Chapter 23

STANDING BESIDE MY BED, I CONTEMPLATE THE MONEY I’VE laid atop the patchwork quilt. It’s a combination of Columbia Paper earnings, funds my mother sent, and coins from odd jobs around the neighborhood. All told, it amounts to one hundred and five dollars. I’ve never possessed so much, yet it’s not enough. At least, not for Mr. Burnham.

I bristle as I recall yesterday’s confrontation. When Mr. Burnham laid his conditions, I was sorely tempted to take my machine and go. However, his assertions about machinists and female customers gave me pause. I’ve suffered contempt as a woman mechanic; I can’t expect better as a girl seeking a patent. And if I burn the bridge with Mr. Burnham only to find no replacement, where would that leave me?

So my machine remains with Mr. Burnham for the time being. Best to keep the bird in my hand until I determine whether any others are in the bush. Eliza’s positive another machinist will offer better terms. I hope she’s right, but if she’s not, I must conjure another ninety-five dollars.

“Mattie.”

I jolt at Mrs. MacFarland’s voice in my ear. As I’m wondering how she’s suddenly materialized at my elbow, the parlor clock chimes three, and I jump, this time into a dither. “Our call to Mrs. Kerner! I’m sorry, I’ll be ready in a moment.”

Mrs. MacFarland whips up a hand. “My dear, as I have been trying to inform you for the last minute, I am canceling our visit, the weather being what it is.” She points to the window, where a downpour assails the glass.

“Oh … yes, of course.”

As embarrassment sears my cheeks, Mrs. MacFarland glances at the money on my bedspread. “I take it your patent model weighs on your mind. I won’t pry, but if you need a sympathetic ear, this old woman has one to lend.”

My fluster dissipates. I’d resolved not to bother Mrs. MacFarland with my troubles. After all, she is Eliza’s grandmother, not mine. But her kind expression beckons my heart to unburden itself, and I say, “Actually, I would very much welcome that ear.”

We sit side by side on Eliza’s bed. I don’t know where to begin, so Mrs. MacFarland begins for me. “It’s difficult for a woman to get money, isn’t it?”

“Uncle Thomas said no banker would lend money to a girl with only ideas for collateral,” I groan, “but it’s worse than that. Women aren’t trusted in business at all. I sent a letter this morning to my friend Daniel, asking if he can recommend another machinist or think of a way to convince Mr. Burnham to change his terms. I’m not very hopeful, though. Worst case, I’m stuck with Mr. Burnham and his two-hundred-dollar price.”

“And you’re obliged to collect the full amount before he lifts a finger?”

I nod. “I got his quote in writing so the price is fixed, and it includes all labor and material. But getting that amount …”

My gaze falls to the money on the quilt. “My family’s given what they can, and I don’t want to borrow from friends. That means I have to earn it, either here or in Springfield.”

“Springfield?” Surprise flickers across Mrs. MacFarland’s face. “You’d move back?”

I shrug. “The factory’s shorthanded. The boss’ll take me back and possibly pay extra, if I play my cards right. The problem is the costs involved.”

“You mean the train fare.”

“And lodging.” I lower my head, abashed. “I got by before because I boarded with Eliza at Uncle Thomas’s. Without her, it would be … improper for me to move back, and a boardinghouse would cost several dollars more per month.”

“Whereas our arrangement provides room and board and proximity to machinists, but no pay,” finishes Mrs. MacFarland.

“Please don’t misunderstand,” I blurt, hoping I haven’t insulted her. “It’s wonderful here, but I can only earn money through odd jobs and piecework out of home—with your permission, of course.”

Unfortunately, piecework pays little, and I’m uncertain how much I can earn as a neighborhood handywoman. Whether I stay or return, saving up Mr. Burnham’s fee will be slow going.

Mrs. MacFarland cocks her head. “Mattie, rather than fritter your time assembling hat boxes or the like in my house, why not work for Mr. Burnham?”

I gape as if she’s gone daft. “How would I work for him?”

“Propose a labor exchange. He runs a shop, correct? Offer to work there, say, three afternoons a week in exchange for credit toward your model.”

“I hadn’t thought of that …” The idea, which would allow me to fulfill my obligations to Mrs. MacFarland, is certainly worth considering. “The only catch is that Mr. Burnham must accept my labor. I’m not sure he will. My sex aside, his is a one-man establishment; no one works in that shop but him.”

“Even better,” replies Mrs. MacFarland. “Every business has a thousand and one things to be done, and you’re a clever, reliable girl. Start by sweeping the floor and carrying out rubbish. If you’re canny about it, you’ll figure a way to become his indispensable assistant.”

“And if I manage that, perhaps … he’ll set his condition aside and start on the model,” I say, suddenly hopeful.

Mrs. MacFarland’s wrinkled face splits into a grin. “As they say, my dear, it costs nothing to ask, and you have the world to gain.”

Through the South End hubbub, a steeple bell tolls six o’clock. I sigh, raising my umbrella higher to scan my rain-drenched surroundings. This is what I get for being hasty.

Mrs. MacFarland’s suggestion so excited me, I left for Mr. Burnham’s straightaway. I’ve lost enough time already, and having been to his shop twice, I figured I could find it on my own.

I figured wrong. Although I made it to the first streetcar and successfully transferred to the second, I missed my Dover Street stop. As such, what should’ve been an hour-long trip is now past its second hour.

Fortunately, I spot Mr. Burnham’s shop on the next block. The “closed” sign hangs in front, but light glows from within.

My hopes rise. If he’s so busy that he’s working late, that might bode well for my labor exchange proposal. Praying that’s the case, I hurry up to the stoop and knock.

The door nudges ajar.

I blink. Mr. Burnham doesn’t strike me as the sort to leave the door unlatched after close of business.

No matter. I enter, leaning my umbrella against the counter and placing my handbag on the countertop. The reception area is dim; the only light trickles from the workroom, which is quiet save for a scuffling noise. “Mr. Burnham,” I call, doing my best to sound like a competent assistant-to-be. “It’s Margaret Knight. I’d like a word, please.”

The noise stops. But Mr. Burnham doesn’t respond, nor does he appear. “Mr. Burnham,” I say, approaching the workroom. “Mr. Burn—”

Suddenly, someone slams into my middle. The impact sends me flying, and I crash into a shelf. As machine parts hail about me, a lanky silhouette—completely unlike Mr. Burnham’s bulldog build—dashes for the exit.

A single word flashes to mind. “Thief!”

As my shout tears the air, the intruder trips over my umbrella. He tumbles down, and without thinking, I lunge, seizing his ankle. “Stop, you,” I yell. “Thief!”

A kick to the skull knocks the breath out of me. As stars spark in my vision, the villain breaks free and scrambles off. I attempt to give chase, but by the time I reach the door, he’s long gone.

I crumple upon the stoop, cradling my head in my hands. My glasses are undamaged, thank God, but a bump swells over my eyebrow. That and my aching torso will bruise for certain. As my body and mind regain their steadiness, I wonder, Should I get the police? Where do I find the police?

“Girl! What in blazes are you doing?”

My gaze snaps up to see Mr. Burnham emerging from the house at the back of the lot. As he flounces across the gravel strip separating his home and shop, I stagger to my feet. “Mr. Burnham, it’s terrible. A burglar—”

He shoves past me to look inside. There’s a horrified gasp, then he rushes to the counter. A moment later, a lamp illuminates the room, and the machinist’s eyes bug out.

The reception area is an unholy mess. Two shelves worth of parts and drawings litter the floor. A few sheets have been trampled; another smears beneath the wet folds of my mangled umbrella. Turning an apoplectic shade of purple, Mr. Burnham bellows, “What have you done to my shop?”

“It wasn’t me,” I cry. “I told you, there was a burglar. He knocked me over when I came in to find you. Look, see here.”

The rim of a bowler juts amid the wreckage, and I snatch it up. “He dropped this when he ran. It’s certainly not mine, and it can’t be yours, either.”

Mr. Burnham’s eyes narrow at the dented hat. Even at a glance, it’s clearly too small for his massive pate, and marked on the sweatband inside are the initials “CFA.” But instead of relenting, he growls, “How do I know you didn’t let the bastard in?”

The allegation is a slap to the face. “How dare you! That man was in there robbing you when I came in,” I say, pointing to the rear room.

Mr. Burnham’s brow darkens, then he stomps into the workroom. “You stay back,” he snaps when I start to follow. “I don’t need you underfoot while I take stock of my things.”

Biting my tongue, I halt in the doorway. But as I watch him inspect equipment, scan worktables, and check drawers, I realize the room shows no signs of pilferage. No rummaged cabinets, no overturned boxes. In fact, a fifty-dollar note and stack of silver dollars sit in plain view on a tabletop, untouched by the thief.

As my mind boggles over this, Mr. Burnham goes to a shelf holding tagged boxes. Removing my crate, he takes it to the counter and plunks it down. “Hand over your claim ticket, take your contraption, and go before I call the cops.”

I gape in incomprehension. “What?”

“Nothing’s stolen. Nothing’s even been touched back there.”

“That can’t be,” I protest. “I saw—”

“What I see is the mess right here and the girl who probably caused it arsing about my shop.” He shoves the box at me. “Enough’s enough. They say a woman’s bad luck on a ship. You’re proof they’re bad luck in shops, too. Leave and don’t come back.”

My vision goes red. I want to rail against him, plead my innocence, pound sense into his thick skull. But his glare tells me no amount of arguing will change his mind. Nor is this pigheaded fool worth convincing.

Snatching the ticket from my handbag, I slap it on the countertop. “Don’t worry. It’ll be a cold day in July before I set foot in here again.”