one hand around her mouth and leaned close to Mellie’s ear. “You’ll be tending these two looms.” She dropped her hand and pointed back and forth between the iron devices. Once again she cupped her hand to her mouth. “First you knot your thread, then place the bobbin in the shuttle.” She tapped her finger over a tiny hole at the tip of the shuttle. “The thread must come through the hole.” Holding the tip to her mouth, she sucked in. When she lowered the shuttle, she tugged on the thread that she’d sucked through the hole.

  Mellie frowned. How many other operatives had held that shuttle to their mouths? Somehow the method didn’t seem proper. “Isn’t there some other way to thread the shuttle?”

  Clara shook her head and handed Mellie a shuttle. “Try it.” Mellie sucked the thread through the metal tip and handed it to Clara. After
placing the shuttle in the track, Clara pulled down on the handle. The loom roared to life like a lion released from its cage, the shuttle flying back and forth at breakneck speed while the beams pounded a thundering rhythm.

  Clara grasped her arm and pointed to the take-up roller. “Make certain the cloth stays in proper position on the roller and keep a close watch on the shuttles. You don’t want any snags in the cloth or you’ll hear about it from Mr. Fuqua.”

  Mellie had continued her watch over the loom for only a short time when Mr. Fuqua slowly walked down their row, taking note of each machine and operative. When he arrived at one of Clara’s looms, he leaned down close to her ear and spoke before passing behind Mellie.

  As soon as he’d walked by, Clara moved to Mellie’s side with an empty shuttle in her hand before stepping to an idle machine. She handed a full bobbin and the empty shuttle to Mellie and gestured for her to thread the shuttle. “Mr. Fuqua said for you to begin working your second loom.”

  Though she didn’t feel qualified to operate even one loom, she dutifully followed Clara’s instructions. When yet another monster came to life and added its roar to the banging, crashing, and pounding, she wasn’t certain whether moving to the weaving room had been a sound decision. Could she bear this thundering noise for ten hours a day? She hadn’t pondered the question for long when the jarring clamor lessened. Startled by the sudden change, she glanced to her side. Clara and the other operatives were rushing for the door while her machines continued to clatter. Clara rushed back to her side. “Shut off your looms and hurry.”

  Mellie shook her head. How had the other girls managed to hear the bell? Careful to lift her skirt in one hand, she clambered down the stairs behind the chattering throng. Stragglers from the lower floors wove into their number as they scrambled for the smell of fresh air and food to fill their grumbling stomachs.

  Cora was waiting when Clara and Mellie stepped outside. “Do you like being with us in the weaving room, Mellie?”