delivery area. Charred black places licked up along the bricks.
But most of the looms had survived. Hundreds of threads. Thousands of movements per minute. Alex remained impressed. Before this mill, he hadn’t stepped foot inside a factory since his youth. The success of the mill would be owed to the many hands working so many machines.
Another thought came unbidden. Had his father been anyone other than stubborn, resourceful, dubiously immoral William Christie, work in a factory would’ve been his best opportunity. Otherwise, a life on the streets would’ve been brief and violent, leaving no more lasting impact than a strike of lightning. Instead, he had clawed free. This factory was only one example.
Pride welled in Alex’s chest. He had never quite put those pieces together.
News of his arrival swept over the factory floor like the wind swirling in through that gaping hole. The work did not cease, but idle chatter did. What attention could be spared was directed at him. Rarely had he felt more conspicuous.
Howard McCutcheon met him at the door. “Sir, good to see you here.”
“Thank you for directing the cleanup so soon. How does it look?”
“We’ll need to hire an engineer to be certain, butthe local men with building experience say we were beyond lucky. The structural damage doesn’t extend to the ceiling. The supports weren’t affected.” He shrugged. “For all the fuss and bother, the explosion did less damage than the fire.”
“How so?”
“We lost two looms to the initial blast, but the belts of another five were melted beyond use. The fire also cost several shipments of wool and three days’ worth of finished product. Two horses suffocated. And Mrs. Worth, a weaver, may lose the use of her right hand.”
Alex nodded. The stink of wet ash and burnt wool still lingered. “Thank you, McCutcheon. I authorize you to hire an engineer to confirm that initial assessment. Today. I won’t have these people working any longer than they must in an unsafe building. And I’ll discuss with the board what can be done to compensate Mrs. Worth.”
McCutcheon tipped his head, wearing a slightly puzzled look. “Yes, sir,” he said slowly. “That’s . . . decent of you, sir.”
“And I want a progress report delivered to my office at noon and at the close of second shift every day. Now, bring me Polly Gowan.”
The squat, dark-haired overseer was good enough to squelch his flicker of surprise before turning away.
Alex looked over his new domain, alive with hope. Although the damage would be costly, they could rebuild and repair.
Technically, he was a manager, and he had never been further out of his element, yet the factory felt like his. He had first thought his father’s will absurd,just another attempt to goad his children toward the family business. Then, later, Alex had considered the assignment a means to an end: banishing Josiah Todd from his life.
But this was elemental. This was a chance to prove his mettle, in a way academic success had never quite offered. To make this place his . To stamp it with hard work and ingenuity. What would that be like?
He watched McCutcheon’s progress past dozens of machines as the overseer beelined toward Miss Gowan. She stood before her loom, but the work was far from stationary. Activity twitched down her spine in quick jerks. A plain gold-brown frock hugged her rib cage and flared over animated hips. Her lithe yet sturdy body moved nearly as quickly as the machine, but her elegant neck remained graceful, held at a proud angle while others stooped.
McCutcheon tapped her on the shoulder and nodded back toward Alex. Her jaw dropped. Apparently she hadn’t believed that he would arrive so early at the mill. He enjoyed taking her by surprise.
She took up a tartan shawl that she wrapped around her shoulders and, to Alex’s frustration, obscured the flow of her curves. Silvery light caught the flecks of cotton that salted her clothing, glittering as she
But most of the looms had survived. Hundreds of threads. Thousands of movements per minute. Alex remained impressed. Before this mill, he hadn’t stepped foot inside a factory since his youth. The success of the mill would be owed to the many hands working so many machines.
Another thought came unbidden. Had his father been anyone other than stubborn, resourceful, dubiously immoral William Christie, work in a factory would’ve been his best opportunity. Otherwise, a life on the streets would’ve been brief and violent, leaving no more lasting impact than a strike of lightning. Instead, he had clawed free. This factory was only one example.
Pride welled in Alex’s chest. He had never quite put those pieces together.
News of his arrival swept over the factory floor like the wind swirling in through that gaping hole. The work did not cease, but idle chatter did. What attention could be spared was directed at him. Rarely had he felt more conspicuous.
Howard McCutcheon met him at the door. “Sir, good to see you here.”
“Thank you for directing the cleanup so soon. How does it look?”
“We’ll need to hire an engineer to be certain, butthe local men with building experience say we were beyond lucky. The structural damage doesn’t extend to the ceiling. The supports weren’t affected.” He shrugged. “For all the fuss and bother, the explosion did less damage than the fire.”
“How so?”
“We lost two looms to the initial blast, but the belts of another five were melted beyond use. The fire also cost several shipments of wool and three days’ worth of finished product. Two horses suffocated. And Mrs. Worth, a weaver, may lose the use of her right hand.”
Alex nodded. The stink of wet ash and burnt wool still lingered. “Thank you, McCutcheon. I authorize you to hire an engineer to confirm that initial assessment. Today. I won’t have these people working any longer than they must in an unsafe building. And I’ll discuss with the board what can be done to compensate Mrs. Worth.”
McCutcheon tipped his head, wearing a slightly puzzled look. “Yes, sir,” he said slowly. “That’s . . . decent of you, sir.”
“And I want a progress report delivered to my office at noon and at the close of second shift every day. Now, bring me Polly Gowan.”
The squat, dark-haired overseer was good enough to squelch his flicker of surprise before turning away.
Alex looked over his new domain, alive with hope. Although the damage would be costly, they could rebuild and repair.
Technically, he was a manager, and he had never been further out of his element, yet the factory felt like his. He had first thought his father’s will absurd,just another attempt to goad his children toward the family business. Then, later, Alex had considered the assignment a means to an end: banishing Josiah Todd from his life.
But this was elemental. This was a chance to prove his mettle, in a way academic success had never quite offered. To make this place his . To stamp it with hard work and ingenuity. What would that be like?
He watched McCutcheon’s progress past dozens of machines as the overseer beelined toward Miss Gowan. She stood before her loom, but the work was far from stationary. Activity twitched down her spine in quick jerks. A plain gold-brown frock hugged her rib cage and flared over animated hips. Her lithe yet sturdy body moved nearly as quickly as the machine, but her elegant neck remained graceful, held at a proud angle while others stooped.
McCutcheon tapped her on the shoulder and nodded back toward Alex. Her jaw dropped. Apparently she hadn’t believed that he would arrive so early at the mill. He enjoyed taking her by surprise.
She took up a tartan shawl that she wrapped around her shoulders and, to Alex’s frustration, obscured the flow of her curves. Silvery light caught the flecks of cotton that salted her clothing, glittering as she
Similar Books
