THE FOLLOWING MORNING IS CRISP, A NEW LAYER OF FROST glazing the company office’s low-pitched roof. But I don’t feel cold. In fact, I’m hot enough to burn down all of Market Street.
Stomping up the porch steps, I shove open the front door—and collide into Mr. Mowe.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry … Mattie?” Alarm floods the junior bookkeeper’s face when he recognizes me. “Is something wrong? Has a machine broken?”
“Something is wrong, but not with the machines,” I say, my gaze flicking over his shoulder to scan for the boss. “I wish to speak to Mr. Yates. Where is he?”
“Out. They finished demolishing the old bag annex yesterday, and he’s inspecting the site before the paper mill expansion begins. He should be back any moment though, so please have a seat.” He points to a chair beside a door that bears a plaque engraved with Mr. Yates’s name. “Now if you’ll excuse me, the office lad is sick, so I’ve got to fetch the post.” With a tip of his battered felt hat, he exits the building.
I cross the room to the chair. In contrast to the workrooms, which are only heated enough to take the edge off the cold, the office is cozy, and the aroma of coffee emanates from the kettle steaming upon the potbelly stove. As I shrug off my coat and sit, the senior bookkeeper and the two office clerks watch from behind their desks as if I’m a dragon who’s emerged from the henhouse. After all, I never come near the office, except to receive my pay on Saturdays, and I’ve never actually stepped inside.
Under different circumstances, their stares would’ve cowed me, but I glare back with righteous indignation. Their eyes immediately drop to their papers. That gives me no satisfaction, though. Rather, wrath mounts at the thought of the figures inside their ledgers.
Of the higher wages allocated to the East Workroom men.
I couldn’t believe it at first. I still don’t want to. But the sums on Eliza’s order sheet and the coins she received in payment don’t lie. Flabbergasted, I went to old Mrs. Leavilte, who takes laundry for the matrons boarding the Marylanders, and she confirmed what Eliza told me.
Instead of the dollar-a-day wage the women receive for making bags, the male bag workers get $1.30. That’s five cents more than my wage as mechanic!
The scrape of the front door interrupts my stormy thoughts. In a twinkling, the office staff is on its feet, chorusing, “Good morning, Mr. Yates.”
The boss responds with a perfunctory nod. With the air of a commander addressing his troops, he says, “Gentlemen, preparations have passed muster. We can finalize the contracts for the mill expansion. Bring me all relevant paperwork along with the summary sheet for this week’s payroll.”
At that last word, I jump up. “Mr. Yates—”
“And you, girl,” he adds offhandedly as he removes his lambskin gloves, “bring me a cup of coffee.”
I bristle. Before I can think better of it, I snap, “Mr. Yates, I am a mechanic. I’m paid to run machines, not bring you coffee.”
The atmosphere in the room turns glacial. Mr. Yates faces me, his hawkish nose flaring in disapproval. I merely lift my chin and glower from my superior height. Meanwhile, the office staff pale as if they’ve been caught between two dueling gunmen.
Finally, Mr. Yates breaks the silence. “The girl mechanic,” he says coolly. “I see. Since you are not here to distribute coffee, I assume you have other business with me.”
“You assume rightly,” I respond with equal frost.
Mr. Yates purses his lips, then strides to his office door. “Excuse me, gentlemen. We’ll resume as soon as I’m done speaking with Miss …”
“Miss Knight,” I supply.
“Right.” Mr. Yates unlocks the door with a brass key and waves me in.
The small room beyond is as primly pretentious as the man who occupies it. Curtains of lace and blue velvet adorn the window, and a matching plush carpet covers the floor. The morning light sparkles off the brass handles of a towering cabinet letter file and the polished face of a pendulum clock.
Mr. Yates shuts the door, and as he takes the leather wingback behind his oak desk, I realize, to my annoyance, that it’s the only chair in the room.
I glare down my nose at him. If he’s not courteous enough to offer a seat, I’ve no qualms letting him feel the shortness of his stature.
“As you can see, Miss Knight, I’m a busy man,” says Mr. Yates, removing his pocketwatch and winding it. “State your business and be quick about it.”
With equal brusqueness, I say, “Mr. Yates, I have it on good authority that you are paying the East Workroom men thirty percent more than the West Workroom workers.”
He doesn’t bat an eye. “What of it?”
“It’s unfair. They’ve been here scarcely a month. Some have only just got the hang of—”
“Miss Knight,” says Mr. Yates, with the forbearance of a schoolmaster instructing an especially dull pupil, “you are young, so I will forgive your ignorance and enlighten you to common business practice. And common business practice is that men’s wages are higher than women’s.”
I bite back a scream. I’m well aware of the practice. I’ve known it since my first job at the Amoskeag Mill back in New Hampshire. Women got three-quarters the men’s pay, and children only half that amount. The mills justified it by saying the men had the harder task hauling raw cotton and finished bolts than the women operating the looms or the children sweeping and doffing bobbins. And it was difficult to argue with the mills because our tasks were divided by age and sex.
That is not the case here.
“Is it not also common business practice to pay the same wage to workers at the same task?” I retort. “Everyone in the East and West Workrooms are doing the exact same job. And if you compared bag output—”
Mr. Yates snorts. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe a factory of women is as competent as one run by men? Science has proven the physique of the sterner sex is designed for the rigors of the working world, whereas the fairer sex lacks such stamina. And the clothes you women wear …” He sniffs. “Entirely impractical in an industrial setting.”
I’m seized by the urge to strangle him by his striped silk cravat. If I could exchange my skirt for trousers without drawing wholesale condemnation, I would. “Mr. Yates, with all due respect—”
“Not to mention,” he adds, returning his watch to his waistcoat pocket, “women lack mechanical aptitude. Leave a woman unsupervised with factory equipment, and she’s certain to break it.”
“I beg your pardon,” I growl, “but I am this factory’s mechanic. Every bag machine here, I set up by myself. I maintain them. I fix them. They run because I make them run.”
“Perhaps so. Perhaps you are an anomaly among womankind. You’re certainly anomalous in another respect.” His eyes make an exaggerated sweep from my boots to the top of my six-foot frame. “However, even if you’ve attained some mastery over machines, they still work best under a man’s touch.”
“Might I remind you,” I grind out, “Frank Niebuhr only knows what he knows about this factory because I taught him.”
“And I have full confidence that his skills will exceed yours in the near future.”
My vision goes red. But before I explode, Mr. Yates says, “You speak as if I was indebted to you somehow. As if you were indispensable to this company. If you are under that particular impression, I advise you to rid yourself of that notion, lest you find yourself without employment.”
The rage searing my veins chokes and fizzles into dismay. Regarding me like a troublesome nag he’s tempted to shoot, Mr. Yates huffs, “My grandfather was a good businessman, but age has made him maudlin. The thought of his faithful employees suffering on account of company changes so agitated him, I had to promise not to alter the existing workforce before he handed it over. As a man of honor, I will uphold my promise, but given the choice, I would’ve hired a real mechanic and returned you to a factory girl my first day.”
Before I can feel any sort of relief, he adds, “However, stir up trouble, and you will no longer be deemed a ‘faithful employee’ protected by that promise. Am I clear?”
His eyes bore into mine, daring me to contradict him. I can only lower my head and reply, “Very clear, sir.”
As I stare at my boots, hating my powerlessness, Mr. Yates sighs and leans back in his chair. “It’s incomprehensible to me why a girl would get so agitated over wages, and even less comprehensible why you’re set on being a mechanic.”
Frustration claws my throat. I doubt I could make him understand my fascination with machines when most women find it perplexing. But perhaps I can make him understand what a difference equal pay would make.
Keeping a humble tone, I say, “The thing is, sir, I have two dependents. Even a few more cents a day would mean a great deal to us.”
“What dependents could a girl like you have?” he scoffs.
He was a Union captain. He’s helping his old troop. Appeal to his sense of charity.
“My mother in New Hampshire is a widow. As for my brother, Charlie, he enlisted the day he turned eighteen, and he returned to us unable to work. And because he joined a Massachusetts company instead of a New Hampshire one, he’s had trouble getting a veteran’s pension.”
The boss’s glare softens a touch. “I’ve heard pension applications for out-of-state enlistees have been mired in red tape,” he says after a pause. “If you explain his circumstances more fully, perhaps I can petition the state Pension Commission on his behalf. In the meantime, he can work in the East Workroom as a bag folder. Provided that, of course, he has both hands.”
Hope sparks in my chest. “I appreciate that, truly I do,” I say. “But even though Charlie’s got his two hands, he can’t work. You see, he’s got Soldier’s Heart.”
The sympathy on Mr. Yates’s face vanishes. “Then, Miss Knight,” he says, rising abruptly, “I’ve nothing more to say other than your family had better stop coddling your brother.”
He starts to leave, but I block his path. “Wait,” I say, bewildered. “Why—”
“Let me be blunt,” he cuts me off. “A real man provides for his family. What your brother needs is not charity but a hard kick in the pants.”
My hands clench. “How can you say that? My brother served this country—”
“As did I,” Mr. Yates retorts. “As did every man in the East Workroom. We all fought, suffered, and bled out there. Some even lost a leg. And when it ended, we resumed our responsibilities as husbands and sons.”
“Charlie’s tried to do that,” I insist. “But he gets overwhelmed. His nightmares—”
“As far as I’m concerned, the proof of a man’s character is in his actions. Has Frank Niebuhr told you how he got his limp?”
I blink at the mention of Frank and shake my head. Although I have wondered about his leg, I thought it would be rude to pry.
“He was only thirteen when the Oak Creek men enlisted, and, determined to go along, he volunteered as a camp helper. One day, their regiment got word of a skirmish outside camp. A surgeon was dispatched to treat the wounded, and Frank rode along to assist him. On the way, enemy riders spotted them and gave chase.
“Had Frank fled in that instant, no one would’ve blamed him. He wasn’t a soldier; he wasn’t even receiving pay. But he knew men were depending on that doctor. So he told the doctor to ride ahead while he distracted the Rebs. Thanks to Frank, he made it safely, and lives were saved. But it came at a cost. A Reb shot Frank’s horse, and his leg was crushed when it fell.”
Mr. Yates pauses to let his words sink in. And indeed, I am stunned. I suspected that Frank sustained an injury, but never imagined those circumstances.
“Frank Niebuhr is a man of integrity and courage,” Mr. Yates declares, his voice ringing with judgment. “His limp testifies to that. But an able-bodied man who would burden his widowed mother and unwed sister? I see only proof of sloth and cowardice.”
My brother’s not a coward, I want to scream. But I can’t. Because what the boss says is true. The trembling wreck in my mother’s home bears no resemblance to the brave, strong man who marched to battle. And because Charlie’s wounds cannot be seen, I have nothing solid to counter Mr. Yates’s accusation.
The fight drains out of me, and Mr. Yates shoulders past. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a company to run. And you’d best return to work before I deem it proof of your indolence.”
He throws open the oak door, and a tumult assaults our ears. The senior bookkeeper and clerks are clustered around Mr. Mowe in the entryway, all talking at once.
“What’s going on?” booms Mr. Yates, silencing the commotion. “This is an orderly place of business, not a county auction.”
Mr. Mowe, still in his hat and coat, steps forward with an open letter. “Sir, we have a problem.”
My ears prick up at the word “problem.” It is un-Christian to wish ill upon another, but at this instant, I hope all the plagues of Egypt descend upon Mr. Yates.
Curious, I take my time donning my coat. As I fasten the buttons as slowly as possible, Mr. Mowe says, “Jordan Marsh and Company sent this. They want to purchase bags for their department store starting next month.”
“Sounds like good news to me,” says Mr. Yates, taking the letter from Mr. Mowe. “How is a new client a problem?”
Mr. Mowe points to the bottom of the sheet. “They don’t want flat bags. They only want square-bottom ones. In these quantities.”
Mr. Yates’s eyes bulge from their sockets. As I wonder what numbers unsettled him so, Mr. Mowe adds, “Apparently, your sales talk worked too well. From the looks of it, Jordan Marsh is doing away with boxes and wrapping paper entirely in favor of square-bottom bags.”
“Well,” says Mr. Yates, recovering swiftly, “it does exceed current capacity, but this is a good problem and not an unsolvable one. We can shift production from flat to square-bottom bags, and I’m certain East Workroom output can increase to meet this demand.”
I suppress a snort. Already crediting your men with success, are you?
Despite the boss’s confident reassurance, Mr. Mowe’s brow remains pinched. “If the East Workroom rises to the challenge, that resolves this situation, but there’s a good chance we’ll encounter trouble down the road if a new trend begins.”
Mr. Yates frowns but gestures for the young bookkeeper to explain. “Jordan Marsh sets the fashion for Boston stores,” says Mr. Mowe. “If all our Boston clients start changing their orders of wrapping paper and flat bags to square-bottom bags, the bag folders won’t be able to keep up.”
“One more thing,” says the senior bookkeeper, waddling up with a leatherbound ledger. He riffles through the pages and holds it up to Mr. Yates. “The profit on flat bags is nearly double that of square-bottom bags. If the flat bag machines stand idle while workers hand fold square-bottom ones, then …”
His pencil scratches something into the margin, and Mr. Yates’s arrogant air evaporates. Grimmer than I’ve ever seen him, he holds a hushed exchange with the bookkeeper over the ledger, scribbling figures all the while.
“That would be a quandary,” says Mr. Yates a few moments later. He straightens with a scowl. “If only the confounded machines could make square-bottom ones, too.”
At those words, inspiration strikes, dazzling as a lightning bolt. If the man needs proof to acknowledge a woman’s skill, I’ll give it to him.
“Mr. Yates,” I call out, startling the men. As they frown, clearly baffled that I’m still in the room, I approach the boss and smile. “May I offer a proposition?”