Chapter 2
All was quiet on the floor of the textile factory—quiet, that is, except for the loud clatter of the looms, backed by the lower, steadier hum of the treadle sewing machines.
There was a full complement of workers today; though the factory was not always a pleasant place to work and the wages paid were lower than average, it was a testament to how desperate the poorer people of New York were to have regular employment.
If it was this or living on the street, there was no contest.
Everyone there had worked hard to even be hired on—and everyone bent their heads to their tasks, knowing that if they didn’t apply themselves throughout the long ten-hour day, there were always plenty of others waiting to step into their shoes.
The tension of that knowledge alone could have pushed someone with a quick temper to a boiling point. Lyla Partridge, twenty-two years old and feeling a decade older, knew herself well. This was a day, above all others, that she ought to avoid conflict.
And she detested the thought of crying in front of anyone…
Yes, she would do better to avoid anything that might push her feelings to a boiling point. Indeed, she would do best to simply stay home—but if she did that, her position would simply be handed over to the next willing applicant. No, she had to continue. She had to make a living.
Even if it was only for her own sake, for there was no one at home to care for.
She knew the factory floor like the back of her hand.
She had started working there at sixteen; it had been her mother who brought her in and gotten her the job.
Lyla had been willing enough, since the two of them were always scrimping and saving to make ends meet.
With both of them bringing in wages, perhaps they could afford to breathe a little easier.
Even breathing cost too much these days.
But after five years, the wages had gone down, not up as expected, and now that her mother was gone, there were plenty of days when she questioned whether any of this was truly worth it.
If she had any other options, she would likely have taken them long ago—but the choices open to a young woman on her own, especially in a city like New York, were not appealing.
It was unlikely that she would find other work for which she was qualified.
She’d never be hired on as a governess or a companion; she was too impulsive for that and given to impatience.
There was always marriage, of course, but she had nothing to bring to a union except her rather unusual prettiness and her quick wit—any fellow who knew her, her mother had always told her wryly, would be too frightened to take her on, so she’d better make up her mind to marry a stranger!
And that was a possibility, too—there were several matrimonial agencies in the city, and she had more than once paused on the threshold, changing her mind on the point of going in.
Marrying a stranger was all well and good as an idea, but when it came to the actuality—could she really put her trust in someone she’d never met, someone she knew nothing about?
And suppose they decided they didn’t want to marry her once they met her?
She wasn’t as pretty as some, she knew; her red hair was too exuberant to be netted and pinned, her skin was dotted with freckles, and her personality was sharp, direct, and stubborn—though she had to allow, in justice to herself, that she was loyal to a fault once she decided she liked someone.
And she knew that she had inherited some of her mother’s natural sweetness—it was only that she rarely had occasion to demonstrate it.
The world had demanded that she be tough, and so she was—and now it seemed ready to punish her for exactly that.
Blowing a few wayward strands of red hair from her forehead, she paused a moment to sit up straight and look around at her fellow workers.
All women like her—women desperate to hold onto what little they had left, too desperate to rise up and demand the better wages they had long been denied.
A spark of indignation ran through her at the thought.
Why, some of these women had been here far longer than she—and had far more claim on the goodwill of the factory.
And yet, those men in the offices, the ones who made all the decisions, did none of the work, and retained the bulk of the profits—those men continued to keep their firm grasp on their workers by means of threats and broken promises…
Oh, how she despised the rich!
She gave the garment she was working on a little jerk to adjust it under the needle, tugging a stitch loose in the process.
“I saw that, Miss Partridge!”
Her blood ran cold in her veins, then hot again just as quickly.
She knew the sensation. In some girls, it was a sign of passion—or so the novels said.
For her, it was passion of a sort. Of all the fat cats upstairs in the offices, idling at his desk, she disliked Albert Woods the most. He was the one who showed himself most often on the floor; he’d taken over as manager just over a year before, when decent old Tarquin Hale had retired at last. She knew that her disdain for Woods was largely personal—not only had his first act upon taking his position been to immediately hire a replacement for Lyla’s mother on the very afternoon of her death, but ever since then he seemed to believe that Lyla herself owed him some sort of debt, as payment for being allowed to stay on after her mother’s position was vacated.
What, precisely, that payment entailed had never been overtly spoken—but if his coy mentions of companionship were anything to go by, Lyla had a feeling she knew exactly what he intended for her future.
Perhaps some men might make such suggestions in good faith, intending to marry her. But she knew full well that Albert Woods had a wife and children at home, though it boggled her mind to think that any self-respecting woman would ever willingly choose him as a husband!
And here he was now, descending on her, radiating righteous indignation. She lifted her head and did her best to temper her glower; after all, she had left the flat today, promising herself that she would be on her best behavior!
She could sense trouble brewing.
So, too, could her nearest neighbor, Della Spargo.
The young woman, only a year older than Lyla but not nearly as likely to give vent to her feelings, was Lyla’s only real friend now that her mother was gone; she’d lectured Lyla often enough, in a motherly fashion, about keeping mum when the floor manager was on the prowl.
Lyla caught her eye and managed something close to a reassuring smile, which Albert Woods evidently caught sight of.
“And now you smile, as though you know better than I do! Well, my girl, you just bend your head to your work this very moment and repair that garment at once. We do not send shoddy work to our customers—and if it happens again and your work is not up to scratch, I can promise you there are plenty of other skilled hands ready to take up the labor!”
He wanted her to plead with him not to fire her; Lyla knew; she’d heard it often enough.
But her pride was too great to overcome.
She shifted the garment with her fingertips and pressed down on the treadle.
It took only once to mend the stitch and put the whole thing to rights; she had a deft hand, far neater than the manager would ever have recognized or admitted.
Triumphantly, she lifted her head again and narrowed her eyes at him.
“I beg your pardon,” she said frostily, “but I do know what I’m doing.”
His cold blue eyes bored into hers, and, improbably, he smiled.
“So, you do,” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be too quick to judge—doubtless you could put every girl here to shame, couldn’t you, hmm?
And we ought to give you the opportunity, as you’re so keen.
” He looked up, glancing around the room.
“Do you hear that, girls? Miss Partridge has volunteered to finish off every garment that is left undone at the conclusion of the day. Feel free, feel free—bring them right to her on your way out. She’ll stay until they are completed, never you fear.
” He glanced back down at her, that cold smile stretching.
“Without pay, I’m afraid—times are terribly hard.
But don’t fret, Miss Partridge—I’ll stay with you for a time and make sure that everything is moving along as it ought.
” He tapped her desk with one fingertip and went on his way, hands clasped behind his back, clearly feeling as though he had won the altercation—as indeed he had, for he had the power to force her to fight for her job, and she had no power at all.
She scarcely had the power to restrain herself from leaping up and giving him a good shove!
Biting her lip, she glanced down at her hands, laid quiet in her lap.
They were curled so tightly into fists that her fingernails had left marks in her palm.
She heard Della say quietly, “I’ll stay with you, Lyla. Don’t worry.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her friend she needn’t bother herself; pride, even in situations like this, could be a terribly strong enemy to overcome.
But the last thing she wanted was to spend hours in the factory after everyone had gone home, with only Albert Woods for company.
There was some satisfaction, some eagerness, in that supercilious smile that made her cold.
“Thank you,” she murmured back.