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Authors: Elizabeth C. Bunce
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and sighed. "He's coming here tomorrow, to take an inventory for the bank. We've got to show him we're worth saving."
Rosie gave a mirthless laugh. "Oh, I'll show him a thing or two."
"I wish you wouldn't," I said. "He did seem awfully sorry about it."
She raised an eyebrow, but squeezed my shoulder. "Things will be all right."
"How?"
"Because you'll think of something. You always do."
I followed Rosie home with none of her misplaced confidence. It was all very well to tell Mr. Woodstone that our stock went to market at the end of summer, but the fact was, we'd never bring in two thousand pounds -- or anything close to it. I'd been hoping to scrape together a few hundred pounds -- enough to pay all my workers, hire a new jackspinner, and replace the broken glass in the spinning room windows.
It seemed all my grand plans would have to wait.
Dinner that night was a stiff and awkward affair, made perhaps even more strained by Rachel's presence, leaning over my shoulder to ladle soup into my dish or refill my glass. Uncle Wheeler kept pausing to give instruction on any number of details she hadn't managed to his satisfaction. The joint was overdone, the aspic was too cold, the wine not what he'd ordered. For Rachel's part, she kept up the serene and patient expression she wore for difficult customers at the bakehouse and said nothing but "aye, sir" and "thank you, sir."
I watched the sumptuous dishes come and go: leek-and-cream soup, braised sweetbreads, stuffed duck; and all I could think of was the mortgage. What had Father done with that kind of money? It hadn't gone into the mill, that much was plain.
"My dear Charlotte, you seem distant tonight. Are you unwell?"
I started and splashed soup onto the tablecloth. "No, Uncle, surely not. Just a long day." My uncle reached out and stroked my arm with his thin hand. Lace that must have cost twenty shillings a yard frothed round his wrist.
"My poor girl. You've had such a strain lately. All this work, on top of your recent tragedy. A delicate constitution like yours needs rest after such a shock."
"She hasn't got a delicate constitution! She's healthy as an ox."
I heard a clatter from the kitchen, I think to cover up a muffled laugh.
"Thank you, Rosie. Uncle, truly, I believe work is just what I need right now, and --"
Uncle Wheeler clucked his tongue. "This is exactly what we were discussing the other night. It's all very well for a lady of consequence to own an enterprise such as your little mill, for an income, of course, or a dowry. But somewhere else, naturally, managed by some competent laboring class fellow, with an agent -- or a relative -- to oversee the finances. But actually running a -- factory -- herself?" He gave a distasteful sniff. "Well, that's hardly done."
"Mam did it," I said a little sullenly.
Uncle Wheeler's green eyes narrowed slightly. "Well. And look where that brought her. I'm very serious, Charlotte. Reconsider your position. I know your father took pride in that Miller stubbornness, but it's hardly a virtue in a young lady."
And whatever thoughts I had of confessing my latest financial difficulties to my uncle went straight out of my head at that.
***
I slept poorly that night and was at Stirwaters early, taking advantage of a few moments' peace to check the cloth drying on the tenterhooks. Like two parallel farm fences, the tenters cross a wide field behind the millpond for thirty-five yards. We could have used a third, but it was one of those vexing mysteries of Stirwaters: The third tenter always fell down, or sagged in the middle, or tore the cloth, or was got at by goats; so we coped with two. That day we had two of Mrs. Hopewell's pieces stretched out, dove grey satinette and a blue flannel, running along the river like its reflection. I walked the rows, checking the cloth for flaws. The cloth had come loose from a couple of the hooks, so I knelt down to refasten it, tugging the selvage taut and even.
"Ahoy,
Rosie gave a mirthless laugh. "Oh, I'll show him a thing or two."
"I wish you wouldn't," I said. "He did seem awfully sorry about it."
She raised an eyebrow, but squeezed my shoulder. "Things will be all right."
"How?"
"Because you'll think of something. You always do."
I followed Rosie home with none of her misplaced confidence. It was all very well to tell Mr. Woodstone that our stock went to market at the end of summer, but the fact was, we'd never bring in two thousand pounds -- or anything close to it. I'd been hoping to scrape together a few hundred pounds -- enough to pay all my workers, hire a new jackspinner, and replace the broken glass in the spinning room windows.
It seemed all my grand plans would have to wait.
Dinner that night was a stiff and awkward affair, made perhaps even more strained by Rachel's presence, leaning over my shoulder to ladle soup into my dish or refill my glass. Uncle Wheeler kept pausing to give instruction on any number of details she hadn't managed to his satisfaction. The joint was overdone, the aspic was too cold, the wine not what he'd ordered. For Rachel's part, she kept up the serene and patient expression she wore for difficult customers at the bakehouse and said nothing but "aye, sir" and "thank you, sir."
I watched the sumptuous dishes come and go: leek-and-cream soup, braised sweetbreads, stuffed duck; and all I could think of was the mortgage. What had Father done with that kind of money? It hadn't gone into the mill, that much was plain.
"My dear Charlotte, you seem distant tonight. Are you unwell?"
I started and splashed soup onto the tablecloth. "No, Uncle, surely not. Just a long day." My uncle reached out and stroked my arm with his thin hand. Lace that must have cost twenty shillings a yard frothed round his wrist.
"My poor girl. You've had such a strain lately. All this work, on top of your recent tragedy. A delicate constitution like yours needs rest after such a shock."
"She hasn't got a delicate constitution! She's healthy as an ox."
I heard a clatter from the kitchen, I think to cover up a muffled laugh.
"Thank you, Rosie. Uncle, truly, I believe work is just what I need right now, and --"
Uncle Wheeler clucked his tongue. "This is exactly what we were discussing the other night. It's all very well for a lady of consequence to own an enterprise such as your little mill, for an income, of course, or a dowry. But somewhere else, naturally, managed by some competent laboring class fellow, with an agent -- or a relative -- to oversee the finances. But actually running a -- factory -- herself?" He gave a distasteful sniff. "Well, that's hardly done."
"Mam did it," I said a little sullenly.
Uncle Wheeler's green eyes narrowed slightly. "Well. And look where that brought her. I'm very serious, Charlotte. Reconsider your position. I know your father took pride in that Miller stubbornness, but it's hardly a virtue in a young lady."
And whatever thoughts I had of confessing my latest financial difficulties to my uncle went straight out of my head at that.
***
I slept poorly that night and was at Stirwaters early, taking advantage of a few moments' peace to check the cloth drying on the tenterhooks. Like two parallel farm fences, the tenters cross a wide field behind the millpond for thirty-five yards. We could have used a third, but it was one of those vexing mysteries of Stirwaters: The third tenter always fell down, or sagged in the middle, or tore the cloth, or was got at by goats; so we coped with two. That day we had two of Mrs. Hopewell's pieces stretched out, dove grey satinette and a blue flannel, running along the river like its reflection. I walked the rows, checking the cloth for flaws. The cloth had come loose from a couple of the hooks, so I knelt down to refasten it, tugging the selvage taut and even.
"Ahoy,
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