IN OUR ONGOING SEARCH FOR A MACHINIST, ELIZA AND I HAVE encountered a range of establishments. Some are tiny operations in the proprietor’s basement. Others fill entire warehouses. On this gray May afternoon, we stand before 76 Sudbury, a four-story complex that clamors with industry.
“It appears the next five shops are housed there,” says Eliza, glancing at our list.
“Sounds like it,” I say, picking out the snarl of machine tools amid the racket. “They probably share a common boiler for power. With them clumped together, it’ll make getting rejected all the quicker.”
“Don’t talk that way, Mattie,” Eliza chides. “You must be positive.”
“Right, right.” But it’s difficult to maintain faith in the wake of disappointment.
Earlier this month, shop nineteen on our list, Wyman and Sons, agreed to make my model. I was elated—until I returned two weeks later to discover they hadn’t done a lick of work on it. When I demanded an explanation, the senior Mr. Wyman merely shrugged, saying other customers had priority and they would begin mine when it suited them. Whereupon it suited me to disengage the Wymans and take back my machine.
Disheartening though that was, letting that experience wreck my current efforts would be worse. Eliza’s correct that I must put my best foot forward if I want any hope of progress. Firming my grip on my machine’s box, I say, “Where first?”
“Lincoln and Graham in Number 2.”
The medium-sized shop is on the ground level at the rear. It has an open floor, and amid the lathes, machine tools, and worktables are four machinists and an apprentice. As Eliza and I enter, the boy nearly spills his oil can. “Mr. Graham,” he pipes, scurrying to a leather-aproned graybeard fitting a reamer. “We got two gals in the shop!”
“Probably a couple of damn drys,” grumbles the machinist, not looking up. “Tell them we like our beer, and we’re not giving it up.”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. In addition to streetwalkers, Eliza and I have been presumed militant suffragists, religious fanatics, and zealous prohibitionists. If a machinist welcomed us as prospective customers, I’d probably faint from joy.
I set my box on the counter with a thunk. “Drink all you like, Mr. Graham,” I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m not interested in banning beer. I am interested in an iron patent model. So may I have a word, please?”
Tools grind to a halt. The staff stare, holding their collective breath, as the boss regards me like an escaped sideshow freak.
“No,” he says, and turns back to his tools.
“My prototype is right here,” I say, refusing to be rebuffed. “And I have money—”
Mr. Graham slams his reamer down, making my heart leap out my chest. As I struggle to regain composure, the machinist speaks with chilling calm. “Now listen here, Miss …”
“M-Miss Knight,” I stammer.
“Women should be seen, not heard, Miss Knight. But females nowadays can’t seem to remember that. I got enough womenfolk squawking at home. I’ll not deal with another fool female here.”
“But—”
“Will.” Mr. Graham gestures sharply to a young man with the build of a bull. “Show these girls out. The rest of you, back to work.”
With that, the snarl of tools revives. Everyone returns to his task, save the bulbous-nosed bruiser who lumbers to the counter. “Sorry, Miss Knight,” he says, his voice a tremulous contrast to his brawny body. “Mr. Graham doesn’t want you here, so please leave.”
My mind races. Mr. Graham’s already got his head down, steadfastly ignoring me, but the fellow tasked to oust me looks apologetic behind his curly red beard. Should I appeal for sympathy? Argue that I’m a legitimate customer? Or slink meekly away?
Eliza tugs my sleeve. “Mr. Graham’s intractably prejudiced against our sex. We’d best move along, Mattie.”
She’s right. A man must be civil enough to listen for me to persuade him; Mr. Graham will throw me out before I can try.
As I reach for my box, the young machinist’s brow knits. “Mattie … your name’s Mattie Knight?”
His expression puckers as if on the brink of recognition. Wondering if we’ve crossed paths before, I reply, “Margaret Knight’s my name, but friends call me Mattie.”
His eyes flick to my box. “You work in Manchester five years ago?”
“I did.” Now my wits are racing to place his face. “At the Amoskeag Mill, Building 3. How do you—”
“Name’s William Abbott. Louisa Abbott’s my sister.”
“Louisa …” At once, his face overlaps with another in my memory, and I gasp. “You do look like her. You share the same nose.”
He grins, rubbing his nose. “Runs in the family. Here, let’s talk outside.”
He tucks my box under his arm and ushers us onto the dingy stoop. Once the door shuts behind us, he taps the box with a fingernail. “You want an iron patent model for this, yeah?”
“Yes,” I reply.
He thumps his fist on his chest. “I’ll do it for you.”
For a thunderstruck moment, Eliza and I gawp. Then Eliza squeals, throwing her arms aloft. “God be praised! Mattie, you found your machinist.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I wave my hands, flabbergasted by the abrupt offer. “Mr. Abbott, are you certain? You haven’t seen my prototype.”
He flashes a dauntless smile. “You invented that shuttle restraint when you were twelve. Whatever you got now has got to be worth bringing into the world. And call me Will.”
His voice rings with enthusiasm, and instinct tells me he’s a man of his word. Still, I’m hesitant to get my hopes up. “What about your employer? He doesn’t like me. Won’t you get in trouble?”
He chuckles. “Mr. Graham’s a partner, and he’s got weight, but the real boss of the shop’s him.” He points to the “Lincoln” in the sign overhead. “Mr. Lincoln likes me, and I just did him a big favor. When he comes back this afternoon, I’ll work something out, promise.”
“Thank you,” I say, touched. “I’d be much obliged if you do.”
“And if you’re content to let me do the work, I won’t charge for labor. Only stock.”
My jaw drops. I couldn’t have been more astounded if he’d conjured up glass slippers and a pumpkin carriage. “You’d do that for me?”
He returns a puzzled look. “You did my sister a good turn making that shuttle restraint. It’s only right I do you a good turn.”
“But … I made it after Louisa got hurt, not before. I hardly deserve to be rewarded by you.”
“That’s not true. You did help. Which is more than I can say for myself.”
I give him a questioning look and he sighs, regret clouding his features. “When the accident happened, I’d just started my apprenticeship here. I was worried sick about Louisa, but worrying was all I could do. I couldn’t go home to care for her, and I didn’t earn enough to keep her away from the mill. The minute she was well, our old man made her go back, even though she was terrified of another accident.”
Will claps a hand on my shoulder. “But you made certain there wouldn’t be another accident. Your invention gave all us Abbotts peace of mind, not just Louisa, and I’d be honored if you let me show our thanks.”
I’m left speechless. Never in my wildest imaginings did I expect my shuttle restraint to lead to this. As my mind boggles, Eliza titters. “The Good Lord works in wonderful and mysterious ways, doesn’t He, Mattie?”
“He does.” I might have lost Daniel, but from the looks of it, a new skilled ally is on my side.
“So, Miss Knight,” says Will, “what’s your answer?”
I extend a handshake. “The answer’s yes. And call me Mattie.”