Authors: Amanda Grange
‘What on earth
is a scutcher?’ asked Rebecca.
‘That,’ said
Joshua, pointing to a large machine, ‘is a scutcher.’
The machine looked
fearsome to Rebecca. As she watched, she saw how it worked. Men loaded the raw
cotton into a spiked drum; the drum spun around very quickly; and a fan blew
away the dust and the dirt, the twigs and the impurities, leaving the cotton
very clean.
‘This is one
of the machines the Luddites complain about?’ she asked.
‘They are
usually more interested in breaking looms,’ said Joshua, ‘but in general they
are against any kind of machinery that does the job of a man. I can see their
point. But the scutcher does the job of purifying the cotton more quickly and
more efficiently than a person, and besides, the job itself is dull, tedious
and unpleasant.’
‘Bit still, it
is
a job, and it would pay a salary and allow someone to earn their
living,’ Rebecca remarked.
‘As you say,
it would pay a salary and allow someone to earn their living,’ said Joshua. ‘Although,
don’t forget, people are needed to load the machine. Still, there are no easy
answers to the problems facing the mills and the workers at the moment. But machinery
is the future, Rebecca, and we must go forward if we want to survive.’
‘What happens
to the cotton next?’ Rebecca asked, as they moved on from the scutcher.
‘Next it’s
carded, and then turned into a single thread.’
‘Mercy me!’
said Betsy. She followed Rebecca and Joshua into an enormously long, low room
full of more machinery. ‘All this, just to make a bit of cotton material to sew
a dress!’
Joshua
laughed. ‘By the time you buy your fabric at the drapers it’s been through any
number of different processes,’ he agreed.
They moved
onwards and upwards, climbing the stairs to the higher storeys. ‘Here the
cotton is spun,’ he said, as they went into another enormously long, low room
filled with machinery.
‘I never
realized it would be so noisy,’ said Rebecca, finding it difficult to hear and
make herself heard over the clacking of machines.
‘You get used
to it,’ shrugged Joshua.
As if to
underline his words, at that moment they walked past a man who was whistling.
Although Rebecca found it hard to hear the sound over the noise of the
machines, it was clear the man and his fellows were enjoying the tune.
‘I’m glad
there are no ridiculous fines in our mill,’ said Rebecca, remembering that some
mills fined men for whistling.
‘No. Hill, the
manager, is a decent man. He appears to have run the mill very well over the
last few months, from what I can see. I haven’t had a chance to check
everything yet, but so far it all seems to be in good order.’ Joshua stood
aside to let the two ladies pass back out onto the stairwell in front of him. ‘Now
that you’ve seen the mill, I thought you might like to take some refreshment in
the office.’
‘But we haven’t
seen the weaving,’ said Rebecca.
‘We don’t do
that here,’ said Joshua. ‘This is a spinning mill. We sell the yarn to other
mill owners who do the weaving and dyeing needed to turn it into a finished
piece of cloth.’
‘Ah! Very
well. In that case, some refreshment would be most welcome.’
She smiled at
Joshua, and was relieved and pleased to see him smile in reply: a real smile,
not one that involved his mouth without his eyes. It seemed that, despite their
disagreements, they could be friends - at least when talking about matters
relating to their shared inheritance.
The office was
a pleasant room, and was less functional than the rest of the mill. Wood
panelling lined the walls and a thick carpet covered the floor. Opposite the
door a barred window looked out onto the mill yard.
Rebecca looked
at Joshua questioningly.
‘After all the
trouble with the Luddites over the last few years it seemed sensible to take a
few precautions,’ he said. ‘Extra locks were fitted on the doors, and all the
windows were barred.’
Rebecca
nodded. ‘It’s unfortunate, but it makes sense.’
Joshua went
over to a finely-carved mahogany table that was set within reach of the large,
heavy mahogany desk. On it was a silver tray and a variety of bottles and
decanters.
‘Do you always
keep ratafia and seed cake on hand?’ asked Rebecca with a humorous quirk of the
mouth, as she saw that beside the masculine bottles of spirits, more feminine
refreshments had been laid.
Joshua smiled.
‘No. There is seldom any call for them. Ladies are not in the habit of visiting
the mill. But I’m glad you’ve come,’ he said, handing her a glass of the fruity
ratafia, and kindly handing one to Betsy, who was hot and flustered from
looking round the mill.
Rebecca was
surprised but pleased. It seemed he had accustomed himself to the idea of her
taking an interest in the mill.
‘I needed to
see it for myself,’ she said.
She took a sip
of ratafia and ate a piece of seed cake.
‘Is it what
you expected?’ Joshua asked.
‘I’m not quite
sure what I expected, but it is better than I’d feared,’ she said thoughtfully.
Joshua sat
down behind the desk. ‘Your grandfather knew what it was like to be poor,
having been poor himself, and he did not let the desire for profit turn him
into a monster. There are none of the worse sort of conditions here. The mill
is not kept as hot as some of the cotton mills, and there is better
ventilation. Water is always on hand for anyone who is thirsty, and children
are not taken on too young.’
‘However, I’m
concerned about their living conditions,’ said Rebecca.
‘Those are not
our concern.’
‘Nevertheless,
I mean to make them my concern,’ said Rebecca.
‘I thought you
might.’
‘You are
coming to know me.’
‘Yes, I think
I am.’
‘I know my
grandfather was starting to look into ways of providing cheap but clean
accommodation for the workers, but old age and infirmity unfortunately
prevented him achieving anything. However, I mean to look into it.’
‘I can see
that your mind is made up. In that case, I will not attempt to stop you. But
everything can’t be done in a day,’ he said, becoming business-like again. ‘We
will have to take things one step at a time.’
She finished
her ratafia and put her glass down on the leather-topped desk.
‘And now I
must be going,’ she said. ‘You have given me a lot to think about. But before I
do, I have been charged by Louisa to invite you to dinner.’
‘And you,
Rebecca?’ he asked, his eyes looking directly into her own. ‘Would you like me
to come?’
His question
took her aback. She hesitated, but then said simply, ‘Yes.’ The visit to the
mill had dispelled much of the coldness between them and she hoped their
present harmony could last.
His face
softened.
How melting
his eyes are
, thought Rebecca.
She wished for
a moment that she could have accepted his hand: that it had been offered
because he loved her and not because he wanted to protect her reputation.
But what was
she thinking? Such thoughts were ridiculous. He did not love her. And she did
not love him, she reminded herself.
‘I would like
to come,’ he said, ‘but unfortunately I have too much work to do here. I’m
still going over the accounts for the last few months. Hill, the manager, seems
to be honest and efficient, but I have to be sure.’
Rebecca hid
her disappointment. ‘Of course. Well, I must not keep you.’
She stood up.
Joshua stood,
too. ‘I’ll see you back to the carriage,’ he said.
They walked
together back down the stairs to the ground floor, out across the yard and
through the gates to the waiting carriage.
Joshua bent
and kissed her hand. And then he bid her farewell and she climbed into the
carriage, with Betsy close behind her.
Arriving back at the
house, Rebecca repaired to her room to tidy herself before joining Louisa in
the drawing-room. She started to slip her reticule from her wrist when she
discovered it was not there.
‘Have you seen
my reticule?’ Rebecca asked Susan, who was about to help her off with her
bonnet.
‘Your
reticule? Why, no, Miss Rebecca,’ said Susan, looking first of all at Rebecca’s
bare wrist and then casting a glance around the room in case it had slipped off
without her noticing.
Rebecca, too,
cast her eyes around the room, but to no avail.
‘It hasn’t got
caught up in your pelisse?’ asked Susan.
Rebecca
removed her pelisse and shook it out. ‘No. What a nuisance. Where can it be?’
she asked, speaking more to herself than Susan.
‘Are you sure
you took it with you?’ Susan asked practically.
‘Positive,’
said Rebecca. ‘I remember it distinctly.’
She frowned.
She could not bear to think she had lost the reticule, particularly as it had
originally belonged to her beloved mother.
‘Perhaps it
slipped from your wrist on your way upstairs,’ suggested Susan.
‘Perhaps.’
Rebecca went out of her room and proceeded to search the staircase. But the
search proved fruitless.
‘Rebecca . . .
Oh! Rebecca!’ exclaimed Louisa, startled, as she came out of the drawing-room. ‘What
are you doing?’
Rebecca gave a
sigh. ‘It’s too vexing. I have lost my reticule and I can’t find it anywhere.’
‘Oh, my dear,
what a nuisance,’ said Louisa sympathetically.
‘Maybe it fell
off in the carriage,’ suggested Betsy, who was passing through the hall on her
way to the kitchen. But a footman dispatched to search the carriage came back
with the news that it was not to be found.
Rebecca was
resigned. ‘There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to go back to the mill.’
‘But my dear,
it’s dark,’ protested Louisa. ‘Why not leave it until tomorrow?’
Rebecca shook
her head. ‘I don’t like to do that. The longer I leave it unlooked-for the less
chance I have of finding it. I would hate it to be swept up and thrown out by
accident. No, I’ll have to go back. It must have slipped from my wrist this
afternoon. But don’t worry, I won’t be long.’
Louisa nodded,
resigned to Rebecca’s leaving the house again.
Having made up
her mind, Rebecca lost no time in dressing herself in her pelisse and bonnet
once more. ‘I won’t be needing you, Betsy,’ she said to the elderly maid who
had joined in the search. ‘I am simply going to the mill and then coming
straight back.’
‘Of course
Miss Rebecca will be needing you, Betsy,’ said Louisa, contradicting her. ‘You
cannot possibly go back to the mill on your own, Rebecca. What would people
think? In fact, you had better take Edward - Mr Sidders,’ she corrected
herself, ‘with you as well. I am sure he will not mind.’
‘I wouldn’t
dream of it,’ said Rebecca, feeling she had already kept Louisa from her
visitor for long enough. However, realizing that Louisa would not let her go
unchaperoned, she agreed to take Betsy with her and before long the two of them
went out to the carriage again. It had been freshly supplied with stone hot
water bottles for their feet, and thick travelling rugs were once again piled on
the seat.
Before
stepping into the carriage, Rebecca searched the pavement outside the house,
but the search proved fruitless. She stepped into the carriage and put her hope
in finding her reticule at the mill.
The carriage
was soon on its way, and before long it stopped in front of the large building.
The step was let down, and Rebecca was about to get out when to her surprise
she heard a loud snore coming from the corner of the carriage. Looking round
she saw that Betsy was fast asleep! She smiled, then, tucking the travelling
rug snugly round the maid and making sure the hot water bottles were nestling
against her, she stepped out of the carriage.
‘Don’t wake
her,’ she said to Collins, the coachman. ‘I will not be long.’
‘Just as you
say, Miss Rebecca,’ said Collins.
Collins began
to walk the horses as Rebecca pulled her pelisse tightly around herself, for
the day was cold, and went over to the gate. The gatekeeper recognized her and,
with a cheery salute, he let her in. She explained her mission, and he promised
to search the yard whilst Rebecca herself went inside.
She hurried
across the yard, turning the corner of the mill in order to reach the entrance.
As she did so
she saw a man some way in front of her, apparently painting the mill wall.
But why would
the mill wall need painting, when it was made of brick? she wondered. He could
not be renewing the paint on the large white letters that spelt out the name of
Marsden mill, as they were on the front of the building and not the side.
She had an
uncomfortable feeling that something was wrong. She hesitated, taking in the
man by the light of the newly-risen moon. He was of medium height, dressed in
ragged clothes, and wore a misshapen hat. One hand was raised in the act of
painting and the other was holding the pot of paint. Rebecca was just about to
ask him what he was doing, but at that moment he finished his work. He glanced
over his shoulder, and there was something so furtive about the movement that
Rebecca shrank back. He did not appear to see her - thankfully she was darkly
dressed, and was hidden by the shadows - and with a last furtive glance round
he loped away from her, disappearing round the far side of the mill.