Chapter 18
Eighteen
As promised, Rohan arranged for us to meet the following Saturday. A cornflower-blue morning stretched overhead into infinity, the last warmth of September clinging on and brimming with the possibility of adventure.
“This is one of our processing plants,” he said over the noise, the machines pounding as bits of cotton fiber floated in the air.
He led a tour through the spinning room as the cotton was twisted into thread and bound in great sheets.
I had, of course, seen the bolts of fabric in the shops, but I had yet to learn the scale of industrialization that had machines turning and twisting fibers into great sheets of cloth.
Men worked the machines as they spun at a roar, making it hard to hear.
They fed the insatiable beasts, sweat dripping from their thin limbs.
It was a welcome respite when we escaped to the storehouse, which held the bolts of finished fabric.
The work was hard, but it was as honorable as any other work, not demeaning like my experience at home.
As we walked farther from the din, Rohan explained: “With the American Civil War, Britain could not get the cotton it needed. While my grandfather was very much in favor of your North winning the war, many cotton growers in India wished it would have gone on longer. The war and the end of slavery raised the price of cotton, and the British tried to keep a stranglehold on the cotton mill industry. The British buy Indian cotton, pence for the pound, only to sell it back to us once it’s refined.
They prevent our creation of mills, driving down competition and keeping the lion’s share for themselves.
So that is why we are here—attempting to do it ourselves. ”
“That’s admirable. Having control over the process.”
He nodded and then hesitated. “You must forgive me if I’m rude, but are your interests in cotton production personal?”
I understood the implication. It was his way of asking, Have you, or any member of your family, ever worked in the fields?
“I’ve . . . engaged . . . with cotton production in the past. It was a painful period. I’m glad to be free of it and that others back home are also free. Your business is nothing like that.”
He gazed over the tall machinery and the workers bending over the mechanical rows as the bobbins spun. “These people are paid, and we do our best to care for them. That doesn’t make the work less hard, or the overall systems fairer. We also do not employ children.”
The truth burned: The work needed to be done, and profits needed to be made. Rohan was doing the best he could. At least, his people were looked after. Likely at a cost to his bottom line.
“Well, if you’ve gathered what you needed, should I take you back?”
“The time went too quickly,” I admitted.
Rohan seemed delighted by my admission, even if a bit flustered.
“If you’re not otherwise engaged, there’s a gathering tonight.
My uncle is having a function as they finalize a new deal with the Americans.
Would you like to come as my guest? There’ll be many people there, including friends of the association, professors from the university, and some merchant families.
” He hesitated. “I think it would be lovely if you came.”
“But I—I’ve only known you for a few days,” I said, despite the flattery I felt from his invitation.
“What does that matter?” Rohan asked, his hand brushing alongside mine. “If I’m having a celebration, it could only be better if you were there.” His rich brown eyes were shrewd, with a charming sparkle we both knew was irresistible.
“If that’s the case, we must leave soon so I can prepare. I’ll have to wear something dazzling for such an event.”
He drew me closer, his words only loud enough for me to hear. “You should have no concern there. You dazzle me just as you are.”