Chapter 15

THE PAPER MILL ADDITION IS ENORMOUS. ONCE OPERATIONAL, it will boost Columbia’s paper production by fifty percent. But the equipment that will fill the cavernous brick structure won’t arrive for two weeks, and for now, the place houses the trappings of a party.

Blue-and-white bunting adorns the high windows. At the center are long trestle tables and benches for the anniversary luncheon. Against one wall is a festooned platform—the stage for the boss’s grand speech, no doubt—and above it hangs a banner that reads: COLUMBIA PAPER 10 YEARS.

Of course, Frank’s machine and mine are present, albeit somewhat close for comfort. The partly finished factory only has two drive pulleys installed, and they’re bolted to the floor twelve feet apart. So if Frank and I want mechanical power, we’re obliged to remain within spitting distance. Fortunately, Mr. Yates had the decency to provide us with screens for privacy.

My machine is silent behind its screens. Once I finished connecting it to the drive pulley, I disengaged it. It folded bags without a hitch during three brief tests, but the wooden frame vibrated so intensely, I don’t dare subject it to more before the contest.

Frank, on the other hand, continues testing his. Every few minutes, his machine engages, then halts for an interlude of squeaks and clinks. The sounds echo in the expanse, causing my emotions to alternate between burning curiosity and nail-biting nervousness.

I’m wishing my stare could penetrate Frank’s screens when the mill foreman, Mr. Lovelace, enters carrying a bolt of blue cloth. “It’s a quarter to noon,” he barks. “You two done with the line shaft?”

Frank’s frowning face pops out at the shout. His frown deepens when I answer, “Yes” to Mr. Lovelace. “I’m done, too,” Frank says, but the irritable manner with which he retreats behind his screens indicates otherwise.

As I wonder what Frank could be doing with the contest less than an hour away, Mr. Lovelace heads to the power controls, located just to the side of the festooned platform, and throws the main switch.

The whiz of the main overhead shaft fades. The next time it starts, my machine will be contending against Frank’s. Before that thought can unravel my nerves, two deliverymen appear at the door carrying a long, narrow plank. “Sir,” one calls out, “where do you want this?”

Mr. Lovelace gestures for them to follow him up the platform’s three steps. “Up here.”

The men enter, and I realize their plank is actually a makeshift tray for a cake. The frosted white confection is an artful fantasy of piping and sugar roses, surrounded by a border of fresh flowers. Most impressively, it is a good ten feet long.

“A celebration wouldn’t be a celebration without cake, don’t you think?”

I whirl at the melodious voice to see a dainty woman in lavender silk so lustrous, it would make Eliza swoon. An ostrich-feather hat adorns her head, and beneath its plumes are lively eyes and an expressive mouth. As my brain flounders at the materialization of a fashion plate at a paper mill, she extends a lace-gloved hand. “You must be Margaret Knight. I’m Aurelia Yates.”

Yates … “Mrs. Yates?” I squeak, somehow managing the wherewithal to accept her handshake.

“Yes. I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Miss Knight.”

The warmth emanating from her leaves me at a loss. The boss’s wife is nothing like I expected. That same instant, she chuckles and adds, “I imagine you’re thinking how unlike my husband I am.”

My face burns. “No! I—”

She waves away my sputtering. “We are different; that’s a fact. But that only means I make up for his shortcomings and vice versa. In this case …” She trails off as she glances toward the platform, where Mr. Lovelace is spreading his blue cloth upon a table. “Mr. Lovelace,” she calls out, “move the table forward. Otherwise, the cake won’t make an impression in the photograph.”

Photograph? Excitement thrills through my agitation. Although I’ve seen photographs, I’ve never seen one taken—a photographer’s studio is beyond my pocketbook.

I’m hoping the photograph will include us employees when a thickset matron lugging two large cases and a folded tripod steps inside. “Aurelia, is this the place?” she asks.

“It is. And yonder stage shall frame our tableau.” Mrs. Yates’s arm sweeps toward the platform, where the men are lowering the python-length cake upon the table. “Set up your equipment however you think is best. Mr. Lovelace, would you please assist Mrs. Townsend?”

The foreman scurries over to take her cases, and I realize the lady photographer’s skirt barely covers her knees. As I gawk at the scandalous length, Mrs. Yates says, “Martha Townsend is an extraordinary photographer. It takes technical ability and artistry to truly capture a moment, and she possesses both.”

“I see,” I say, watching the unusual woman survey the room, muttering about light and angles all the while.

“Anyway, Miss Knight, as I was saying about my dear husband …” Mrs. Yates heaves a sigh. “He’s a clever businessman but lacks all sense of pageantry. Left to his own devices, he’d make a speech, toss the masses some roasted peanuts, and call it a grandiose event.”

I laugh to myself. That sounds like the Mr. Yates I know.

“But a ten-year anniversary is a remarkable accomplishment and should be hailed accordingly, especially with Grandfather Pope attending,” Mrs. Yates declares, hands on her hips. “That means decorations, cake, and a commemorative photograph. Special occasions require special measures. And speaking of special measures …”

Her gaze slides toward the door, and I follow it to see Daniel entering with two cardboard boxes in his arms. He jogs over, huffing and puffing, and says, “Mission accomplished, ma’am. I didn’t think they’d finish in time, but I’ve been happily proven wrong.”

“I’ve told you all week, Mr. Mowe, anything is possible with the right encouragement.”

While I wonder what sort of encouragement the boss’s wife employs, she takes a box and says, “If you’d kindly bring Mr. Niebuhr his while I give Miss Knight hers.”

As Daniel trots off, I notice that the box Mrs. Yates holds is marked “MK.” “Today is the company anniversary,” she says, turning to me. “But I imagine the day’s special for you in another way. I don’t know anything about inventing, but when I heard about your competition, I was utterly thrilled. So I thought, ‘Why not give it extra flair?’”

She opens the lid, and my breath catches. Inside is a paper roll the same size and weight as the factory’s bags. But instead of rough, tan manila, this stock is bright white. And printed continuously down the center of the roll in inch-high script are my initials: MK.

“It took some persuading to get my dear husband to agree. He couldn’t fathom why ordinary paper wouldn’t do. But a noteworthy moment requires something more … eye-catching. Not to mention that”—Mrs. Yates’s finger taps the roll—“with your initials all over, there won’t be any question as to whose machine made which bag.”

My eyes go wide. Since my conversation with Daniel last night, I’d wondered whether I could count on an impartial evaluation, but I never expected the boss’s wife of all people to address the matter so directly.

She presses the box into my hands and leans close. “Although I don’t anticipate anything underhanded,” she murmurs, her verbena perfume tickling my nostrils, “I promise I’ll do everything in my ability to keep things fair.”

Keep things fair? How? For someone of her social standing to publicly contradict her husband—especially one as prideful as Mr. Yates—is unthinkable. Yet instinct tells me this tiny woman has her ways of keeping him honest.

Awed, I stammer, “Mrs. Yates, I don’t know what to say.”

Her smile turns sly. “Say you’ll deliver a scintillating performance. One worthy to have your initials all over it.”

She winks, and my spirits soar. “Yes, ma’am!”

A half-hour later, it’s patently clear why Mrs. Townsend dresses as she does. Capturing the hundred and twenty factory workers, plus office staff and management, that pose beneath the anniversary banner requires a lofty vantage. And so the photographer has perched her tripod upon a large crate and positioned a ladder behind it.

The stocky matron displays surprising agility as she scampers up and down the rungs. From what I can tell, photography requires painstaking placement. Mrs. Townsend spent the last three minutes adjusting the tall candles burning on the cake and is now repositioning the mill foremen in the front row. As she barks instructions, I wonder how Mr. Yates, who is frozen in a handshake with his grandfather behind the anniversary cake, feels taking orders from a woman.

Mrs. Townsend remounts her ladder for the tenth time and nods. “Perfect,” she declares, taking out a pocket watch. “Nobody move until I say so.”

As we hold still for the camera, I remember how we gathered similarly to watch Mr. Pope introduce Mr. Yates last autumn. Back then, all the factory hands were female; now twenty men stand in our ranks. Mr. Yates’s arrival certainly brought change to Columbia Paper.

And if victory favors me today, he’ll be obligated to change our pay to match the men’s.

“Done!” Mrs. Townsend closes the camera lens. “Thank you for your patience.”

Applause erupts, and our ordered rows relax into a muddle. Some watch Mrs. Townsend take down her camera. Others, like Fannie, gaze hungrily at the sandwiches and fried chicken occupying the tables. But what attracts the most stares are the two machines, their screens replaced by post-and-rope barriers. I myself am scrutinizing Frank’s machine when Mr. Yates booms, “Attention, please.”

All eyes leap to the boss, front and center upon the platform. Mouth stretched in a grin, he says, “Today is a day of celebration for Columbia Paper. Ten years is a proud milestone, and we appreciate your cooperation in immortalizing this moment for posterity.”

As he speaks, Mrs. Yates beams from the sidelines, seemingly amused to see her husband claim credit for her photograph idea.

“Of course, Columbia Paper could not have attained its current success if not for the efforts of one man.” With a sweep of his arm, Mr. Yates steps aside. “Everyone, please welcome our company founder and my grandfather, Alfred J. Pope.”

Mr. Pope comes forward amid a rain of applause, and Ida murmurs, “The old man still got fight in him.”

Indeed. Mr. Pope’s build has shrunk further, and he leans heavily on his cane. Yet his steps are sure, if slow, and when his mouth opens, the voice that resounds sends nostalgia washing over me.

“Thank you, friends,” says the old boss with unbridled enthusiasm. “Truly, it does my heart good to see you on this happy occasion. I’ve been asked to deliver a few words regarding the company’s history, but I have decided to refrain from that subject. The war years were difficult, we all know that, and I feel no need to dwell on hard times. Rather, I wish to celebrate the future and what my grandson has achieved in one short year.”

He gestures to the newly constructed walls. “This mill addition is a noteworthy accomplishment. I’m awed by his leadership, and I hope that you, his employees, also find it inspirational.”

“Inspirational as a slaver’s whip,” Ida mutters.

“Speaking of inspiration …” Mr. Pope looks to his grandson. “It is my understanding that two employees have a contest of ingenuity today.”

“Yes,” says Mr. Yates, returning to the front of the platform. “Contestants, come forward.”

All of a sudden, fear seizes me. The prospect of mounting that stage, of having all eyes upon me, puts me in a cold sweat. My heart palpitates so violently, I feel faint. But then Ida gives me a gentle nudge.

“Go on, Mattie,” she whispers. “Let ’em have it.” Beside her, Fannie surreptitiously pumps a fist.

Their quiet encouragement steadies my nerves. Squaring my shoulders, I stride up the platform steps. Frank hobbles close behind, thudding an uneven beat on the planks.

Mr. Yates welcomes us with showman grandeur, heralding us as Columbia Paper’s finest, most devoted employees. “In fact, these two mechanics are so dedicated, they have engaged in a competition to build a better bag machine,” he says, gesturing to the machines beside the stage. “As the Good Book says, ‘Iron sharpens iron.’ No doubt their congenial rivalry has brought out the best of their skill.”

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes. Leave it to the boss to recast my rebellious challenge as an endeavor to improve his business.

“Now, the rules.” Mr. Yates clears his throat. “The machine that produces the most half-pound-size, square-bottom bags of salable quality in the span of two minutes will be the winner. Both machines are running on mill power, so the contest begins when the factory line is turned on and ends when it is shut off. I will time the two minutes. Grandfather, would you do the honor of throwing the power switch?”

“I’d be delighted,” replies Mr. Pope.

The boss nods his thanks and continues. “Competitors are allowed to monitor their machines and make adjustments or the like. However, no one may assist them, and once started, the clock will not stop. After the two minutes are over, the bags will be counted by my grandfather and me. As previously mentioned, only salable bags will count. If a bag’s quality is in question, we shall submit it to a simple test.”

He snaps his fingers. To my surprise, his wife approaches. Since the boss arrived at the party, the vivacious woman has melted into the background, the very picture of a demure matron. But at his cue, she steps into the limelight holding a pint tankard, and behind her is Daniel, hauling a pail of sand.

Mrs. Yates’s twinkling gaze holds mine for an instant. Her promise reechoes in my mind, and I’m suddenly positive that the judging will be impartial.

She raises her tankard and Daniel his pail. “If a bag can hold a pint measure of sand, it passes,” Mr. Yates says. “If not, it will be rejected.” The boss then faces me and Frank. “Those are the rules. Any objections?”

“No, sir,” we reply.

“Then shake hands, and let’s begin.”

As cheers fill the air, Frank regards me with an expression hard as a stone wall. For my part, I’d rather kiss an asp than shake his hand. But manners are important, especially before an audience, and we clasp hands.

“May the best machine win,” he says gruffly.

I smile through gritted teeth. “You bet it will.”

As we take our positions, I eye Frank’s contraption. Unlike my gear-driven machine, his is driven by pulleys and belts. I can’t see much beyond that, but with its large, freestanding metal frame, it closely resembles Columbia’s standard bag machines. Not surprising, considering he had free use of company stock.

My machine, on the other hand … I strapped its little frame to a pine worktable to keep its position stable. From a distance, it looks like a crate of parts forgotten on the factory floor.

Appearances don’t matter; results do. I silently repeat the phrase as I make a final inspection of the pulley adapter that has replaced the hand crank.

Alignment is critical in a pulley and belt system. If my pulley adapter is misaligned with the drive pulley, the belt connecting them will run aslant and off the pulleys. However, the two pulleys are straight and square across from each other.

Satisfied, I open the switch that connects the arrangement to the currently idle overhead line. Meanwhile, Mr. Pope is tapping his way to the controls. Once he throws the switch, my wooden machine will be plunged into the run of its life.

That thought turns my stomach, and I slip some tools into my apron pocket, placing the rest in a toolbox by my feet. If something goes wrong, I want them close by. Although repair will be nigh impossible if the parts get busted to smithereens. I notice Frank’s also keeping his tools near.

Mr. Pope’s voice punches through the chatter of the crowd. “Competitors, are you ready?” He stands with his hand on the main switch and excitement on his white-bearded face.

Shoving thoughts of doom aside, I shout, “Yes, sir.” Frank also declares his readiness.

Mr. Pope looks to Mr. Yates on the platform. “At your signal, son.”

Mr. Yates removes his pocket watch from his waistcoat. Members of the office staff, overseers, and even a few factory workers also take out timepieces. A hush falls as the boss positions his watch in one hand and raises the other high. “Without further ado,” says Mr. Yates. “On your mark …”

At the front of the crowd, Fannie crosses her fingers while Ida clasps her hands prayerfully.

“Get set …”

Heart in my mouth, I murmur my own prayer for success.

“Go!”