The Regency (98 page)

‘Really, sir, I would rather —'

‘
You'll go, I say,' Hobsbawn rolled over him. 'You shall go
with us, in our carriage, and see Fanny in her new gown —
that will be worth it alone, eh?’

Jasper looked up and met Fanny's eyes, but her expression
was veiled. 'It would be a great honour, sir,' he said with en
effort.

‘
And you shall dance with her,' Hobsbawn declared, as if
he had just that moment thought of it. 'Fanny, you will stand
up for the two first with your cousin Jasper, do you hear?'
Fanny's long hazel eyes were as expressionless as a cat's.
'Yes, Grandpapa, certainly.’

She was so beautiful. He thought of her in white silk, with
white roses in her thick, dark hair, and felt his palms sweating.
He couldn't go to an assembly in darned stockings, and new
ones were twelve shillings a pair; and the shirt and neckcloth
he had on would have to be washed and dried, and his house
keeper had no idea of the proper starching of neckcloths and
shirt-points. He would have to dance with Fanny Morland,
knowing every eye was on him, judging him and finding him
wanting.

In a desperate attempt to get away from such thoughts,
he raised a subject he had intended to keep until he and
Hobsbawn were alone together.

‘
Sir, I want to talk to you about the factory children. The
hours they work are far too long — it makes them clumsy and
prone to accidents, and the overseers can only keep them
awake towards the end of the day by beating them.’

Hobsbawn looked at him in astonishment. 'What the deuce
are you talking about, man?'

‘
They're working thirteen, fourteen hours a day — more,
sometimes, when there's work to be made up. Half-grown
children simply aren't strong enough for such labour. They
fall asleep at the machines. Some of them are too tired even to
eat when they stop for their meal.’

Fanny's eyes gleamed, and she drifted away to sit on a
sopha at a little distance, the more comfortably to enjoy the
spectacle of her cousin destroying himself.

‘
This is not the time nor the place to talk of such things.'
Hobsbawn said, evidently controlling himself with an effort.
'This is a social visit, Jasper.’

Aware of Fanny out of the corner of his eyes, Jasper
plunged on suicidally. 'Sir, I don't think there is a proper or an improper time to talk about matters so vitally important.
There's a great deal of feeling in the town that factory hours
are too long, and that the children should not work more than
twelve hours a day, at least until they are sixteen years old.'

‘
A deal of feeling? Amongst whom? Jacobins and trouble
makers? Luddites and revolutionaries?' Hobsbawn said,
growing redder.

‘
Amongst masters, too,' Jasper said, quickly. 'There are a lot of mill-owners who are beginning to see that it's in their
own interest to limit the children's hours.'

‘How can it be in their interest?' Hobsbawn demanded contemptuously.

‘Strong healthy children work better, sir.'

‘
Do they? Do they? Pamper them and make them idle, is
that your idea? Children need discipline, and they're happier
for it.'

‘
But these children aren't happy. You've only got to look at
them — undersized, sickly, deformed. They're dying, Mr
Hobsbawn! They come to work at eight years old, and they
die at twelve.'

‘
Nonsense! The sickly ones would die anyway; and if they
don't work, they'll die of hunger, so what do you want? We
have to keep 'em going fourteen hours to get the work out of
'em, for they're an idle, thriftless lot. Aye, worse than the
'prentices I used to use, and that's saying a good deal.'

‘Dead children do not work at all,' Jasper said.

‘
Well, well, there's plenty more where they came from,'
Hobsbawn said indifferently. 'These Irish breed like dockside
rats. Where d'you think they'd go for work if we didn't take
'em on, men like me? They should be damned grateful they've
got jobs at all! And how d'you think they'd earn enough to
live on, if they worked fewer hours?'

‘
We'd have to raise their wages,' Jasper said. Fanny made a
sound like choked-off laughter, as Mr Hobsbawn's eyes
seemed to bulge from his head.

‘
Work 'em fewer hours, and give 'em more money? And
take on more of 'em, I suppose, to make up the work they're
not getting through? By God, Jasper Hobsbawn, I used to
think you had some sense, but now I think you must have lost a slate off your roof Is that how you propose to run my mills?
We'd be bankrupt within a year on your system!’

Jasper looked despairingly at him. 'No, sir, no, it wouldn't
work like that. If they worked fewer hours, and ate better, they'd be stronger, and you'd get more work out of them —
skilled work, too. There'd be fewer accidents, and accidents
cost time and money. Less damage to the machines. Better
products. It would pay handsomely, sir, in the end. It's — it's
wasteful
to work them to death. You wouldn't treat your
horses like that, would you? You'd think it madness to under
feed and overwork your carriage horses until they died, and
then have to buy more, wouldn't you?’

Hobsbawn rose to his feet. 'I've heard enough of your
raving. I think you must be light-headed. Perhaps it's hunger?
Fanny, ring the bell, and let's have dinner. Now, not another
word about it, Jasper! You're a guest in my house, and I'll
thank you to remember it. Fanny, take Cousin Jasper's arm,
will you, and talk to him about dancing or something. Ah,
Bowles! We'll have our dinner now, if you please.’

*

Fanny could hardly believe her luck. All the next day she
gloated over Jasper's folly in bringing up a subject which he
must know was anathema to her grandfather. It was true
there had been talk amongst reformers and clergymen about
limiting the factory hours to twelve a day for children between
nine and sixteen, and prohibiting children under nine from
working in factories at all, but it always made grandfather
very angry.

He had stopped using 'prentice children, partly because they
were too expensive to keep, and partly because of the Act of
Parliament which had been passed to protect them, which
was an annoyance to masters. 'Free labour' children were
the responsibility of their parents, so Hobsbawn and other
masters like him reasoned. And the parents would not have
welcomed a ban on work for their younger ones. Children in
the home worked at one thing or another from the time they
could walk -- that was the natural order of things. To keep a
great, grown thing of seven or eight idle, when it could be
earning a living, all for the sake of some damned Jacobin or
moist-eyed reformer, was the sheerest nonsense.

What Jasper had said about horses had given Fanny pause for an instant, for of course it would not make sense to work
horses beyond their strength. Horses had to be cossetted;
but then horses were a valuable commodity, which pauper
children plainly were not. There had to be reason and moderation in all things. A two-hundred-guinea blood horse was a
delicate creature, not easily replaced, and much capital was tied up in it. Pauper children belonged to their parents, and,
as Grandpapa said, there were plenty more where they came
from.

But it was obviously in Fanny's interests to encourage
Jasper in his views, for nothing would better convince Grand-
papa that he was not a fit person to inherit the mills. The next
evening at the assembly, therefore, when they were standing
at the head of the set, waiting for it to be completed. she set
about making friends with
him.

He was looking unusually smart, she thought, with new silk
stockings, and a well-starched neckcloth for once, instead of
the draggled, limp thing he usually sported; and his nails were
almost clean, and his hair had been washed, and there was
less of the sour smell that usually hung around him. She could
not know, of course, the effort these improvements had cost
him. All day he had avoided getting his hands dirty, to the
surprise of his underlings; he had sent his shirt and cravat out
to a laundress, at what he considered exorbitant expense, and
bought new stockings; and had gone home from the mill
early, having given his housekeeper instructions to have a
copperful of hot water ready.

‘T'ain't washing day, Mr Jasper,' she had protested.

‘
It's to wash myself in,' he had retorted, and she had shaken
her head at him sadly. Working with them machines had
turned his brain at last, she thought. She'd expected it for a
long time.

‘
It's very kind of you to agree to stand up with me,' Fanny
said with her best shy, modest look. 'I know that you don't
care for dancing. It was very awkward of Grandpapa to insist
upon it, for you could not well refuse.’

He eyed her cautiously, not sure what she was up to. 'I
didn't mean I didn't care to dance — only that I am not a
very accomplished dancer.'

‘
I'm sure that isn't so. I'm sure you dance very gracefully.
Do you suppose there will be any waltzing? It's all the rage in
London, though they don't allow it at Almacks. I'm not sure
about it myself. Do you think it is improper, Mr Hobsbawn?'

‘
I've never seen it done,' he answered. Despite himself,
he was being affected by the gentle, pleasant way she was
talking. She seemed so very feminine, in her lovely white silk
gown, trimmed with soft, creamy lace, with ribbons and
flowers in her hair, it was impossible to think of her under
standing account-books. 'I believe they tried to introduce it
some years ago, didn't they?'

‘
Yes, so I understand, but it didn't take. The gentleman
puts his arm around the lady's waist as part of the dance,' she
explained, managing a modest blush, 'which is why some peo
ple think it shocking. But properly done, it looks very pretty.'

‘I'm sure you would do it credit, Miss Morland,' he said.

It was quite a reasonable compliment, Fanny thought. She
looked up under her eyelashes at him, and saw a gleam of
something in his eyes which was not disapproval or indiffer
ence. 'I was very interested in what you were saying last
night, Mr Hobsbawn,' she said in her softest tones. He looked
wary, remembering her previously expressed indifference to
the lot of mill-workers. 'When you spoke about the way we
treat horses, I suddenly saw things in a very different light,'
she hastened to explain. 'Of course, it is absurd and very
shocking to work the children until they drop. Poor little things!’