Chapter 9

WHEN EXAMINED OBJECTIVELY, THE PRINCIPLE BEHIND MY loom shuttle restraint was stopping motion. Once triggered, its only action was to disengage power, thereby bringing everything to a halt. Creating precise, productive motion, on the other hand, is a more difficult feat.

I knew this when I challenged Mr. Yates, but I didn’t anticipate how much more difficult it would be.

With a sigh, I shut off Machine 6 and unscrew the wooden finger from the miniature scaffold I’ve attached at the machine’s delivery end. I place it beside the two other finger models I tested earlier and record today’s results in my diary. A month of trial and error has taught me that almost any flat piece of sufficient width will serve for a folding plate. However, the substitute finger … generally speaking, it’s more liable to tear the tube rather than fold it back.

I study the most promising of the designs. Although my results are improving, even this latest model ripped the paper two times out of ten. Poking its tip with my fingernail, I muse, Perhaps a roller at the end might help?

As I jot that idea down, the workroom door opens. “You’re still here, Mattie?”

Mr. Mowe stands in the entryway, keys in hand. I jump, aghast to see the clock pointing to half past six. “I’m sorry,” I say, scooping up my belongings. “I’ll leave at once.”

“Please don’t rush on my account,” says Mr. Mowe. He clears his throat. “In fact, if you’re not quite done, I don’t mind waiting until you’ve finished.”

I nearly drop my handbag. Ever since word of the bet got out, Columbia Paper’s men have given me the cold shoulder. After all, I’m the fool girl out to prove the boss wrong. Their collective antagonism is a natural consequence.

The one exception is Mr. Mowe. While his male cohorts refuse to spare breath for a civil hello, the junior bookkeeper continues to greet me with his usual smile whenever our paths cross. I thought he was merely maintaining some middle-class sense of decorum, but this offer goes beyond a show of manners. Indeed, it goes beyond my comprehension. “Won’t that get you in trouble?” I stammer.

He shrugs. “My job is to lock up after quitting bell. As long as I complete the task satisfactorily, there are no grounds for complaint.” As I gape, he leans over and whispers, “And just so you know, not every man here wants you to lose, Mattie.”

Shock thunders through me. I search his expression for ridicule and contempt, but only a warm smile beams back. “Why?” I ask, finally regaining my tongue. “Are you wagering for me to win?”

He chuckles. “I’m hardly the betting sort. No, I’d like to see you win because, unlike our Marylanders, New Englanders are capable of more progressive concepts, such as women’s rights.”

I blink. “You’re a suffragist?”

“I don’t campaign actively, but my mother and sisters belong to the Suffragist Association, and I applaud their efforts.”

As I struggle to absorb everything he’s told me, he turns toward the door. “I imagine my presence is distracting, so I’ll wait outside.”

“No! I mean, I’ll leave.” As tempting as his offer is, I shouldn’t inconvenience the one man sympathetic to my crusade for equal pay. “It’s late, and it wouldn’t be right for me to stay any later.”

Mr. Mowe glances out the window toward the East Workroom. “Frank Niebuhr’s still tinkering away,” he says. “In fact, Mr. Yates gave him his own key.”

“He and the boss have an agreement. One I don’t have.” Although Frank and I haven’t spoken since our argument at church, I’m well aware he’s spending all his spare time on his machine. It’s galling that he has full use of the factory and everything in it, but I can’t complain. This competition was my doing, not his, and Mrs. Parish certainly won’t allow him to clutter her boarding house with machine parts.

Lifting my chin, I declare, “When I told Mr. Yates I could build a machine, I meant I could build it without his help. I’m not taking more than I’m due now.”

Mr. Mowe regards me a moment, then shakes his head. “Far be it from me to dissuade a woman from her principles.”

I smile back. “I’ll be but a minute.”

I whisk my diary and finger models into my handbag, then hasten to remove the scaffold from Machine 6. As I loosen the thumbscrews clamping the framework in place, Mr. Mowe goes to the side opposite. “Let me help,” he says.

I begin to protest, but he interjects, “The more hands, the sooner the task’s done. You did wish to leave at once, correct?”

He winks, and I’m struck by how boyish his expression is. His wire spectacles and office attire always lent him an air of maturity, but now that I’m close, I realize he’s not much older than me.

Somehow, that makes it easier to accept his help. With a laugh, I say, “Yes, you’re correct. I appreciate your assistance.”

In a twinkling, the scaffold is removed. As I unfold the flour sack I use to carry it, he squints at the framework of adjustable crossbars and screws. “I’m surprised your contrivance has no moving parts.”

“That’s because this is a scaffold, not a contrivance.” When he returns a puzzled look, I gesture toward Machine 6. “This gets us halfway to a square-bottom bag. Finishing the process is a matter of adding to the existing machinery. The tricky thing is, I can’t tell if the new pieces I make will harmonize with it.”

“So your scaffold allows you to test them on an actual machine,” he says, regarding the frame with new appreciation. “Very clever.”

“It lets me experiment while I’m still making the parts for my own tube-forming mechanism,” I explain, sliding the scaffold into its sack.

Mr. Mowe frowns. “You’re building everything from scratch?”

I smile wearily. “I haven’t the money for manufactured parts, and I can’t in good conscience use company stock.” Taking my bags, I say, “Well, I’ve delayed you long enough. Good night.”

“Would you like help? With your machine?”

I stop short. Mr. Mowe runs a hand through his flaxen hair, seemingly embarrassed. “To be sure, I’m no good with mechanical things. However”—he throws his shoulders back—“I can cut and smooth wood, and I can use a gimlet.”

“That’s generous of you,” I stammer, touched. “But I shouldn’t. This wager is between me and Mr. Yates.”

“And Mr. Yates is my employer, but his will does not dictate what I do in my spare time.”

This staunch declaration gives me pause. “I realize you are to build your machine without Mr. Yates’s assistance,” he presses, “but must you refuse all help? Frank Niebuhr has the advantage of Mr. Yates’s workroom, equipment, and stock. If your opponent has such support, surely you can accept my paltry assistance.”

For a moment, I can only stare at Mr. Mowe, his normally pale cheeks flushed with emotion. Then a giggle escapes my lips. “Mr. Mowe, I’m positive your assistance will be anything but paltry.”

His gray eyes light up. “Does that mean …”

I gesture for him to follow. “It means it’s time for you to lock up here and start working for me.”

Eliza is upstairs when I arrive home with my new assistant. As Mr. Mowe and I hang our coats, she calls, “I’ll be downstairs in a few minutes, Mattie. Just two more buttonholes!”

“Take your time,” I shout back. To Mr. Mowe, I say, “Eliza’s helping with a wedding dress for a girl from church. It’s her first time sewing something so fancy.”

I lead the way to the kitchen. It’s dim and redolent with the aroma of simmering beans and bacon. I light the oil lamp with a taper, and when brightness floods the room, Mr. Mowe lets out a low whistle. “You’ve been productive.”

Next to Eliza’s tidy shelves of bowls and pots are an equally tidy stack of half-inch-thick boards, a pail holding rods of various lengths and diameters, and a crate brimming with hand-carved boxwood parts. “Unfortunately,” I say, setting the scaffold beside the box, “I’m not as productive as I wish.”

Having to make so many pieces by hand has taken longer than I expected. Uncle Thomas’s prohibition against Sabbath labor is an additional handicap, and I’ve grown increasingly anxious about whether I’ll finish by September. However, Mr. Mowe’s help might just keep me on schedule.

I place the boards on the table, where the lamplight illuminates lines and curves penciled on the wood. “I’d be much obliged if you could start with these.”

Mr. Mowe traces the markings with a finger. “These are the shapes you want them to take?”

“Yes. I’ve also written the dimensions.” I point to numbers printed around the shapes. “Once they’re cut and smoothed, they’ll form the machine frame.”

“I see.”

As Mr. Mowe examines the boards, guilt pricks me. “Is it troublesome to do so many?”

He looks up with a smile. “It’s no trouble at all. In fact, since tomorrow is Sunday, I should be able to finish by Monday, and if my work passes muster, I demand you reward me with another task.”

My heart warms. I’m grasping for words to express my gratitude when the bang of the front door resounds, followed by a gruff, “Eliza! Margaret!”

“That’s Uncle Thomas,” I tell Mr. Mowe, as Eliza shouts that she’ll be down in half a buttonhole. “We had better greet him.”

We find Uncle Thomas leaning on his cane, frowning at Mr. Mowe’s hat and coat in the entryway. His gaze darts to me, then to Mr. Mowe.

“Uncle Thomas, “I say, “welcome home—”

“So he’s your guest, Margaret,” says Uncle Thomas, stern. “What are you thinking, putting a visitor in the kitchen?”

“Well, you see …” I trail off in bewilderment as Uncle Thomas stomps past me. Planting himself before Mr. Mowe, he barks, “What’s your name, son?”

The younger man snaps to attention like a soldier. “Daniel Mowe. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

Instead of offering a handshake, Uncle Thomas scrutinizes Mr. Mowe’s lanky frame like a slaver evaluating merchandise. “What’s your occupation?”

“Junior bookkeeper. I’m a coworker of Miss Knight’s at Columbia Paper.”

“Age?”

“I’ll be twenty-one in May.”

“Uncle Thomas,” I interject, appalled by his rudeness, “what are you doing?”

He ignores me, continuing his inquisition. “Residence?”

“I board with the Morris family on Salem Street. I attend Christ Church with them.”

“Family?”

“My parents and two younger sisters. They reside in Newton Lower Falls outside Boston. My father is a manager at the Boston and Worcester Railroad.”

Uncle Thomas grunts, seemingly satisfied. “Margaret may not be my blood relation, but while she lives under my roof, I am her moral guardian. Daniel Mowe, you have my permission to court her.”

As my dismay flares to searing mortification, Uncle Thomas whirls on me. “And you, Margaret, take your young man to the parlor and entertain him properly. A girl like you can’t do better than to be situated with someone sensible.” Turning back to Mr. Mowe, he says, “You seem the sort who understands proper conduct, so I will only say this: I will not frown upon meetings out of home, but I insist you return Margaret by nine o’clock. Am I clear?”

“Wait,” I sputter, “it’s not—”

“Yes, sir,” replies Mr. Mowe crisply. “Quite clear, sir.”

“Good,” says Uncle Thomas. “If you wish, you may join us for supper. Until then, please sit with Margaret.” With that, he shoves us into the parlor and hobbles off to his room.

As I gape after Uncle Thomas’s disappearing back, Mr. Mowe drops onto the horsehair couch with a chuckle. “Quite the character, isn’t he?”

My consternation redoubles. “Mr. Mowe … surely you don’t …”

“Mattie.” Mr. Mowe looks up with a droll twinkle in his gray eyes. “My intent hasn’t changed. I’m here merely to assist with your machine.”

“Then … why?” I stammer.

“I doubt your landlord can conceive of a man visiting a girl for any purpose other than courtship,” he says, leaning against the armrest. “If I’m to come as frequently as I imagine, it’s far simpler to call me a suitor rather than explain that I’m your assistant.”

I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a snicker. He’s right. My bag machine project already has Uncle Thomas perplexed. A male helper would befuddle the poor soul a hundredfold more. “True, but won’t that inconvenience you? Pretending to court me?”

He cocks his head. “And what is courtship? Nothing more than an unengaged man and woman spending time in one another’s company. We’ll just do it in a more productive manner. No doubt, the old fellow will find our choice of activities peculiar, but so long as we follow his rules, I doubt he will object.”

I laugh in earnest. “Well, shall we return to the kitchen to resume our ‘courtship’?”

“By all means,” he says, getting to his feet. “And Mattie?”

“Yes?”

He takes my arm and winks. “Call me Daniel.”