The Daring Ladies of Lowell (13 page)

Jane was next. She looked frightened, but she, too, turned off her looms. Timid, pious Jane.

“A turnout?” Mary-o whispered in sudden fear. There had been no talk of challenge among them, nothing. With a steady hand she reached up and turned her looms off, amazed at herself.

Delia and Tilda were next. One by one, the five women from Boott Boardinghouse 52 stopped the roaring power of the machines that left their ears ringing for thirteen hours a day. The shrieking noise they lived with morning and night subsided. They stood in place, momentarily stunned at what they had done.

“What’s going on here?” Jonah Briggs was standing in the doorway, arms crossed. His hoarse voice sounded even louder than usual in the relative silence.

No one answered.

“Turn those looms back on.”

No one moved.

“Turn them on.
Now.
”

Carefully, Alice wiped cotton threads off her hands and stepped away from the looms. Without a word, she pushed past the red-faced Briggs straight to the coatrack by the exit. She removed her apron and pulled on her coat. The others did the same. Workers were whispering and staring. Still without a word exchanged, they walked out of the mill and down the path that took them to town. A soft shower of snow had begun drifting and swirling around their feet.

Mrs. Holloway was waiting at the main gate. “I thought you might be here,” she said. “I’ll walk with you.” Her face was very pale, and her lips pulled tight. Alice smiled gratefully. Of all of them, Mrs. Holloway perhaps had the most to lose. She was old; if they fired her, there was nowhere to go. But if bravery was doing what you fear to do, Mrs. Holloway was brave. The thought calmed her; she was able to take deep breaths now and walk with a bit more of a stride.

“Where are we going?” Jane asked, speaking not much above a whisper.

“To Saint Anne’s, of course,” Alice replied.

They were passing Boott Hall when suddenly Alice stopped. “Wait,” she said. “I have to get something.” She disappeared into the house, reemerging a moment later carrying a small package.

“Let us go.”

T
he church was jammed with people crowded together, coughing and murmuring discreetly as they waited for the funeral to begin. The acrid smell of their damp wool coats mingled with the heavy scent of hothouse flowers lining the altar—an aromatic mix, but no one headed for fresh air.

Samuel’s father leaned over to him, a faint smile of satisfaction on his face. “No one will be able to say the Fiske family didn’t handle this tragedy properly,” he said. Samuel nodded noncommittally. The entire family was there, of course. His mother, looking sternly proper, sat next to her husband. His grandmother’s head bobbed sleepily next to her, while Daisy kept looking around, delighted with reporting the prominent names mingled throughout the congregation. Jonathan seemed unusually subdued.

Samuel glanced past Lovey’s coffin of ebony and gilt, which rested on a flower-laden platform at the foot of the altar, surrounded by tall black candles in brass candlesticks. Where were her friends? He turned, puzzled, and scanned the church. There were no mill girls there.

“What’s wrong?” his father asked.

“Where are the mill girls seated?”

“Briggs agreed, we couldn’t spare them. They understood.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” The words flew from his mouth in astonishment. Could his shrewd father have actually made such an error?

“Don’t call me crazy, Samuel.” Hiram’s eyes narrowed to slits as the organ music from the loft of the church grew louder, signaling the funeral would soon begin.

Samuel started to reply when he heard stirrings in the crowd. Heads were turning to the back of the church. He whirled around.

There they were, seven of them. Six women and a child, obviously coming directly from the mill. Standing in front was Alice Barrow, her shabby work apron still on, staring straight ahead at the coffin. There were no seats available, but she began walking up the aisle, followed by the others.

Samuel stepped out into the aisle, facing her. She moved with fluid grace, each foot firmly stepping ahead of the other; her face showed a resolve that drew his eye and would not let him go. To the contrary, it held him fast.

He had no need to think through what he was going to do, no need to clear it first with his father.

“Please join us,” he said, gesturing the group into the family pew. “My family welcomes you.” His eyes never left Alice’s face as the others climbed in and the Fiske family scrambled to move over and make room. One muttered oath from a surprised Jonathan was the only protest.

“We regret being late,” Alice said.

She held back, still staring at the coffin. Inside was her friend: lying motionless, without breath, without voice, without laughter. This is what it all came down to, and this absurdly gilded box was hollow grandeur in the face of death. It should be plain. Pine, with the nailheads showing, that’s what Lovey would have wanted, not this pretension. Enough, enough. Slowly she opened the package in her hands and took out the gray leather gloves Lovey had given her, smoothing her hand one last time over their buttery softness, remembering how Lovey had looked at them. She placed the gloves gently on top of the coffin.

Samuel watched, riveted by the sight of Alice’s slender fingers. As she turned back to him, he folded one hand around hers and led her into the box next to him. He was at first surprised by his reluctance to let go, but he let himself experience what was happening without stiffening or questioning or caring about what was proper. He felt amazingly calm.

“T
hat worked out very well,” Hiram said. The funeral was over, and their carriage led a long procession heading for the cemetery just outside of town. “I don’t think any of the reporters realized those girls were intruders, of a sort. You were right, Samuel. Ridiculous call, that was. But don’t you ever use the word ‘crazy’ around me again.”

Samuel nodded, barely hearing his father. He was still picturing Alice’s pale, calm face as she firmly rejected his offer to transport the girls to the cemetery, informing him that putting Lovey into the ground was too much to watch. “I do not want to see shovelfuls of earth tossed down on her,” she had said as they left the church.

“May I come by to see how you are all doing tonight?” Samuel asked. To walk away, to climb into a carriage without her nearby, felt just about impossible at the moment.

It took Alice long seconds to reply. The coffin was being loaded into the hearse, but the gloves she had laid down as her gift to her friend were gone. Someone had plucked them out of the flowers; a contemptible act, stealing from the dead.

She looked up at him, eyes steady. “Yes, you may,” she said. Alice had seen his expression as she and the others walked into the church, had seen the welcome in his eyes. She knew instinctively he had not played a part in barring them from Lovey’s funeral.

T
hat night, Alice crouched as low as she could into the old rocking chair in the parlor after supper, wishing only to crawl into her bed and sleep. To shut out the world. She must have dozed, for the next thing she heard was Samuel’s voice. Her eyes flew open. And there he was, looking down at her. For just a few seconds, there seemed to be nothing separating them. He spoke, breaking the spell.

“I won’t stay long,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” He seemed momentarily at a loss. “Miss Barrow—” he said, and stopped.

“I’m fine,” she said automatically, sitting up straight. She sensed rather than saw several pairs of eyes on the two of them and worked to keep her voice steady. “I think I’m very tired, I’m afraid,” she said. “Thank you for coming to console us.”

Samuel drew back. He gave her a small bow and let his eyes travel the room. “I will keep all of you informed on the investigation,” he said to the others. “We’ll find a way to bring justice to bear.”

T
ension was high in the following weeks. The girl was already buried. Why hadn’t the formal inquest produced a verdict yet? Any minute now, went the rumors drifting out from the courthouse chambers. Soon.

The announcement finally came one morning as the mill girls were streaming into the factory, and it shocked them all.

Suicide. Sarah Cornell had killed herself, the three-man jury declared. Lovey’s note casting suspicion on Avery? It was written by “a woman of dubious character” and therefore had to be rejected as evidence, along with any testimonials to their relationship. The judges made a point of pronouncing the Reverend Ephraim Kingsbury Avery to be a man known for the “purity of his moral, Christian, and ministerial character,” while Lovey Cornell was scorned as a woman “addicted to almost every vice.” They saw no need to question the many convenient character witnesses the Methodists brought forward to denounce a young woman they had never met. Instead they quickly confirmed the elderly coroner’s initial verdict. The young woman with loose morals, this Lovey Cornell, had taken her own life. Case dismissed.

The verdict was greeted with relief by the Methodists. After all, an attack on a minister of their own—even if he was part of the ragtag, somewhat-dubious evangelical fringes—was an attack on them. They had mustered resources to defend the preacher, and now his exoneration meant theirs as well. Yes, a great relief.

But the town of Lowell was in an uproar.

“They’ve made a stupid mistake,” Hiram announced to the family gathered at breakfast in Boston, glancing up from the document announcing the verdict brought to him by a rider from Lowell. “Nobody believes that girl committed suicide.”

“It’s a convenient ruling for those who wish to cast a shadow over us,” Jonathan said.

“The revivalists, of course. That bunch of zealots with their illiterate preachers hates anybody with money. They can go about now whispering that we exploit the mill girls so harshly, this one took her own life.” Hiram let out a derisive grunt. “Exploitation? Why, they exploit
everybody
at those camp meetings of theirs.”

He settled into his seat and reached for the teapot. “I’m not going to let this matter rest,” he said. “I’ve worked hard to build a good environment for my employees, and I’m proud of it.”

“What can you do?” asked Jonathan.

Hiram cradled the warm cup now in his hand, gazing at his sons, one at a time. “I intend to be the person who gets justice for that girl,” he said. There was a glint in his eye. “I’ve got the power to make things happen.”

Samuel felt a familiar comfort, hearing his father’s words. They had been true all his life, and he was proud to be Hiram Fiske’s son.

Jonathan seemed lost in thought. He said nothing, staring at the rasher of bacon on his plate with distaste. Daisy sat, as usual, poking at an egg that was never cooked the way she wanted. The girl was always listless, which made Hiram impatient. “Daisy, can’t you muster up some interest in this?” he snapped in his daughter’s direction. “We’re going to get this fellow for murder.”

“The minister? Oh, I’m reading about him,” she said quickly. “He was notorious for seducing women. It’s quite a scandal, all my friends are talking about it.”

“Good, good, the more outrage the better,” Hiram said with satisfaction. He stood, tucking his morning newspaper under his arm. “I’m not letting this preacher get away with his crime.” He gave his watch a quick glance and left the room.

Daisy let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Now we can get down to important things.” She arched an eyebrow, casting Samuel a cool glance. “You’ve taken quite a fancy to that girl Alice. I saw how you looked at her at the funeral. Watch out, you know Father isn’t going to let it happen.”

Samuel took a bite of his buttered toast and a sip of coffee before replying, trying to contain a flare of anger. He couldn’t. “I think you need something to do with your time,” he said to his sister. “I don’t think you are quite as vapid as you try to appear. But perhaps I am wrong.”

He rose to leave, but not before seeing the stricken look in Daisy’s eyes.

Jonathan’s voice, a lazy drawl, followed him out the door. “Do you see, Sister dear? It’s as I told you. He’s getting to be just like Father.”

T
hat evening Daisy sat alone in the drawing room, which was rapidly darkening in the gathering shadows. She stared into a smoldering fire, a copy of
The Lady’s Book
in her lap, unread.

Samuel stepped through the doorway and cleared his throat. “Daisy, I’m sorry,” he said.

“You were right, you know.” She smiled up at him, almost wistfully.

He walked over to the hearth, picked up a poker, and stirred the embers until a healthy flame shot up, engulfing the stacked logs. He wondered if Daisy ever felt the pressures of family he lived with every day. At times he envied her ability to remain unencumbered with expectations. “I was harsh, not right,” he said.

“I hear myself sometimes, as if from a long way away. I get so very bored, listening.”

She spoke so solemnly, Samuel was tempted to smile, but a glance into her eyes told him to respond seriously. “Perhaps you need some challenging interests,” he said.

“I write poetry.” She reddened. “Very badly, I’m sure. And I like painting. Well, I don’t seem to stay with anything very long. Everything ends up boring me.”

“Maybe you don’t try hard enough to get better,” Samuel said. He didn’t really know how to talk with his sister, but he wanted to help.

“The thing is, nobody expects much of me anyway.”

“You could go back to school. You could read more.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. “I’m going to do something. Soon.” She sighed deeply. “I see why you’re taken with the mill girl. She came marching into that church with her head high, not caring that someone might throw her and her friends out at any minute. She’s so”—Daisy searched for a word—“
certain
of herself. Not like me.”

Samuel sat down and put his arm around his sister. “None of us is all that certain,” he said.

“But we have to pretend to be.”

He thought of Alice walking up the church aisle, her eyes focused on her friend’s casket. “Sometimes we do,” he said.