Betina Krahn (22 page)

“I—I j-just wanted to see what it was l-like—”

Cole gave a snort of disgust and thrust the boy into someone’s arms, ordering: “Here—take ‘Christopher Columbus’ here to his mother … and tell her to keep him under lock and key.” Then he grabbed his coat and strode out.

It wasn’t until he was well away from the factory, headed up a slope overlooking the village, that he began to calm down and think about what had happened. As he recalled balancing above the whirling machinery, he suffered a startling upsurge of old memories. Grinding gears and shafts, standing above them on a narrow bar of metal, watching the blades twisting and turning below …

Something heavy settled in his chest, squeezing his lungs. Recollections mingled powerfully with present sense—fields of ripened grain, the scent of the dust and the sweet smell of straw as it was cut, the feel of the sun pricking his skin, the chunk of metal gears, groan of wheels, shoosh of blades, and the creak of harness as the reaper turned at the ends of the rows.

He had stood on the top of the mechanical harvester, hanging on, balancing like a tightrope walker, waiting for John Macmillan to stop and order him and Little John down to clear out the rocks and debris that had jammed the machinery. Even on that first day he hadn’t been at all afraid of the height or the whir and snap of the blades; he had felt only a sense of mastery, a pride in being truly good at something. At the end of the day John Macmillan had chuckled at his bravado and called him a born daredevil.

He remembered it as if it had all happened yesterday, with recall so vivid that the re-experienced joy and freedom and sense of belonging made him tremble. And hurt.

Rolling his shoulders to shake off those troublesome feelings, he struggled to shove the memories back into the darkest, most remote recesses of his being. He hadn’t thought
of those days in years—never so vividly. He looked over at the factory building nestled in the valley below, and blamed it and the idealist who ran it for that unnerving remembrance.

Damn and blast, he thought. Her and her precious workers, with their scores of brats climbing all over, running thither and yon without the slightest supervision. The boy might easily have been maimed or killed. Someone had to talk some sense into that woman, and since he appeared to be the only one around with the slightest grounding in reality, it looked like he would have to be that someone. He started back, determined to corner St. Madeline of the Young and Reckless and read her the riot act.

Nearing the factory, he heard a commotion like a scuffling and several raised voices coming from the gardens and quickened his step. Thuds and jangles that sounded like harness noise reached him just before he rounded the bushes and stepped into the main clearing. He was greeted by the sight of four men, two of whom he recognized as Madeline’s “gardeners,” exhorting two massive horses in heavy harness to pull harder on a set of ropes and log chains that seemed to be attached to nothing at all.

It dawned on him that those ropes were likely attached to the infamous “rock” in the middle of the garden—if it could be called a garden. Just then it resembled more a construction site on the London Metropolitan Railway. Huge piles of dirt were banked up on two sides and the shrubs and greenery already present had been trampled beyond recognition. Digging tools were scattered higgledy-piggledy all around, and in the middle sat the largest single boulder Cole had ever seen.

He watched the horses straining and the men adding their efforts on the ropes, all to no avail. He strolled closer and climbed up a mound of dirt to get a closer look. The amount of rope they had tied around the rock would have rigged a full-sized clipper ship. Calling a halt to rest and assess their progress, they noticed him standing nearby, and Roscoe and
Algy came climbing out of the hole, wiping their brows of something Cole was certain must be a novelty for them: honest sweat.

“Yes sir.” Roscoe struck a pose, stuck his thumbs under his braces, and surveyed with great pride the chaos they had created. “A right good bit o’ work, haulin’ out that there rock. A twenty-manner, we reckon.”

“Well,” Cole responded dryly, “at least we know it’s more than a four-man-two-horse-er.” That seemed to make perfect sense to Algy, who nodded earnestly. “Horses are the traditional method, of course. But I am a bit surprised to find you using only two.”

“Two was all we could get, sir. Seems there’s a right good bit o’ plowing goin’ on.” Roscoe looked perfectly serious as he concluded: “ ’Cause it’s spring, we reckon.”

“Most likely.” Cole cleared his throat of the smile he had swallowed. “Still … four or six horses would give you more force and better leverage.”

He left them there, pondering that jewel of advice, and told himself he had nothing to feel guilty about if they went rampaging about the countryside pilfering horses and got caught and were hanged. He would probably have done St. Madeline a favor.

Madeline stood in the middle of the sample room with her hands pressed to her temples, feeling both taut and frazzled, trying to think what to do next. The cutters were trying out Fritz’s new system on the patterns for the children’s clothing, and it seemed to be working. As pieces came up from the floor below, the seamstresses were starting to put them together with the new sewing machines, which were proving quite usable. Maple Thoroughgood was working hard to construct the samples of her bust bodices and knickers—they would be finished anytime now. Mr. Gibbons had assured her the water system was coming along and would be ready for
another—hopefully final—test by the following day. Looking out the sample room window, she saw activity in the garden below, and even if she couldn’t tell quite what it was, it still felt reassuring.

For the moment everyone was actually busy. If Cole Mandeville were to come swaggering in just then, she thought, he wouldn’t have a single thing to complain about.

Cole did come through the door a heartbeat later, and from the tone of his voice as it drifted back from the outer office it seemed he had managed to find something to annoy him. The knot that had begun to loosen in her middle now cinched tight again.

“There you are,” he announced from the doorway. She turned and found him filling the opening—and only avenue of escape—with his excessively wide shoulders and long legs. His face was ruddy and he was breathing hard, most likely from a quick trip up the stairs. “I have something to discuss with you.”

“When don’t you?” she muttered.

“Something must be done about the children running hog-wild about this factory,” he declared irritably. “They are a pure menace to life and limb. Just a short while ago one of the little wretches slipped off one of the rafters above the cutting room floor and narrowly missed being chewed up and spat out by Gonnering’s machinery.”

She scowled. “Theodore. Yes, I heard. But they said he was only—”

“They clog the stairs, distract the workers, poke fingers and God knows what else into every available hole, nook, and cranny—even the machinery. They handle and smudge and plunder and mess—even as we speak, half a dozen of the littlest ones are crawling around the sewing room floor, leaving highly suspicious puddles in their wake.” He looked with indignation at his besmirched footgear. “A fellow never knows what he’ll shove a boot into from one step to the next—”

“Are you quite finished?” She folded her arms to keep them from doing something she might regret later.

“Almost.” He stalked into the room, seeming to push all the air out as he advanced. “This impromptu little scheme of yours—to level society and equalize the social classes by giving them all the same thing to wear—won’t work.”

“You think not?”

“If it were that simple to erase class distinctions—providing that such a thing is even
desirable
—it would have been done long ago.”

“Those women out there”—she strode toward the door, pointing to the sewing room—“are delighted with the prospect of making garments for their children … of seeing them in sensible, long-wearing, and yet stylish clothing. Come and see, if you don’t—”

“Of course they’re pleased.” He caught her by the arm and pulled her back. “They’re getting something for nothing. You’re providing the designs, the cloth, and machines—hell, you’re even paying them wages to produce the bloody things. And in the end, what will be any different?” He loosened his grip. “Nothing, that’s what. The Farrows and the Clarks of this world will still call each other names and push each other into mud puddles, and you will be even deeper out of pocket.” He caught her gaze briefly in his and released her. “They won’t even thank you for it, St. Madeline.”

“I don’t expect thanks,” she said, pointedly brushing her sleeve. “I expect only cooperation.”

“And you’ll play hob getting even cooperation out of this lot.”

“Miss Duncan?” A woman’s voice from the hall startled them both and gave Madeline a chance to escape.

“Yes?” She stepped into the hall to find Maple Thoroughgood there, holding some white cotton garments.

“I’ve finished, Miss Duncan. Here they are.” She raised the bust bodice for Madeline’s inspection, her expression a bit nervous. “They seemed a bit plain without any lace, so I
added a few pintucks to the front. I hope that was all right. The drawers came out fine though.” She held them up and gave them a rub between thumb and forefinger. “Nice, soft goods.”

A bit of initiative at last. Madeline could have kissed her.

“You do wonderful work, Maple.” She reached for the knickers and inspected the seams and hem, then the overall effect. “They’re beautiful!” She looked up at Cole, insisting he admit it too, but he stubbornly refused to concede the point.

“The true test is whether your precious workers will think so.” The look in his eyes was challenging … and expectant.

How had she let him bully her into calling a meeting to introduce her employees to Ideal’s product?

Well, it was too late to back out now.

She stood at the door to the classroom on the first level, taking a mental tally of her employees as they filed in … trying to predict which might be counted on to embrace her reform garments and which might actually be thickheaded enough to object to them. Daniel Steadman and his wife, Priscilla; Maple Thoroughgood and Charlotte; Fritz; Tattersall; and Endicott—all definitely for the garments. Ben and Alva Murtry, Will and Molly Huggins, Bernard and Catherine Rush—probably for. Thomas and Bess Clark—possibly against. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Calvin Ketchum—probably for. Harley Ketchum—probably against. Roscoe Turner and Algy Bates and that other fellow they had talked her into hiring—what was his name? Rutherford … Egbert … Hubert …

Rupert!
That was it. She watched Rupert’s squinty-eyed examination of the room and his fellow workers and tried to imagine his reaction to producing unconventional ladies’ unmentionables. She groaned silently.

The previous evening she had been so confident that her workers would wholeheartedly endorse her garments and her mission. But now, by the cold light of day, watching their dubious faces and recalling their less than enthusiastic response to things like producing free clothing for their own children, some of her confidence was eroding. By the time they had taken all the seats and filled in the spaces between chairs and against the walls, her palms were dampening and her mouth was dry.

“Welcome,” she said, walking to the front of the room and reminding herself to keep to the strategy she had outlined in the sleepless hours before dawn. “I have had a chance to greet most of you as you arrived in St. Crispin, and over the last few days I have come to know some of you fairly well. Each of you was chosen for a special task here, and each of you is a valuable part of our factory and community. And since you are such an important part of the Ideal Garment Company, I want you to know that I value your ideas and your opinions and welcome your suggestions. It is my intention that in time you will feel comfortable expressing your concerns and offering suggestions for improving our company and village.”

She smiled and paused to take stock of their reaction.
So far, so good. A yawn or two, but no one was asleep and no one was leaving
.

“You know that we intend to produce women’s garments. All of you have seen my garments, my tunics and trousers. These are what are known as ‘reform’ garments. It is my hope that one day we can produce garments like the ones I am wearing. But as it has been said, we must learn to crawl before we learn to walk. Our first product will be much more basic to women’s wardrobes, and far more helpful. For too long physicians have warned us of the dangers and health problems resulting from tight lacing. Well, I intend to produce and sell garments that are a healthy alternative to severe, constrictive corsets and stifling layers of petticoats.”

A number of heads that had been drooping popped up at the mention of corsets and petticoats. Suddenly all eyes were on her—including Cole Mandeville’s. He had just strolled into the room and now leaned against the wall to her left with crossed arms and a faintly amused expression.

“Maple Thoroughgood, our head seamstress, has been working on sample garments of the kind we will produce first.” She nodded to Maple, who rose and lifted the sample bust bodice from a flat box on the table at the front.

This was greeted by frowns, shakes of head, and shrugs. They clearly didn’t know what to make of it.

“This is called a bust bodice. It is meant to be worn next to the skin as a replacement for a corset, corset cover, and chemise, or the chamois combination worn by ladies of quality.”

There were still so many looks of confusion that she took the garment from Maple and held it up to herself, smoothing it over her bosom to show where it would be worn.

The light began to dawn. A loud whisper came from the back.

“Why, it’s a titty binder.”

Braced though she was for any negative reaction, she was caught a bit off guard by that simple, somewhat incredulous pronouncement. And she blushed. Right in front of Cole Mandeville.

“I-it will provide modesty and support for a woman’s body without boning or heavy layering. And it opens down the front to allow a lady to fasten it herself. Only a small percentage of women have the luxury of a lady’s maid, yet society continues to insist on fashions that require help putting on and fastening. Our Ideal bodice can change that forever.”