Betina Krahn (32 page)

Over the next two days productivity rose only slightly, but there was a marked increase in the energy Ideal’s workers brought to the task of making garments. Here and there workers stopped Madeline to make a suggestion, to relate something they had experienced, or to ask for something they needed to do their jobs better.

Madeline was delighted to see a number of the women taking it upon themselves to devise simple decorations for the knickers and bust bodices. She asked Endicott to speak to the women about his ideas and about ways they could embellish the garments and make them even more aesthetically pleasing. Soon there were a number of experimental variations under way. It was surprising what a creative bit of stitching or a simple flounce could do for both the appearance of a garment and the attitude of the woman making it.

Each evening, after everyone had gone home, she walked around the sewing room, looking at the garments in progress and trying to make peace with what was happening to her dream. She picked up the knickers and an occasional bodice, trying to absorb the changing reality of what she had developed and trying to chart a mental course for what was yet to come. It was so difficult. The future had no safety nets—not for her factory, nor for her heart.

Cole waited downstairs to walk her to her house for dinner. When she reached the front doors, she paused and looked around at the hall and up the stairs.

“It isn’t at all what I had planned.”

For a moment he was silent. Then he nodded. “It never is. That’s one of the interesting things about life. You live it twice, once in your dreams and again in your days.” He took the key from her as they stepped outside and locked the doors. “The two versions are never the same. And who is ever to say which is better?”

She smiled and slid her fingers over his, watching with
wonder as he opened his hand and intertwined his fingers with hers.

“Whichever version allows me to do this”—she covered their joined hands tenderly with her other hand—“has to be the best.”

The next morning, when she arrived at the factory, two disheveled figures were sprawled on the doorstep, waiting for the doors to open. In a heartbeat they were on their feet and scrambling down the steps to meet her.

“There ye are, miz!” Roscoe said, rubbing his palms nervously on his dirty woolen trousers. “Bet ye wondered what become o’ us. Well, I’ll tell ye—we been figuring how to fix yer garden. Reckon we owe ye that. I said that to Alg here … I said, ‘Alg, we got to do somethin’ to fix things for Miz Duncan.’ ” Algy nodded vigorous corroboration. “So we come back. An’ this time we’ll get ’er done. That garden will be a pure wonder by th’ time we’re through!”

Roscoe and his dim wick of a partner were dirty and unshaven and looked like they’d slept in a haystack. Bits of straw and the occasional thistle burr were stuck to their rumpled clothes. Only their hats had escaped degradation.

But what got to her was the look in their eyes, the sobering recognition of their wrongs and the irresistibly earnest hope of forgiveness. They wanted to set things right, to prepare and plant the garden as a way of making amends. They believed it was possible to get a second chance.

She stared at them for several moments.

“I should probably have my head examined,” she said quietly. “But, all right. You have one more chance to patch up the garden and put it all right.” She shook a finger at them. “And I’ll be watching every move you make.”

No one was more surprised than Madeline when Daniel Steadman came hurrying to the door of the sample room the next morning, red-faced and out of breath.

“Miss Duncan, you’ve got visitors!” he said excitedly. “A carriage just drove up, right to the door. Fancy rig too. You’d best come and see.”

Visitors? Madeline put down the box of pins she held for Endicott, glanced at Cole, who was standing uncomfortably on an overturned box in his shirt-sleeves with fabric pieces draped over his shoulders, and exited for the front doors. Cole seized the opportunity to escape. Over Endicott’s protests he cleared his shoulders of fabric, reached for his coat, and headed after her.

Daniel was partly right. There was indeed a carriage stopped in front of the factory. But now three more carriages and a handful of riders on horseback were visible, picking their way along the rutted and difficult lane, presumably on their way to the factory as well. As Madeline stepped out the front doors into the misty morning, a tall, slender man unfolded from the carriage, dusting himself off and resettling his gray top hat with particular precision.

“May I help you?” Madeline asked as she descended the steps toward him.

The fellow gave her an insultingly thorough visual examination, focusing on the scarlet tunic and trousers she had decided to wear again, on an occasional basis.

“You must be the proprietor of this establishment,” he said crisply, making it sound an unenviable position. Madeline couldn’t help thinking that he looked as if he had made a lifelong habit of sucking lemons.

“I am Madeline Duncan, owner and proprietor,” she said. “And you are …”

“Sir Reginald Horbaugh, Member of Parliament. I have come, madam, to inspect your premises.”

“Inspect?” When she didn’t either quail or acquiesce immediately, he grudgingly modified his demand.

“With your permission, of course.”

“Not in an official capacity, then?” she asked, annoyed by his condescension.

“Not strictly speaking. However, since I am a member of the white-paper commission on the employment of women and children, I believe it would be in your best interest to open your doors for inspection … certainly in light of the reports that have been made in the papers.”

“Reports?” Madeline looked over at Cole, who had now joined them. “In newspapers?”

“I’ve made no reports to newspapers,” Cole assured her, “and I cannot imagine Sir William releasing the observations I have sent him in confidence.”

Sir Reginald took in Cole’s dress and noble demeanor with a skeptical sniff. “You must be Lord Mandeville, overseer of this controversial enterprise.”

“I am Lord Mandeville,” Cole said icily, “and I have been named the court’s appointed observer and agent with regard to Miss Duncan’s garment company. May I ask what articles you saw and in which newspapers?”

At that point the riders dismounted. Then the other carriages pulled up before the factory and emptied a motley assortment of people onto the rutted yard. They shook out their clothes, dusted their hats and bonnets and sleeves, and looked around at the Ideal factory and Madeline with bald curiosity.

Shortly thereafter she was inundated by a dozen people, all of whom seemed to know one another by sight and most of whom seemed to find the sight of one another somewhat disagreeable. They began talking all at once, over each other’s heads and behind each other’s backs.

Overwhelmed by the confusion, Madeline’s gaze fell on the person nearest at hand—a robust, bearded fellow with rather coarse features and a ruddy complexion who had planted himself before Sir Reginald.

“Horbaugh, what are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I’ve come to see if what I’ve read is true, and if so, to
see that this festering carbuncle of socialism is lanced before it can spread to infect more of our pure English countryside,” Sir Reginald declared haughtily. “I might have known
you
would be here, strutting and crowing …”

“I’m not at all convinced there is anything here to crow about,” the fellow said, then turned to Madeline with fire in his eyes. “William Morris, madam.” He presented himself to Madeline and used his nod of respect as an excuse to study her person. His eyes widened when they reached her trousers. “I am something of a craftsman, businessman, and friend of the laboring classes—”

“Oh, I know who you are, Sir William,” Madeline said, her eyes alight, brightening her entire countenance. “In fact, I’ve long been an admirer of your work—from your poetry to your essays on craftsmanship and the principles of design, to your views on the nature of mass production. I dare say … they have strongly influenced what I am trying to do here.”

“And just what are you trying to do here, young woman?” The imperious question came from a bespectacled older woman dressed in dark, severe garments. With her were two other similarly dressed women. “Flout society’s rules and the Almighty’s laws … coerce people into heathen, free-loving communes?”

An answer came unexpectedly from the rear of the crowd. “She is trying to build a business and rebuild a village society. She is trying to give the poor a chance to better their lot and trying to point the way to a new era of humane and efficient production.” Out stepped none other than Gilbert Duncan, dusting off his riding breeches and boots with his gloves. He removed his hat and held out his hand as he approached.

“Gilbert!” She held out her hand, surprised to find a familiar and friendly face among the group. “What are you doing here?”

“Dearest Cousin Madeline,” he said, pulling her close
enough to drop a kiss on her cheek. “I came as soon as I could, my dear. It’s an outrage—that’s what it is. A vile fiction someone has dreamt up to stir controversy and sell newspapers. And I have told them so, assailed them roundly for their despicable treatment of you.”

She looked up into her handsome cousin’s silver-gray eyes and dazzling smile. “What treatment of me? Will you please tell me what this is all about?”

“The article,” William Morris explained crossly. “In the
Pall Mall Gazette
—published in two parts this last week. Stead himself sent me copies in the post and asked me for a response. How can I respond, I said, when I haven’t the slightest idea what it’s about?”

“Article,
humph
. A call to arms is more like it,” the severe old woman corrected Sir William. “I mean to see this squalor and degradation for myself!” She pushed past Gilbert and led her troops straight for the steps.

“Squalor?” Madeline moved to block the way, but Gilbert distracted her.

“I’ve brought you a copy of the article and my own response—which they deigned to print in its entirety.” He produced an envelope out of his inner breast pocket and handed it to her. “Pay no attention to them, Cousin. I’m certain that when these people see what is going on, they will find nothing that will not reflect glowingly upon your splendid ideas and generous heart.”

“But who are these people, Gilbert?” she asked in a frantic whisper.

Cole, who had been watching these proceedings with a shuttered look on his face, now spoke up.

“I believe the woman determined to root out ‘free love’ is Mrs. Sylvia Bethnal-Green, leader of the South London Temperance and Morality Union,” he told Madeline. “It looks like she has brought a few of her cohorts … including Brigadier Abel Dawes, pamphleteer and apologist for London’s moralistic old Whigs. On the other hand, the petite
woman in the fashionable hat is, I believe, the labor unionist, Mrs. Annie Besant. Unless my eyes deceive me, the gentleman in the plain woolens is Joseph Lane, founder of the Labor Emancipation League … and an infamous ‘free lover.’ And the others are—”

“Edward Carpenter.” A modest, middle-aged man with a bookish look about him paused to introduce himself. “Scholar, political observer, and writer. I wish to make a study of your efforts here … with an eye toward their effects on the democratizing of factory work and management.”

“Henry Broadhurst, madam.” A well-dressed fellow tipped his hat. “Morris insisted I come along. I must say”—he glanced back at the village green and the neat stone cottages—“this is not at all the prison it was made out to be. We shall want to see some of the workers’ accommodations as well.” He turned abruptly and joined Carpenter on the steps, saying with obvious relief: “Well, I for one cannot smell any raw sewage.”

Madeline tore into the envelope and read the scandalous article while Cole looked over her shoulder. As she read, she gasped, clutched her throat, and reddened.

“Misrepresentations, half-truths, and outright lies!” She looked up at Gilbert, then at Cole. “How could they possibly … who could have …” She looked again at the by-line and the name
Rupert Fitch
fairly smacked her in the eye. “Fitzwater—Fitch—it was that miserable little worm that Roscoe and Algy talked me into hiring!” She stared at Cole. “He came here just to get material for this bit of rubbish!”

Cole put a steadying hand on Madeline’s arm.

“Madeline …” He nodded toward the lane. There coming toward them were two more coaches and another rider on horseback.

“Oh, no!”