The mindless drudgery of manual labour gave Elijah plenty of time to ponder what to do next. He needed to pry into every corner of the sprawling mill buildings to hunt for traces of the ghost ship Esmeralda. To do that, he needed a plausible excuse to wander the corridors and floors. He doubted Mr Baxter would let him go simply to indulge his curiosity.
At 1:00 p.m. they were given a thirty-minute break to rest weary muscles and to eat their lunch. Luckily Marjory had thought ahead and dropped sandwiches wrapped in brown paper into Elijah’s pocket. Another pocket of his jacket contained a bright red apple.
The workers sat in the sun on the south side of the building. Men, women, and children dropped wherever they could find space. The noise from the mill continued behind them, and a constant vibration ran through their feet from the engines driving all the looms and spinning machines.
“What do you think of your first day?” Manny asked as they sat side by side.
Elijah chewed his sandwich and thought of a reply. “Do you do the same thing every day?”
He wondered how the workers tolerated the boredom of it. For the women in the spinning rooms it was worse. Even conversation was impossible over the noise unless you could read lips.
“Nah. Sometimes we help out on the floors, but most men are too big for the fine work that the women and children do. Or we might be asked to help with the machinery. That’s more interesting.” Manny chewed on a sheep knuckle, ripping the flesh from the bone with his teeth.
Elijah perked up at the mention of machinery. “I’d much rather work with machines than bolts of fabric.”
“So would I. Keep your ears open for when Baxter calls for volunteers. It’s tough work, hot and greasy, but I like to get my hands on something mechanical.” Manny held out his hands and twisted imaginary knobs and pulled levers.
The whistle sounded and people were prompt to pick up their lunchboxes or paper bags and trudge back to the factory floors.
Manny jumped to his feet and grabbed Elijah’s collar. “Come on. Only five more hours and we can knock off and head to the pub.”
Elijah groaned. Never had a day seemed so long, and he had to do it all again the next day, and the next, until he dug out the Hamilton family’s dirty secrets.
Afternoon was taking a slow meander towards dusk when Baxter picked up two large sample books and cast around. Elijah happened to be the only lad at that end of the room and the foreman fixed on him. “You. Hector.”
“Yes, sir?” Elijah had nearly ignored the summons, until he wondered why the tall retainer hadn’t appeared. That jogged his tired memory that he was the new Hector. He placed a box of tall bobbins on the ground and straightened.
Mr Baxter gestured with his head. “Take these to the office. Miss Hamilton ordered them and they finally arrived from London.”
Elijah held out his arms and the foreman dumped the heavy tomes onto him. Then he pointed to one side of the warehouse. “Through that door, along the corridor, and third door on the right. Don’t dally. There’s plenty more work waiting back here for you.”
“Of course, sir.” But he didn’t intend to hurry back. This was his first opportunity to peek beyond the warehouse and he wasn’t going to waste it.
Eli headed through the door and into the long corridor that stretched the length of the building like a spine. On the left were regularly spaced, wide double doors that led to floors for carding, spinning, or weaving. The raw cotton was processed in the mill and moved from one section to another before it was woven into cloth. The steady thrum of machinery was a physical presence that filled the corridors, and the temperature rose as he walked. It was a necessity to keep cotton mills warm and damp to maintain pliable fibres, but it made for an uncomfortable workplace.
He marked off smaller doors on the right, which all seemed to be offices. When he reached the third door, he tucked the sample books under one arm and knocked with his free hand.
“Come in,” a light voice sounded from the other side.
As he pushed the door open, he found Beatrice Hamilton balanced on a stool, reaching for a book. A bookcase dominated the corridor side of the office, but they didn’t appear to be ordinary books. Elijah scanned the shelves. Some books had dates written on their spines. Others were tall volumes with pieces of paper sticking out like bookmarks. It appeared the shelves held ledgers and invoice books stretching back in time.
As Beatrice stretched far left to flick a slim volume free of its tight row, she wobbled on the stool. Elijah had a momentary conundrum. She was a Soarer and he didn’t want to touch her, but he couldn’t watch a woman tumble and fall, even from the short height of the stool.
“Here,” he said, and he dropped the sample books to reach up a hand to steady her.
She grasped hold of his hand for balance and then sucked in a breath.
Heat flared over his palm as her fingers curled around his and a burst of orange escaped from between their clasped hands. Beatrice dropped the ledger and then snatched her hand back to steady herself against the bookshelf in front of her instead.
“I can manage, thank you,” she said. Her fingers gripped the shelf and she stood frozen for several long breaths, her attention fixed on the books right in front of her nose.
Elijah stared at his hand. A tiny flaming plant tendril wavered for an instant and then disappeared to become nothing more than a collection of dust motes dancing on the light streaming through the window.
Impossible. His mind was so bored that it conjured fanciful distractions. He rubbed his hand down his trouser leg and then bent down and picked up the sample books. He carried them to the desk. “Mr Baxter said you were waiting for these.”
“Yes. Thank you.” From the corner of his eye, Beatrice wiped her hands down her skirts in a similar fashion to what he had done. Then she hopped down from the stool and retrieved the fallen ledger.
“Might I ask why you wanted wallpaper samples? Are you redecorating your home?” He had trouble fathoming what the woman was doing at the mill at all. He thought she would be lounging around in a parlour decorated with the feathers of slain ravens.
She moved around the desk, keeping it between him and her. “No. I wanted them for research.”
Now he was curious and he shouldn’t be. He should head back to the warehouse, but a tiny part of him wanted to linger and find out more about her. This was the closest he had ever come to a Hamilton and he might be able to use her. Or that was the reason he told himself, and that it had nothing to do with a spark of physical attraction to the shapely young woman. He reminded himself that she was probably ugly and rotten on the inside. “What sort of research?”
After she dropped the ledger, she pulled a sample book closer to her side of the desk. “Inspiration for fabric patterns. Have you heard of William Morris? He is a designer and his wallpapers are exceedingly popular with women of the ton to decorate their parlours in London. While my uncle insists on manufacturing cottons, I think there is more profit to be made in luxury fabrics like silk brocades that are similar to Mr Morris’s sought-after patterns.”
“Silks are also less damaging to the health of mill workers,” Elijah said. His uncle had converted their family mill from cotton to brocades some decades earlier. Cotton fluff was notorious for clogging up the lungs of workers, eye infections were rampant, and cotton mills were highly combustible, although that was probably less of an issue for heat-loving salamanders.
Slender fingers opened the book at a random sample. Rich blues and greens swirled around behind a large white rose. “Do you know something of mill work?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, palms on his biceps and out of view. Or reach, in case he was tempted to touch her again. “You can’t grow up in a mill town and not know what goes on inside. Too many children are injured while scavenging under working machines, and cotton fluff causes lung problems for the women. Just this morning I saw a girl who couldn’t have been more than eight sent to work on the floors.”
She made a fist and stared at her closed fingers. “I have tried to stop the manager from hiring anyone under the age of twelve, but I am only seldom listened to…” Her voice drifted off and she glanced at him from under half-closed eyes.
He found himself frowning at her. If she wasn’t listened to and had no impact, why did she bother showing up? “Then why are you here? I thought wealthy young ladies were occupied full-time with social engagements.”
“Not that it is any of your business, but I am here to try to bring about change. Or do you think I should be drinking tea and gossiping about the latest hairstyles and fashion?” She opened her fist and laid both hands flat on the book as she glared at him with sparks flaring in her amber eyes.
Elijah had the sinking sensation that he had just trod on a trap. From the books he had read, noble women filled their days with social calls or good works. He didn’t know any who worked for a living. That was what working-class women did. Apart from Aunt Lettie who was pursuing medicine to help her mate, but that was a noble calling. “I wouldn’t dare to presume how you should spend your day. I just wondered why you persisted here if you thought it a futile effort.”
She met his gaze and her fine nostrils flared. “Since you insist on being impertinent and seem disinclined to head back to your work in the warehouse, a position I managed to secure for you—”
“For which I thank you. You didn’t have to do that.” He ground his jaw. The words of thanks to a Soarer were bitter in his mouth. Yes, he had work to do, but something kept him rooted to the spot as he needled her. He wanted to stir her anger. To find her passion. An itch in his palm demanded to be scratched and a tiny voice whispered that if he made her angry, then he could soothe her temper in other ways.
He was an idiot. What he should be doing was tugging his forelock and leaving, not letting himself be drawn closer to a Soarer.
She gave a curt nod of her head. “You helped me and I merely repaid the favour.”
She continued to stare at him and he found himself fascinated by the colour of her eyes. Before he started mooning like a youth in the grips of his first infatuation, he cleared his throat. “You were telling me why you persist here?”
She broke eye contact with him and shook her head, as though to clear a spell that had been cast in the moment. “I want to bring about change for this village. I am well aware of the risky nature of working in a cotton mill. While this building is new and built with steel beams, we are still prone to fires. If I could persuade my uncle to concentrate on the weaving of other fabrics like silk, instead of processing cotton, I believe it could benefit the entire community.” Fire danced in her eyes as she spoke.
He stared at her. What an odd dream. Or did other noble women plot industrial reform in parlours across England? His experience of upper-class women was limited to his aunt Lettie, and she was hardly representative of what her kind did in their free time. “When you have reformed mill work, what will be next? The vote for women?”
“You’re mocking me.” Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms, mimicking his closed position.
He reminded himself that she was a salamander and could turn him into a flaming ball if he provoked her too much. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Not at all. I am fascinated that you would choose to champion the workers who have no voice.”
She arched one auburn brow and then dropped her attention to the desk. Papers were shuffled as she found a clear spot for the sample books. “Did you know that most mills have a thirteen-hour workday, but I campaigned to reduce it here to eleven hours. Not only that, but our employees have a full day off on Sundays instead of only a half day. As a result, overall productivity has risen by five percent.”
He could only stare at her. Soarers were selfish creatures who thought only of themselves. Yet this one worried about the welfare of the people labouring to line her uncle’s pockets. He couldn’t reconcile what he had always been told about her kind with the fiercely passionate woman in front of him.
What if everything he had been told was wrong?
“I have more plans.” She searched her papers and selected a large architectural drawing. “One day, I’d like to move into upholstery brocades.”
He couldn’t fathom why, although the returns were better on silk than cotton. “A more profitable line for your family.”
She dropped the drawing to the desk and rounded on him. “Does it even occur to you that my family supports this village? If there were no mill, most of the people living here would be unemployed and starving. Yes, a change to silk would benefit my family and in turn, it would benefit the entire community which, need I remind you, you are a part of.”
Her hands added punctuation to her sharply thrown words and sparks practically flew from her skin as she spoke. He rubbed his palm as she continued to chastise him, and he wondered what else would raise her passions.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know you, and I was taken by surprise at the depth of your concern to improve conditions for the workers,” he managed to say when she paused.
She drew a deep breath and steadied herself. A brief nod was the only acknowledgement of Elijah’s apology. “Cotton is a difficult fibre to work with, and we have to keep the mill hot and damp to stop it from breaking. I don’t mind the heat, but it takes a toll on the workers. A change in what we produce would make them healthier and, I believe, happier. I have long been petitioning my uncle for the chance to try a silk run, but—” She threw up her hands in a gesture of despair.
He watched her lips as she talked. Setting aside his aversion to Soarers in general, he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss this Soarer in particular. He must be bored to contemplate that.
“I wish you the best of luck in your endeavour. If you don’t have any other need of me, I must return to the warehouse.” He bowed, because it struck him as the right thing to do. When he closed the door, his last image was of her staring after him and rubbing her palm.