CHAPTER TWO

That night Alice was almost too exhausted to lift a spoon. She had to force herself into her seat in the boardinghouse dining room before reaching gratefully for a slab of cheese and bread and eyeing a bubbling pot of beans in the middle of the table. She was suddenly ravenous.

The table was quieter than it had been at breakfast. Alice looked toward the other end and saw Delia slip into a chair, her head kept down. A rough knit cap was pulled tight around the girl’s ears, hiding the stubby remains of her ginger hair. A dull-red stain was visible behind her right ear.

“You’re bleeding,” Alice ventured.

Delia’s hand flew to her ear. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly.

“Oh, but it should have a dressing.” No one said anything, and Alice could sense the hovering presence of Mrs. Holloway behind her. Maybe she was violating some unspoken rule.

“All mill accidents are small ones,” Lovey said cheerfully, breaking the silence. “We’re too competent a crew to risk our jobs over little things. Right, girls?”

“You’re making fun, again,” Mary-o said.

“Well, isn’t an almost-scalping a good joke on us all?”

“Enough.” Mrs. Holloway looked unsettled. “Nothing bad happened. This was carelessness, pure carelessness, on Delia’s part. Isn’t that right, Delia?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Delia murmured.

“Pass your soup bowls to me. And get in the habit of proper laundering of your clothes; I’m tired of seeing chemises scattered about. You need to be dressed properly when the president graces us with a visit.”

“Have faith, Mrs. Holloway, that’s several fortnights away. We can scrub and iron everything by then, I’m sure. Is our Lyceum attendance mandatory, then?” Lovey asked innocently.

The clatter of bowls being passed to Mrs. Holloway gave her a few moments before answering. “It is indeed,” she finally said. “But you’ll all be given new green silk parasols to carry when the president greets you, which should please you.”

“I love green,” Mary-o said happily.

“Can we keep them?” Lovey asked.

“We will reserve them for special occasions.” Mrs. Holloway’s voice was tensing.

“And I assume we each have to pay the usual fifty cents to attend?”

The room fell silent again as Mrs. Holloway carefully put down a bowl and folded her hands, looking directly at Lovey. “What is your point, please?” she said.

“I think we’re being trotted out to make the mill owners look good in President Jackson’s eyes, that’s all. And when it’s for their benefit, we shouldn’t have to pay.”

“Well, perhaps you should raise that issue with the Fiske family. Several of them, including old Hiram Fiske, will be there.”

“Perhaps I shall.” Lovey’s eyes held, for an instant, a dangerous glitter.

Alice wasn’t quite sure what to do after the tables were cleared. A few girls disappeared into their respective dormitories, then reemerged with baskets of rolled yarn and knitting needles and drifted into the great keeping room. Jane could be heard complaining about somebody’s britches tossed on the floor near her bed. Alice peeked in and saw her plumping up her pillow and scrubbing out the communal washbasin, grumbling away to herself.

“When Jane’s not praying, she’s nagging us about the mess. She can’t stand disorder of any kind,” Lovey said drily. “Not of the mind and certainly not on the floor.”

Alice followed the others into the keeping room. They called it the parlor, which seemed a fancy name, but it was of generous size. An old but lavishly patterned wool rug, worn thin in spots, reached almost to the corners. There was plenty of room for several chairs and even a settee covered in a rough-textured linen. The girls carrying their baskets of yarn were settling into the chairs, their chatter lively. Little Ellie sat cross-legged on the carpet, playing with jackstraws. Alice spied an unexpectedly ornate desk tucked into one corner of the room with a magazine lying open on it, the reader’s place held by a glass paperweight in the shape of a pineapple. She looked closer at the title on the cover and, yes, it read The Lowell Offering. Her fingers itched to pick it up. It meant the story spread from farm to farm along the coast was true: there was in the magic town of Lowell a literary magazine the mill girls wrote themselves. Girls like herself could write and publish poetry and stories without pretending to be male; no need to hide. She reached for it, then hesitated. It was a rude thing to do, to ignore the fact that some absent reader had staked her claim with the paperweight.

In the center of the room was an ancient grand piano, clearly the proudest item of all. The keys were yellowed, and one foot pedal looked broken, but two girls were already vying to sit in the straight-backed chair substituting for a piano bench.

Mrs. Holloway opened the front door at the sound of a discreet knock. An elderly man, lugging a sackful of books, stepped inside, tipping his hat and nodding to the mill girls. “Finally got Walter Scott’s Fair Maid of Perth, first one up here gets it,” he announced with a grin.

“He brings us the lending library,” Lovey said, seeing Alice’s confusion. “He’s a very popular man. A good number of the girls are readers here. Not me, I’m too twitchy to sit still long.”

One of the girls began to play, a simple tune that Alice recognized but couldn’t place. At home, she rarely heard the piano. She looked around to speak again to Lovey, but Lovey had slipped outside. Alice hesitated, then quietly opened the door and followed her. Lovey was sitting on the front steps, looking up at the sky.

“How did you know so fast what had to be done today?” Lovey asked, without turning around.

“I saw a woman’s hair get caught in a tractor’s rotating shaft. One of the farmhands cut it off with a knife and pulled her out,” Alice said.

“Was she hurt?”

“They got her out too late.” Alice closed her eyes at the memory; would that she could have then.

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

Lovey was silent for a long moment. Then, still not turning around, she pointed to the sky. “Full moon,” she said. “It dims the stars, but it’s still nice. Now look carefully—what do you see?”

Alice stared at the milky planet, puzzled. “Nothing, really.”

“Oh dear, where is your sense of romance? Look harder. See? On the left is a man, and on the right is a woman. They’re kissing.”

Bemused, Alice looked again. And there they were, two lovers on the moon; she had never seen them before, and now she would see them forever.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” she asked.

“I would have no objection.”

Shivering, Alice sat down on the step and looked around. The moonlight had bathed the rough-surfaced road leading to the mill in a silvery glow that was almost otherworldly. Like a painting, she thought. She felt a quick moment of longing for the brushes and small pots of paint she had been forced to leave behind at the family farm. Her father would probably throw them out, but at least she had saved the books.

“You’re wondering why I was provoking Mrs. Holloway, I suppose.”

“I’m just trying to figure out how things work here. I knew you were angry.”

“Perceptive. About what?”

“I would be much obliged if you told me.” Alice was freezing now, and her arms were aching from the day’s work. She needed to find her place here, to know when to keep her head down, when to seize opportunity. She would not dwell on it; it would rob her of the thrill of having pushed her way out of a narrow life. But it was the next step, and the one after that, that mattered now. She glanced at Lovey’s profile against the porch light. She didn’t look as if she could be defeated by anything.

“There’s plenty to be angry about,” Lovey said. “None of us wants to lose our jobs, so we can’t say much, but look how they treated Delia. The mill isn’t safe, but we don’t have any way of fixing things, and the Fiskes—those pompous people—know it. They’re hypocrites, too. All that cotton making them rich comes from the labor of slaves, but none of them wants to think about that.”

“But without the cotton—”

“We wouldn’t have the jobs that make us feel rich, right?”

“Are you afraid—”

“Of being fired? Yes, but I’ve been fired before.” Lovey’s tone was matter-of-fact. “They’ll try to do it again. It won’t be banishment by Mrs. Holloway; she just likes to threaten. She’s one of those sorrowful widows without a penny; not such a bad person, actually.”

“What would you do?”

“Go to another mill where they don’t know me. The important thing is not to care; that’s what keeps me free.”

Alice reflected on that for a moment. To not care was the spice of life for a permanent wanderer, but it wasn’t for her.

“Where is your home?” she asked.

Lovey turned her face full toward Alice’s, putting it into shadow. “I grew up in Fall River, but I’m not welcome there, according to my father. You might watch being around me, Alice—I’m a bad influence.” She laughed. The sound of it was like water bubbling in a pot on low, light and airy, with a tease at the end.

“Where do you feel at home?” Alice asked.

“I don’t know such a place.”

“Not here?”

Lovey sat silently, picking at a fingernail. “Sometimes. The girls are a good sort.”

“I don’t know such a place, either, at least not yet,” Alice said. “I’m seen as something of a troublemaker where I come from.”

“Really?” Lovey glanced at her with renewed interest. “Tell me. I love troublemaker stories. Where were you born?”

“On a farm, same as you, I suppose. My father tried being a blacksmith for a while, but he couldn’t make a go of it. We ended up as tenant farmers.” Alice paused at the memory of watching her father, a grin on his face, pounding an iron bar over a fiercely hot fire. It would bend to his will; it always did. And so did I, she thought. Well, mostly.

“Did you go to school?”

“I finished secondary school. Won my certificate of completion last June.” She hoped Lovey wouldn’t see her pride as boasting.

“So why are you here? Helping out your father sounds a little too noble to be the whole story.”

“I want to be independent. To be on my own and do things I choose to do,” Alice said. “I never fit in on the farm. Some of the neighbors in our village were glad to see me go.”

“Why?”

“I made them nervous. Once I took a single board and a rope and fixed it so I could swing from a tree out over a cliff. It was glorious, until the landlord’s daughter tried it and the rope broke.”

“I hope this story doesn’t have a bad end.”

Alice smiled. “I grabbed her; we slid down the side of the cliff a short way, but we were fine.”

“And you lived to tempt fate another day.”

“I left, truly, because I couldn’t bear it anymore. I had a suitor, but he was too content with his lot for me. Marrying him meant never leaving farm life. I heard about the mill, and I knew it was going to be the only way I could escape, but…” She paused. Memories of that last night at home were excruciating. Her father had ordered her to stay, shouting from the kitchen even as she packed. Yes, he had lost the blacksmith shop. Yes, he was a miserable farmer, but it was her duty to stay, he said.

She couldn’t.

“My father said he would be ruined financially if I didn’t stay and marry Jebediah.”

“So you ran. Maybe we are a little alike.”

Alice hugged her knees close and bowed her head. “I told my father I could help better by working in the mill, but I don’t think he will ever forgive me.”

“Do you think about what you want after this?” Lovey asked, nodding toward the mill.

Alice nodded. Most people would laugh, but she sensed Lovey would not. “It’s just a dream, but I want to paint, even sculpt, someday,” she said.

“What does that feel like?” Lovey asked almost shyly.

“It’s hard to explain—but I love holding a brush, dipping it into pots of color, touching it to paper or canvas, and seeing something appear, something I made, nobody else.” It didn’t have to be painting in front of an easel; she would bargain with fate on that.

“How do you get time?”

“At night, when my father was sleeping. I would make cameos.” She drew in a deep breath. “I love making cameos, catching the light just right, making someone’s face come alive. Maybe, even if I’m not good enough, I could teach children to paint, to reach out, to hold a brush with confidence—oh, I’m talking too much.”

“No, no, I love hearing about it. Now, if you’re teaching those children, be sure to tell them not to let anyone, man or woman, tell them they’re wasting their time.”

Alice laughed. “I will. Now, what about you?”

“I want what I lost,” Lovey said, almost dreamily. “There was a man, and I was quite sure we were going to be married; he had proposed, after all. But I made a dreadful mistake. He left me, decrying the fact that I was no longer a virgin.” Her words were without inflection. “It was a scandal at home. My father said, ‘You learned your lesson too late. No man will buy a cow if he can get the milk for free.’ Fancy that, he called me a cow.”

“What a cruel and stupid thing to say!”

“Well, thank you,” Lovey replied, casting Alice a slightly surprised but gratified smile. “Many people would agree with him.”

“Could you defend yourself?”

“Not very well. I’ve had more practice since.”

The distance between them seemed to be shrinking. She could confide her own remembered blows here. “When I was a child, my father kept saying I would come to a bad end if I didn’t stop fighting him.”

“Well, and here you are,” Lovey said merrily. “I’ll tell you a secret. I write my mother letters, and she never writes back.”

“Is she sick?”

“No, she just doesn’t care.”

“That’s worse than terrible,” Alice said. Lovey’s mood had darkened so abruptly, she wondered if she was about to cry. But no, just a long sigh, and the two girls sat for a while again in companionable silence.

“I want other things, too. I don’t know, I like to punch little holes in puffed-up people.” Lovey flashed a wry smile. “Now there’s a plan for life, wouldn’t you say?”

“Of course. You could run for president, maybe.”

This time they chuckled in unison. Then Lovey said something unexpected. “Do you think bad girls are redeemable?”

“Yes.”

“All of them?”

“I’m not religious at all. I don’t think anyone’s going to hell, if that’s what you mean,” Alice said. Coming to that decision had started another argument with her father last year; hard to tell which one was the final spark that had sent her packing for Lowell.

“I rather like the Methodists better than the Calvinists on that sort of thing; at least they offer salvation. The others, you probably know how they are—bad is bad, and no redemption. Poor old Mary-o is enthralled with those new revivalists who like to dance themselves into a frenzy praising God. People are swooning over their preachers. She talked me into going to one of their camp meetings last month.”

“What was it like?” The Methodists Alice knew back home cluck-clucked about the self-proclaimed revivalists roaming through New England who claimed church membership; either that or made jokes about them.

“Much hollering and singing. I promised to go again, mainly because of the preacher, very intense. He’s intelligent, more than you can say of most of them. Poor Mary-o, she thinks she’s making progress trying to convert me. I haven’t the heart to tell her it won’t work.” The laughter again; that sound of bubbling water. “Want to come with us?”

Alice hesitated. She had had quite enough religious fervor from her father. “I don’t know, I’ll think about it.”

“Fine, let’s not stay so serious,” Lovey said, jumping to her feet. “Let’s go inside and sing along with Mary-o’s piano playing.” She cupped an ear to the sound of the piano. “My heavens, I think we’re hearing ‘Rise Gentle Moon’ for the hundredth time; she loves that one.” She gathered her skirts, adding with another laugh, “I’m not really making fun; I’m very fond of Mary. She’s a decent sort and no hypocrite.”

She stopped, her hand on the front doorknob. “So?” she asked, glancing up at the moon. “Do you see the man and the woman?”

Alice smiled, her spirits up. “Yes,” she said. “I see them.”

“Good, I would have been a bit worried if you hadn’t. Isn’t it nice that somewhere, if not here, people can be in love?”

The week went by slowly, so slowly Alice at times despaired. Her aching arms and burning feet grew worse each day as she struggled to master working the loom. The ringing in her ears from the constant clatter and banging of the machines wouldn’t stop. Thirteen long hours a day. Yet her determination was building as she watched the other girls. She would become as good as they were; she would train herself, and soon she would be able to handle six looms at a time, too. Every day she carefully cleaned away the wispy particles of cotton and dust from her loom, wishing only that she could open a window to clear them from the air. Impossible, she was told. The air had to remain moist inside or the cotton would dry out, and anyone who opened a window ran the risk of being fired.

At night it was back to the boardinghouse for beans, pancakes, applesauce; finally, sleep. Sometimes the girls went straight to bed, but most lingered in the parlor. Alice, claiming a rocker, began rereading her mother’s old copy of Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, too tired to take on more than a few pages at a time. But she always managed to thumb through The Lowell Offering. Stories, poems—it made her proud to be a mill girl.

The best moments were sitting out on the porch with Lovey. She was filled with funny, mocking stories that made Alice laugh and forget her aching muscles. They discovered they both hated plums and loved the color blue, and they both had once excelled at doing cartwheels. On the fourth day, Lovey challenged Alice to a contest on the frozen grass, to see who could do the most cartwheels in succession. With laughter and clapping from the other girls gathered on the porch—and ignoring her burning feet and aching arms—Alice won. Oh, how free it felt!

And every night she would drift off to sleep to the sound of Jane murmuring prayers, of Tilda’s knitting needles clicking long past lights-out, of Delia, her head still covered in a cap, snoring faintly with her little sister cradled in one arm. Since the accident, the child would sleep only with her sister, never apart.

Alice felt a measure of new contentment. Just a drop at a time, but it was real.

Finally, payday. When the closing whistle shrieked on Saturday at noon, Alice shut down her loom, awash in relief. She had done well. Now came the reward. A buoyancy of spirit swept the room. Laughing and joking, the girls shoved cold hands into the pockets of their coats and half ran out of the mill, across the bridge, heading toward the stairs of the Boott Boardinghouse. The lights were on in the parlor. Their precious time off had arrived.

“Look!” Mary-o spread her arms up to the sky. “It’s snowing!”

Small flakes of snow were indeed drifting lazily to the ground.

“Ah,” Lovey said, tipping her face to the sky as the snow began falling faster. “Fancy this, the Fiskes have ordered a March snowfall to dress the town up!”

Tilda gave a rich chortle, leaned down, cupped a handful of flakes into a meager ball, and threw it at Lovey. “But we make the snowballs!” she cried.

And then in an instant they were all laughing and ducking and running for the porch—a group of girls who, Alice realized to her delighted surprise, had somehow not forgotten how to play.

Within an hour the short flurry of snow had turned the ground to mud, bringing moans of frustration from the puddle-jumping girls as they walked together into town.

Alice drank in everything. To the right of the road, there was a small park carved out of rolling terrain with picnic tables and benches. A child’s rocking horse, its colors faded, stood still, waiting for spring. Just past the park was a school, another building fashioned solidly from red brick. Next to it rose the white steeple of a church—could this be Saint Anne’s? Alice looked questioningly at Lovey, who nodded, not even needing to hear the question.

The closer they got to town, the busier the road grew. Carriages with drivers seated high, smartly cracking whips with a light touch, clattered by. A cluster of women in crisp suits and hats was gathered around a small pastry shop, examining its wares through a glass window. The door was open, and the fragrance of freshly baked bread wafted through the street. Across from the pastry shop was a pharmacy, its mortar-and-pestle sign so shiny and bright, it could have come directly from the U.S. Mint. In fact, the entire town looked new and vigorous, and all faces were as bright as the glittering signs and storefronts.

Alice inhaled deeply, not joining the grumbles from the other girls about the mud. She was here, finally, in the town of Lowell, the magical place girls whispered about back home. She was part of it now, with a week’s wages in her pocket.

Lovey abruptly gave her a hard nudge.

“Look, over there, by the bank,” she said.

Alice followed her gaze and saw two men standing in front of the arched stone entrance of the imposing Fiske Bank, nodding greetings to the mill workers filing past them into the grand building. Even from a distance, the taller man had a large, well-carved face and exuded a gravity of manner. He wore a black greatcoat with velvet buttons and carried his hat in his hand, revealing dark, well-trimmed sideburns. He stood stiff as a soldier, bobbing slightly as the mill girls passed by.

The younger man couldn’t have been more different. He had a ruddy complexion, displaying broad shoulders under his linen shirt and wide green cravat as, coatless, he exchanged hearty greetings with men in the crowd.

“The one with the coat is Samuel, and the cheerful-looking one is Jonathan,” Lovey said. “I don’t think they like each other much, but the family trots them out together to make everybody feel grateful once in a while. Aren’t you lucky? You get to see both of them at the same time. Now watch this.”

Grabbing Alice’s hand, Lovey quickened her step and marched up the steps of the bank. “Good morning, Mr. Fiske,” she said with almost-languorous ease to the man in the linen shirt, twirling her parasol. “You do remember me, I presume?”

Jonathan Fiske seemed startled but almost instantly flashed her a smile. “Of course,” he said with a slight bow. “Do remind me, where have we met?”

“Nowhere, actually. But you have on several occasions winked at me.”

A quick guffaw, a sly glance in his brother’s direction, then a move closer to Lovey. “Well, I shall do so again. No harm in winking, right? And who’s your friend?”

“This is Alice, new to the town. Feel free to wink at her, too, from time to time.”

A mortified Alice tried to pull free, but Lovey held firm to her hand, a reckless light in her eyes. Her bit of theater was drawing attention. Townspeople glanced over their shoulders, then bent their heads together, whispering. Heads were shaking; here and there a snicker.

“It appears this young lady wants to enter the bank,” said Samuel Fiske, his deep voice cutting through the murmurings as he looked toward Alice.

“Indeed, I want to open an account,” Alice said, freeing her hand from Lovey’s and tipping her chin high. She felt sharply aware of her faded coat with its threadbare collar.

“Well, then, welcome. We certainly won’t stand in your way.” Samuel Fiske opened the massive carved door and gave her a stiff little bow, his manner, she imagined, like that of a host ushering a customer into a tearoom. She caught a flash in his eyes as he shot a cold glance at his younger brother.

“Just having a bit of fun,” Jonathan said, annoyed, his flirtatious grin disappearing. He turned back to Lovey, leaned down, and whispered something in her ear.

“Why did you do that to me?” Alice said furiously after Lovey later joined her inside.

“It was just a lark—my goodness, are you really upset? I’m sorry, I feel like tweaking their noses every now and then. What’s wrong with a little flirting?”

“Not with them. We work for them.”

“So what? I like surprising the important men of industry.”

“I’d rather surprise them by learning everything I can and moving up in the world.”

“Alice, don’t tell me you’re shrinking back like some little mouse,” Lovey said.

Alice shook her head emphatically. “My mother taught me to take risks and be brave when it counted, not just to play.”

She regretted her words instantly when she saw the expression on Lovey’s face.

“My mother—,” Lovey began, looking a bit lost. She stopped.

“Maybe we’re both trying to be brave but in different ways,” Alice amended.

“I’m sorry for drawing you in like that,” Lovey said slowly. “It matters to me that you like me. Please forgive me.”

They stood awkwardly in the crowded room, hovering at some kind of crossroads. Lovey clasped her hands in front of her so tightly, the tips of her fingers were white.

“I’m being self-righteous,” Alice said finally. “I’m sorry, too.”

The look of relief on Lovey’s face held no artifice. “Thank you,” she said.

Alice held up a small green passbook, unable to contain her pride. “See this?” she said. “I just deposited my pay, and I will add a dollar every week. My father will get out of debt, and I will be independent.”

“I’m happy for you,” Lovey said. “I’ve never had the discipline myself. But—oh dear, I hope you saved a little for shopping in the company store.” Her usual teasing mode was back again.

“Maybe,” Alice said cautiously. “Will I be able to buy something worthwhile for a dollar?”

“Come with me,” Lovey replied, breaking into a grin. “I will be your guide.”

The company store was dazzling. Alice walked the aisles, amazed at the array of velvet bonnets, colorful shawls. She stared a long time at a showcase of bracelets adorned with glittering chips of colored glass, then watched as the other girls tried things on, preening and laughing in front of oval gilt-edged mirrors. Lovey was admiring a bangle of gold and silver on her wrist, her eyes dancing.

Then Mary-o was twirling on her toes in front of them. “Isn’t this beautiful?” she said. She had donned one of the scarves, a beautiful piece, made of light silk shimmering with many shades of blue. “When I went home the first time, all the neighbors sniffed and held up their noses,” she confided. “I was a factory girl, not genteel enough for them, nobody important. But now they see me as a grand city lady, coming home with new fashions and ideas. Now I am somebody,” she finished proudly, twirling again in the beautiful shawl.

“She will buy the shawl,” Lovey murmured. “And then complain all week that she has no money.”

Guiltily, Alice stared at an array of splendid bonnets and fingered the dollar in her pocket. She reached out, lifting one from its stand, holding it aloft. What gave it that shape—was it wired buckram? Yes. It had an arched crown and sloping sides that formed a halo over a woman’s face. The outer covering looked like tan silk, with edging strips of brown velvet. The bonnet was topped with a sheer cream-colored bow that matched the ties for under the chin. Alice caught her breath. She had never seen anything like this.

“It’s muslin, of course,” Mary-o said. “But it looks a little like silk, no one except you will ever know. Here, try it on.”

The girls watched silently as Alice put on the hat and Mary-o tied the strings in an artful bow. “Look at yourself in the glass,” she said.

Alice stared; she was not used to seeing her own reflection. She hardly registered her wide-spaced deep-blue eyes; her precise, delicate features. She noted only that her smile was one of startled pleasure; she was looking at the bonnet.

“It’s the most splendid thing I’ve ever seen,” breathed Mary-o.

Lovey turned to the salesclerk behind the counter. “How much for this hat?” she asked.

“It’s a copy of a very expensive one that is the latest fashion,” the clerk replied. “The buckram on this one isn’t as sturdy, of course. But it is a great bargain.”

“How much?” Alice repeated.

“Fifty cents.”

Her hand went into her pocket. Would there ever again be a moment quite like this? Out came the dollar, which she flattened smooth onto the display case.

“Then I shall buy it,” she said in a firm voice.

“I have no box; you’ll have to wear it home. And mind the weather, any rain or snow will ruin it.”

“I will quite possibly never take it off.”

Lovey laughed that full rich laugh again, enough to buoy them all as they left the store and headed back to the boardinghouse.

An errant puff of wind caught them halfway home, swirling under the brim of Alice’s hat, tugging it enough to loosen the ties and blow it aloft. She snatched for it in vain. “No!” she cried, horrified. The bonnet was heading for a brown puddle of mud; it was gone. She couldn’t bear it and closed her eyes.

“Ma’am?” A reedy, hesitant voice.

Alice’s eyes shot open. A tall, gaunt man with long limbs and thinning white hair in a coat with sleeves that exposed bony wrists was standing next to the puddle, her hat safely in his hand.

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. He seemed in a hurry; he mumbled something, handed her the hat, and started to move on.

“Hello there, Dr. Stanhope,” Lovey said breezily. “You certainly came along at the right time.”

“Yes, Miss…” He seemed at a loss for words, glancing from one girl to another.

“Cornell. Don’t you remember us? You gave us all those nasty smallpox injections a few weeks ago.”

“Indeed. Good day,” he said firmly, nodding his head and walking quickly away, leaning on a cane. He walked in something of a jerky fashion, like a marionette on strings. Perhaps it was because of the cane, or perhaps he was just conscious of the bemused stares following him.

“He’s a strange one,” Lovey said. “Not exactly crusty, but as reserved as a stone.”

“Who is he?” Alice asked.

“Benjamin Stanhope, the company doctor. How he ever got this job, I don’t know. Taking care of hundreds of women? He can’t stand to connect with anybody. I’ll wager he’s never lifted the skirts of a female patient to see what goes on past her britches, that’s what I think.”

Delia tittered. “Lovey, how shocking of you. Well, he’s all we’ve got. He gives us pills, anyhow. And he saved Alice’s hat; that speaks well for him. Let’s get home, and, Alice, tie those strings tighter this time.”

The winter sun faded quickly as they trudged on through the town, down a cobblestone road, past a row of neat houses built especially for the mill agents. How warm and cozy they looked, with lights glowing inside. Alice spied a woman through one window, reading under an astral lamp. She looked content, calm, without worry. Someday that will be me, she promised herself silently. Someday. She held tight to the ties of her bonnet, now knotted firmly under her chin, as she climbed the stairs of the boardinghouse. Her elegant hat would not escape again.