A Perfect Silhouette Page 8

  As they neared the store, Mellie frowned. “When did Olive and Charity join you? They weren’t along when we parted at the photography shop.”

  “They told me they weren’t going, but then they showed up just before lessons began. Charity said she already knew how to dance, but it sure didn’t look like it once the music started. Her partner kept complaining that she was stepping on his feet.”

  Cora giggled, yet Mellie didn’t join in. Ever since she’d caught the pair reading her journal, Mellie had avoided both Olive and Charity as much as possible. She’d been relieved when Olive had finally moved downstairs, where she now shared a room with Charity. As far as Mellie was concerned, they were cut from the same cloth and would likely enjoy each other’s company.

  Cora and Mellie joined the group, and they walked toward home, the girls laughing and chattering about their dance partners. When they stopped before crossing the street, Olive moved to Mellie’s side. “I’m sure glad to see you, Mellie. There’s something we need to talk about.”

  Mellie’s earlier excitement over the new position at Mr. Harrison’s shop fizzled like water poured on a fire. Mellie remained silent and continued moving. No need to ask what Olive wanted. Questioned or not, Olive would make her wishes known.

  She nudged Mellie’s arm. “I’m planning to wear that pretty blue shawl of yours tomorrow evening when my beau comes calling for me. You know the one I’m talking about? It’s got that real fancy edging?”

  “Yes, I know the one, but our agreement didn’t include shawls or any of my other belongings. Only dresses.”

  She leaned close to Mellie’s ear. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. I want to wear that shawl, and if I don’t have it in my room by tomorrow evening, I’m going to have a fine story for my newspaper-reporter friend.” Her warm breath smelled of onions and the peppermint she’d likely sucked on to sweeten her breath. It hadn’t helped.

  And it hadn’t sweetened her behavior, either.

  Chapter

  eight

  “MORGAN! GO WITH JOHNSON. THERE’S A WORN BELT IN the weaving room in Stark Number Two that needs to be replaced.” The overseer’s hands remained cupped to his mouth until Morgan picked up his toolbox and strode toward Harold Johnson’s workbench.

  The older man waved his acknowledgment to the overseer, picked up his tools, and grinned at Morgan. “Let’s go, young fella. Looks like you’re gonna get another lesson today.”

  Back when Morgan had reported to Mr. Hale for the first time, the machine shop overseer had expressed doubts about Morgan’s lack of experience. Still, he’d agreed to give Morgan a fair chance before making a final decision about his abilities or his future. In turn, Morgan had agreed to take instruction from an experienced mechanic. “You’ll be an apprentice of sorts,” Mr. Hale had told him. That said, he introduced Morgan to Harold Johnson, a man close to his own father’s age.

  When Morgan had addressed him as Mr. Johnson, the overseer was quick to correct him. “Around here, the men are known and addressed only by their surnames.” He then glanced down at Morgan’s paper work. “I see your name is William Morgan, but around here you’ll just be Morgan. Understand?”

  Delighted with the arrangement, Morgan had nodded his agreement. Ever since he’d decided to change his name, he’d been worried that he wouldn’t respond when someone addressed him as William. At least in the workplace, he wouldn’t have that concern.

  The two men shrugged into their coats before exiting the low-slung building that housed the mechanics, who constructed and serviced the machinery used in the mills. An unexpected blast of air hit them as they exited the building. Morgan tugged on his cap and lowered his head against the cool wind. “Seemed warmer when we got here this morning.”

  Johnson grunted. “From the look of those dark clouds, we probably got us another thunderstorm moving in. Can’t tell about the weather this time of year. Or any other time for that matter. One thing’s for certain in New Hampshire—there’s gonna be lots of winter and not much fall, spring, or summer, so we’ve got to enjoy any weather that don’t include snow or ice while we can. ’Course the ankle-deep mud caused by these recent rainstorms isn’t any fun, either.”

  They walked across the canal bridge, their work boots clomping a steady rhythm on the wooden slats. Morgan bowed his head against the gusting wind. Johnson might think the weather fine, but Morgan wasn’t convinced. “Think this will take long?” He clamped his jaw tight to stop his teeth from chattering.

  “Better not. Them overseers in the weaving rooms get mighty angry if their machines are down for long. But I say they got only themselves to blame. They’re supposed to check those belts at least once a week to make sure they ain’t worn.” His chest rumbled with a low laugh. “’Course, I ain’t about to say that to any of them. They’d for sure report me to Hale, and I don’t want that.” He nudged Morgan’s shoulder. “And neither do you.”

  Morgan would make a note of Johnson’s remark this evening. Whenever one of the men mentioned something that could be changed to make things operate more efficiently, Morgan jotted an entry in a small notebook he carried in his pocket. Since he’d begun work at the shop, he hadn’t returned home for a visit. Instead, he’d sent two letters to his father describing his work assignments and his living conditions at the boardinghouse. In both letters, he’d cautioned his father not to respond to his letters. Any mail coming to the boardinghouse was received by the keeper, and she seemed an inquisitive sort. Morgan didn’t want to take any chance of being discovered. In his last letter he’d promised to make a brief visit when he could safely get away. In truth, he feared that if a visit wasn’t soon forthcoming, his mother would take matters into her own hands—and he didn’t want that to occur.

  The entrance into the mill offered relief from the wind and threatening storm. They weren’t in the weaving room for long before both he and Johnson shed their jackets and hats. The overpowering heat and humidity soon erased all thoughts of the cooler walk from the mechanics’ building and replaced them with memories of a long-ago summer vacation in Charlotte, North Carolina. The humidity had been so overpowering that his mother had insisted upon a hasty departure.

  He wondered if his mother or father had ever stepped foot in one of these weaving rooms. Most likely not, for the humidity alone would have dissuaded them. And the thunderous clamor of the machines would be sufficient to turn his parents in the opposite direction. Yet the conditions in the Stark Mills were no different from those in Lowell or any of the other textile-producing mills around the country. Pointing out the working conditions to his father would be of little consequence, as he already knew they would be ignored. He’d overheard his father discuss such matters with the other owners, and they always came to the same conclusion: Conditions in their mills far exceeded those in England, and they could all be proud of the care and provision their workers received. However, Morgan wasn’t so sure of that.

  The weavers charged with operating the looms dependent upon the shut-down line shaft appeared less than pleased to see them arrive. No doubt they were grateful to have a short respite. Johnson leaned close to Morgan’s ear as he pointed to an upper portion of the leather belt that slipped over an iron gear near the ceiling and traveled through an opening in the floor down to the basement where it was slipped around a flywheel. When power from the turbine set the crown gear in motion, the leather belt circulated on the flywheel, traveling up to the weaving room and creating the needed energy to power the looms.

  The overseer rushed across the room toward them, his face glistening with perspiration. “Get that belt replaced immediately! This whole section of looms is unproductive.”

  Johnson focused on the belt for a moment. The thick leather had a weakened spot that was nearly worn through. He stepped close to Morgan. “Go down to the basement. I’ll pull on the belt and move the worn spot downward. When it gets to you, give it a tug so I’ll know to stop. Then use that saw blade in your toolbox and cut it. Pull it through on
ce it’s cut. Shouldn’t take much to saw through that worn leather.” He pointed to the spot. “If one of those belts ever breaks, it could kill anyone in its path. The gears could swing it every which way until it was under control.” Morgan didn’t miss the look of condemnation that Johnson directed at the overseer. Either the overseer hadn’t heard Johnson’s remark, or he chose to ignore it. Morgan decided it was the latter. He also decided he’d record this item in his journal. While maintaining a high humidity might be the only way to keep threads from breaking during the weaving process, there was no good argument for using worn belts that placed the workers’ lives in danger.

  Removing and replacing the belt had taken longer than the overseer had hoped—and he hadn’t failed to let Johnson know how he felt about it. Johnson didn’t bother arguing with the overseer.

  He continued replacing his tools in the wooden toolbox. “If you’re not happy with our work, you can send word to John Hale, our supervisor in the machine shop. My name is Harold Johnson.” He tipped his head toward Morgan. “And this is William Morgan. Just in case you want to mention us by name. After reviewing your complaint and talking with Morgan and me, I’m guessing Mr. Hale will be quick to file a report with management.” He shrugged into his coat. “Anyway, that’s what he usually does when he gets a complaint.” Johnson gestured toward the door. “Let’s be on our way, Morgan.”

  Morgan followed Johnson down the spiral staircase, worry dogging each step he took. The moment they were outside the mill, Morgan came alongside Johnson. “Do you think he’s going to take you up on your suggestion? It almost sounded like you wanted him to report us.” The last thing Morgan wanted was for some overseer in the weaving room to write a scathing report about his work. Mr. Hale would likely terminate him. After all, the supervisor hadn’t been keen on hiring him in the first place.

  Johnson barked a laugh. “I was calling his bluff. He won’t do nothin’ ’cause he knows he’s in the wrong. If I report what we saw in there, he’s the one who will be in trouble. I don’t know if he’s been reported before, but if he has, he’d lose his job this time. Those worn belts are dangerous, and the overseers have strict rules about making sure they’re in good condition.”

  “But it would be his word against ours. Hard to tell who they’d believe.”

  Johnson shook his head. “No, it ain’t. They’d believe us.” He slapped a hand on his toolbox. “I cut out that piece of worn leather, and I made sure he was watching when I stuck it in my toolbox. There’s a work order that shows exactly where we went to replace the belt plus the name of the overseer.” He clapped Morgan on the shoulder. “No need to worry, lad.”

  Once they returned to the mechanics’ building, Morgan put down his toolbox, shrugged out of his jacket, and hung it on a metal wall hook.

  “Morgan! Over here!”

  He startled and spun around. Mr. Hale was waving for him to hurry. The urgency of the supervisor’s command and his frantic gestures were enough to erase Johnson’s assurance that the weaving room supervisor wouldn’t report them.

  As Morgan wended his way through the workbenches and machinery, Mr. Hale continued to wave him onward. Drawing closer, Morgan caught sight of a man about Mr. Hale’s age, wearing a suit and holding an overcoat across one arm.

  Mr. Hale grasped Morgan’s elbow as he approached. “This is the young man I was telling you about, William Morgan.” He turned to Morgan. “This is Cyrus Baldwin. I mentioned his circular weaving machine to you when you first applied for your position here.”

  Mr. Baldwin extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Mr. Hale tells me you’ve acquired some education in engineering and expressed an interest in the design of my new machine.” He glanced at Mr. Hale. “We’ve been discussing possible production. Mr. Hale assures me that since the tradesmen here in Manchester can produce all of the equipment for the mills as well as locomotives, there should be no problem producing my circular looms.”

  Morgan glanced back and forth between the two men. “But you disagree, Mr. Baldwin?”

  He hiked a shoulder. “My primary concern is one of time and also willingness on the part of management. I have faith in the men who work in Mechanics’ Row, but I’m hoping to arrive at a time for completion of a prototype. While I prefer to have the looms made in Manchester and see them put into production at the Stark Mills, there are others who have shown an interest in my project. I’d like to have a reliable opinion on how long it would take to produce a prototype and, using my detailed drawings, how much it would cost to do so. I’ve spoken briefly to Mr. Stark, and once I’m armed with the necessary information, I can present it to him and ascertain if it’s possible to move forward with the project.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be very eager to hear your proposal.”

  “We’ll see. I’ve heard a few rumblings that financing the project may be problematic. So, if you’re willing, I’d like you to work with us on development of the proposal. Mr. Hale believes there may be some new machinery required to produce certain parts of this loom, and I agree.” He patted Morgan’s shoulder. “We’ll see what you think once we’ve inspected the equipment in the other mechanic shops.”

  Morgan tamped down his excitement, and for the rest of the day he remained careful, both with his questions and with the knowledge he had regarding Mr. Baldwin’s invention. By the time the three men had parted, Morgan was certain of one thing: He must speak with his father, and soon.

  Several of the unmarried mechanics joined Morgan on their return to the boardinghouse that evening. “We’re going into town after supper, Morgan. Care to join us?”

  In truth, he didn’t want to go into town, yet he’d already turned them down several times. The last time, a couple of the fellows made comments that maybe he thought he was too good for them. If he was going to discover ways to improve conditions in the mills, he needed to maintain a rapport with the men. “Sure, I’ll go along.”

  It wasn’t until they were on their way that one of the fellows mentioned the dance classes at Granite Hall. “We don’t care about the classes, but it’s a great way to meet girls,” one of them said. “And it’s worth the three cents he charges us. It’s only two cents for the gals, which I don’t agree with, but Mr. Vance says he wants to be certain we’re there for the dance lessons.”

  Another fellow guffawed. “Even if he charged five cents, it wouldn’t be the lessons that interested me. I met a real sweet gal the other night. I’m hoping she’ll be there again this evening. She promised she would be.”

  “Well, if she’s not, there’s sure to be others who are just as nice,” yet another called from the back of the group.

  “You interested in dancing lessons, Morgan?”

  Morgan inwardly groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was attend a dance class. “Can’t say as I am.” He slowed his pace. “But I am interested in photography. I think I’ll stop in here and have a look at what kind of equipment the owner has in his shop.”

  The group stopped outside the glass window, and one of the men chortled. “You’re not fooling me, Morgan. You’re going in there to meet that pretty gal sitting in the window.”

  Morgan winked and grinned. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not. You fellows go on and meet your gals at Granite Hall, and I’ll take my chances here.”

  They all laughed. “Your odds are better if you come with us,” one of them hollered as they continued on their way.

  Morgan waited until they were out of sight before entering the shop. His comment about photography had been truthful. He did have an interest in photography, but it was the delicate paper cuttings displayed in the window that had captured his attention. A moment later, he’d caught sight of the lovely girl. There was something familiar about her; she reminded him of someone he’d seen before. And yet he couldn’t place her. Without a doubt she was one of the most composed young women he’d ever observed. Even with passersby stopping to stare at her working in front of the window, she remained intent upon her task.
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  A bell jingled when Morgan opened the door. She looked up at him and smiled. “Good evening. Are you interested in an ambrotype? Or perhaps you’d like to view the paintings on display in the shop?” When he shook his head, the young woman continued, “We also have framed paper cuttings for sale. If you’d like, I can cut a silhouette of you while you pose for me.”

  He nodded. “I’d very much like a silhouette, thank you.” He pointed to several framed silhouettes on a table behind her. They were of different sizes. He pointed to the largest one. “I’d like mine to be that size.”

  “The larger ones are eight cents. The smaller size is five cents.” She hesitated. “Do you still want the larger size?”

  “Yes.” He glanced at the stool opposite her. “Do I sit there?”

  She nodded, got up, and moved the stool a bit closer. “Sit facing the rear wall, please. I need a good view of your profile while I cut.”

  He positioned himself on the stool with his feet propped on one of the rungs. “I promise I won’t move a muscle.”

  She smiled as she returned to her chair. “So long as you don’t talk while I’m cutting, we’ll do fine. I doubt you’d be pleased if I portray you with your mouth open in your finished silhouette. Why don’t you wear your cap? If you don’t mind, pull it forward just a bit.”

  He did as she requested and promised to remain silent until she was finished. It was while he sat staring at the wall that he recalled where he’d seen her before. She was the woman from the train station, the one who had dropped her book—a French novel—which he’d retrieved for her. During their brief encounter, she’d said she was going to work in the mills. He wanted to ask her if she’d been hired there and how she was faring, but he dared not. He’d been dressed as a member of the gentry during that meeting, and today he was a member of the working class. He couldn’t reveal his identity and risk the consequences that might follow. If his fellow workers discovered he was the son of an owner, they’d never speak to him again. And the loss of trust among the workers, who would think he’d been placed with them in order to spy on them, might never be regained. No, he couldn’t reveal his identity—not now.