The Daring Ladies of Lowell (30 page)

She would walk just as far as Stanhope’s surgery, she decided. But when she reached it, she continued onward. Just to the courthouse, then back, she told herself. But she kept going.

Finally she stopped before the destination that had drawn her, though she had not admitted it to herself. The Lowell Inn. She saw the lights in a suite on the third floor flickering. A figure standing on the balcony, looking out, then turning and disappearing back inside.

A carriage waited by the front door with two restless horses stamping their feet and tossing their heads, eager to be off.

There was no use asking herself why she was here.

She had no plan.

A man in a black coat was hurrying out of the inn; she could see the flash of a gold watch on his wrist as he checked the time. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

The man hoisted his valise into the carriage, swung up the steps, spoke briefly to the driver, and disappeared inside. Almost instantly, the carriage was clattering away.

Alice stared after it, watching until it disappeared into the night. She then turned and slowly began walking back to Boott Hall.

She had recognized the watch.

T
he news around town that summer was that Samuel Fiske, the heir apparent, had disappeared. Gone off to the Wild West, or planning a mill in Baltimore. Did they have the necessary rushing rivers there? Surely not. Had he fled after being caught in some scandal? Or maybe he was on a European tour; that’s what people like the Fiskes did when they felt like it. A few glances came Alice’s way, curious ones, holding silent questions, but she barely noticed.

She had disappeared, too. She had purged fear and longing and anger, letting go, and now—with calm interest—she waited to see what would take their place.

Some changes at the mill had come. Someone pried out the nails holding many of the windows shut one night and, strangely, there were no repercussions. Briggs would slam the windows closed again—then, strangely, they would be reopened. She suspected Benjamin Stanhope had something to do with this but took care never to ask. He did seem to smile more.

She took long walks every evening, fighting no currents, letting her thoughts sort themselves out. Summer turned to autumn, and she crunched her way through falling leaves and then plodded her way through snow, minding her looms, saving her money.

In general, she was learning to live with secrets. She thought of her mother, of Lovey, of Gertrude Fiske—of the hidden stories in their lives, of the answers that might explain everything. Answers that would never come. Everyone carried their most grievous burdens secretly and separately; she had to accept that. But she would never know the truth about them. Perhaps the only way to keep secrets from harming others was to hold them tight in the heart and never let go. Perhaps that’s what her mother had tried to do. And Lovey.

It was only as she inhaled the sharp, crisp air of frosty nights that Alice began unwrapping the secrets she kept from herself. She began thinking about Samuel. She would see his eyes, be almost able to touch the texture of his skin. She could feel too much.

He had honored her wishes. He had made no attempt to contact her.

By this time, the workers of Lowell had stopped chattering about the missing scion. Why should they care? Nothing much had changed. A little easing of hours, a taste more of money, a few machines oiled and fixed—enough to calm the unrest, but not enough to stamp it out.

There was very little talk among the girls on the morning trek to the mill, either. On Saturdays, she and Mary-o, Delia, and Jane would hunch down before the wind and make their way to town and visit the bank—every week a dollar for her savings fund—then they would buy themselves a small lemon cake and sip tea at the Lowell Bakery, letting the hot brew warm their insides while pretending to be ladies of leisure.

Daisy showed up one evening, bringing supplies for Alice’s cameos—and four orders from her friends. Alice was surprised and grateful. It was restful, those evenings when she was able to carve; what a splendid thing to finally have good supplies and tools. More orders were coming in. Alice allowed herself to dream of the possibility of opening a small studio in Boston, perhaps in a year or so.

She told no one of her more ambitious carving effort—a bust shaped from clay that she was working on at Benjamin Stanhope’s surgery. He had consented to be her model, seemingly content to stay still for hours without conversation.

S
ometimes, on her walks alone, she mulled over what she had learned from all of this. Was she able to be brave? She would do her best. Don’t tar all with the same brush—yes, she was learning that, too. Not all Methodists had tried to shield a murderer from justice; not all were pulled in by charlatan ministers.

What she could not answer was, did she ask herself the right questions? Answers were hard enough. But the wrong questions took one into wilderness.

T
here was another accident—no, two. The worst was when a belt of leather worn from constant friction burst into flame, almost burning the hand of a girl on a loom nearby. The girls at the mill said little about these incidents—it was the prudent course, given that the number of mill workers who still advocated resistance had dwindled. The leaders, the ones who stood up to the Fiskes, were either muted or gone. Immigrants were coming in, cheerful-enough people, but rough and rowdy, at least in Mrs. Holloway’s estimation.

It took a few months, but the undercurrents of change began, finally, to surface at Boott Hall.

It began with Jane. “My parents say that, since the trial and all the unrest, it isn’t respectable to work as a factory girl anymore,” she announced at dinner one night. “I don’t agree at all, I told them they should know my friends. But they want me to come home.” She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “They aren’t proud of me anymore, that’s the fact of it.”

“Janie, we will miss you,” cried a bewildered Ellie. “What will you do?”

Jane brightened. “My pastor at home says I can be a missionary, take God to the Indians out west. He will sponsor me.”

“Oh, my goodness,” breathed Delia. “How brave.”

“He said girls need to think more of themselves, that we all can do more than sew and weave.”

A silence fell over the room as each girl pondered this.

Over the months, others began to drift away, some to marry, some to teach, but none—they told each other this with pride—to milk cows and clean out pigsties. Never again would they do that.

O
n a bright, windy day, Alice, filled with new resolve, marched by herself down to the Central Street office of
The Lowell Offering
with a manuscript in hand. The usual routine was to place an offering on a desk in the outer office and then leave, hoping to be notified that it would be read and published. They won’t want this, she told herself as she walked inside. But I’m going to try, regardless.

She stopped, suddenly daunted. A woman sat at the desk, a pair of spectacles halfway down her narrow nose, reading silently from a tall stack of manuscripts. Alice recognized her immediately—it was Harriet Farley, the stern-mouthed, revered editor of the magazine. She herself had worked the looms when she was younger. She was one of them. Amazing, something that could only happen, as Ralph Waldo Emerson had said once, in the proud culture of the Lowell mill girls. Only recently they had all burst with pride upon hearing that. Now it felt hollow.

“You have a story for me?” Miss Farley said, looking at her over her spectacles.

“Not one made up,” Alice said, stepping forward and handing her the pages in her hand.

“Then what is it? Oh, never mind, I’ll find out for myself.” Miss Farley glanced at the title and raised an eyebrow. “‘Decorum for Daring Ladies’?” she said.

“That was what Lovey wanted. That’s the title I want.”

Miss Farley began scanning the document, then turned the page, reading to the end. She cast Alice a sharp glance, went back to the beginning, and began to read aloud.

DECORUM FOR DARING LADIES
The Legacy of Lovey
Cornell

I want to introduce you to my dear friend Lovey, whom I have lost and will always remember. She lived a brave and exuberant life and died a violent death, as most of you know. Now that kind of tale is usually only whispered about. But the trial was a travesty of justice, and I cannot believe to this day that the man who killed her was freed. Yet that’s what happened, and I fear the pursed lips of the righteous will condemn her to obscurity.

Lovey was all of what should make a girl of the Lowell Mills proud. She had grit and she took chances and she was brave. She was quick to challenge authority, even when branded a troublemaker. Yes, she made mistakes. Who among us has not? Lovey did not judge—she accepted each of us for who we were. Why do we fear contamination from the free spirits of our world? She had wonderful dreams, and I was fortunate to claim her as my friend. She reminded me to look to the sky, to find hope and not be afraid of change. To be daring.

At the time of her death, Lovey was working on what she called “A Manifesto for Mill Girls,” that she hoped to have published here for all of to read. I offer you the only two declarations she had time to finish:

So here, a few final specifics on a good life: Lovey Cornell saved a child from a wicked father, not a small thing to do. She laughed, she was generous. Her fate was cruel and wrong and I will remain angry about that for the rest of my life.

“That’s all?” Miss Farley said, looking up.

“What do you mean?” Alice was confused.

“I think you need another few sentences.” Miss Farley picked up a pencil and wrote out:

Beyond that, beyond all injustice, her reputation was shredded to pieces in that trial. Let us all remember that and fight back against those who would allow this to happen.

“Yes,” Alice burst forth.

The two women stared at each other. “We’ll call this a story,” Miss Farley said with a small smile. “Or, perhaps—a call to arms? I’m quite sure it will get the attention of a few people in town.”

“Thank you,” Alice breathed.

“You’re the girl who tried to slap Avery, are you not?” Her lips twitched. “Accidentally, of course.”

“I tried, ma’am.”

“And you want to sign your real name to this?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good for you.” Miss Farley, her face crinkled in a smile, reached across the desk to shake Alice’s hand. “I was a mill girl, too,” she said.

Alice grasped her hand gratefully. “I know,” she said.

“H
ave you heard from Samuel?” Daisy asked unexpectedly on one of her visits as Alice labored over a cameo. She was concentrating intently, her small, pretty face in a frown.