A Lady of High Regard (22 page)

Dressed in a plain brown work skirt and a well-worn calico blouse, Mia did her best to appear common. The church was within walking distance of the rally site, so Mia left her buggy and horse and made her way on foot. There was already quite a crowd gathered by the time she arrived. Blending in amongst the workers was easy. No one questioned her appearance there—one woman, in fact, handed Mia a leaflet explaining the conditions women were facing in some of the local mills and factories.

“If you would all just calm down, we can proceed,” a heavyset man announced. He was dressed in a green suit and a straw planters hat and seemed to hold some authority, as the crowd immediately quieted.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we hope to make our issues known to those in positions of authority, but we also hope to educate you in these matters most dear to your heart. We have included a number of speakers today to aid in this cause.”

He rambled about the credentials and positions of those who would share their wisdom, but Mia paid little attention. She turned instead to two women at her right. “Will they talk about wages?” she asked, hoping to entice conversation from one or the other.

“They’d better,” the woman closest to Mia declared. “I’m missing my hard-earned pay and might not even have a job to go back to. There’s supposed to be some promises of new hours too.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” the other woman said. “The city is far more concerned about freeing slaves than freeing women.”

Mia thought that a most poignant comment and committed it to memory. She started to move, but the woman nearest her took hold of her arm. “Where do you work, deary?”

“At a house on Walnut. But I heard about good money to be made at the mills. Do you suppose I could do better there?”

The woman shook her head. “Don’t be stupid. If you have a house job, you’re much better off than the rest of us. You have better conditions, I’m sure of it.”

“Well,” Mia replied, thinking of Ruth, “I do get one day a week off, besides Sunday.”

“See there. That’s what I mean. And you have good food and a nice room, I’m betting.”

Mia nodded. Putting herself in Ruth’s place, she knew that the girl had little to complain about. She had a nice room she shared on the third floor, she had good meals each day, and her pay was quite liberal.

“Don’t come to the mills, deary. You’ll only get consumption and die. There’s few of us who aren’t suffering some form of it. Those places are death houses, but we got no choice. Ain’t like we have someone willin’ to take care of us.”

Mia touched the woman’s hand. “I think you’re probably right. Thank you for advising me.” With that she slipped deeper into the crowd, pressing through the already tight lines of men and women.

A new speaker had come to the platform. Mia thought he looked familiar but couldn’t place him. No doubt he was one of the factory owners who mingled in the same circles her parents frequented.

The man began by speaking of the American factory and the efficiency of its worker. He spoke of other countries and their trials and frustrations in enticing quality men and women to fill their positions. He sounded very complimentary of the employees, and cheers erupted more than once as the sentiment of the crowd concurred.

“Who is that?” she asked the older woman who now stood to her left.

“Some fancy breeches who thinks we oughta kiss his hand for lettin’ us slave for him.” She cackled at her reply as if it were some great joke. “Ain’t foolin’ me.”

Mia moved away, hoping someone else might offer her a name. She asked a man who seemed to hang on the speaker’s every word.

“He owns one of the ironworks.” He gave the man’s name and Mia nodded. She had heard it several times in her father’s discussions. His family was quite wealthy.

Another speaker replaced the man and spoke of how workers should not put unwarranted demands on manufacturing. “Prices will rise to uncomfortable levels,” he promised, “and if that happens factories will begin to close their doors or cut back on their staffing. You will only snip off your own noses if you persist.”

The crowd booed and hissed. They hurled ugly comments along with rotten produce. Mia hadn’t expected this. She tried to maneuver to the edge of the crowd, talking to people all the while.

“They plan to threaten us with the loss of our jobs,” one woman told her. “I lost my son in that factory two years ago, and they’ve never compensated me, even though it was their faulty equipment what killed him.”

“She’s tellin’ the truth,” another woman joined in. “He was just a boy of twelve. That oughta mean something to someone.”

“It should,” Mia agreed.

“They told me they’d pay me money and take care of the funeral.”

Her friend interrupted. “But they never did. Oh, they paid for the box they buried him in and the doctor, but nothing more.”

The woman’s eyes welled with tears. “It weren’t about the money. It weren’t ever about the money.”

Mia felt a lump form in her throat at the sight of the woman’s tears. She wished she could somehow console this mother, but what could she say? “It wasn’t right for them to treat you so,” she whispered. In that moment she realized the woman didn’t care so much about the money as she did the accountability. The factory owner should have taken responsibility and compensated the woman for her loss. In doing so, the owner would have acknowledged his part, and for reasons beyond Mia’s understanding, she knew this would have helped the woman.

Yet another well-dressed man was speaking to the crowd amidst their heckling and hissing. He seemed rather pompous in his attitude and carried with him an air of superiority that Mia knew would not be tolerated for long.

“You come here to complain, leaving your jobs and responsibilities to show your disdain for something that you asked to be a part of. You would force us to consider better working conditions for women and children in particular, yet we have already yielded on the issue of even hiring women and children. For that you should be grateful.”

Mia was dumbfounded by his words. He made it sound as though the women and children worked because it was something they longed to do—rather than because it kept them from death.

“Even now you are costing your companies great loss. When workers at one of the textile mills recently decided to strike, they were responsible for the company being unable to fulfill an order. It was a large order that benefited the company greatly, but it had to be canceled and fulfilled elsewhere. That company may even now be on the verge of closing its doors for good.” Some of the people cheered at this. The man looked aghast and shouted in anger. “You may well cheer it, but you won’t earn a wage for this day, nor will those people ever earn a wage again. Protest if you must, but know that it comes with a price.”

More produce went flying, and the crowd began to press forward, as if they were going to attack the man. Men were yelling accusations, while women protested that their treatment was far worse than that of slaves.

“This country worries about freeing the Negroes,” a woman shouted above the others, “but you treat your women even worse!”

This set the crowd into an impossible frenzy. Mia moved away as quickly as she could but tripped and fell when someone rushing forward stepped on her limp skirt. She felt the cobblestones bite into her knees, but that pain didn’t compare to the overwhelming fear that she might not get back up without being trampled first.

“Stop!” she called out, attempting to rise against the weight of the bodies that poured out around her. “Let me up!” But no one seemed to hear her panicked cries.

CHAPTER 17

G
arrett watched in frantic silence as Mia disappeared in the crowd. He knew she’d fallen, and he pushed people aside in his attempt to reach her, uncaring as to whether they were young or old, male or female.

“Mia!” he called, hoping she might hear him. “Mia!”

The crowd was ready to riot. He could feel it—sense the danger in a way he’d never before experienced. It made his skin crawl and his stomach churn.

As Garrett approached the place where he’d seen Mia fall, the crowd seemed to part. One angry woman kicked at Mia as if to rid herself of an obstacle. Garrett took hold of the woman and pushed her aside.

“Mia!” He reached for her and pulled her up into his arms so he was cradling her like a child.

“Where did you come from?” she gasped.

“We’ll talk later. After we get out of this mess.”

He held her close, refusing to put her down lest she fall again. They weren’t far from a side street, but the crowds were pressing forward to stone their accusers with words, if not rocks. The words and attitudes were ugly, but poverty often did that to a person. There was no time for formalities and niceties when your belly was swollen in hunger and your children were dying for lack of proper care.

He reached the side street and felt a sensation of relief. He looked to Mia, who continued to stare up at him in complete amazement. He wanted to spank her and to kiss her all at the same time. How in the world could he bear such a woman?

“Are we safe?” she asked.

Garrett continued walking away from the rally but nodded. “I think so.”

“Then put me down. This is hardly appropriate.”

He laughed in a harsh tone and dropped her unceremoniously to her feet. “Do not speak to me of what is appropriate. Propriety does not allow for a woman of your class and position to be dressed like a common laborer, wandering through a vindictive crowd, at a rally that has nothing to do with you. What in the world possessed you to come here, Mia? Have you lied to us all and taken back your position for
Godey’s
?”

“I do not work for
Godey’s,
nor am I given to lying.” She dusted off her skirt and appeared to be checking herself for damage. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I . . . I just felt this was something I had to do.” She marched off down the street without waiting for his response.

Garrett easily caught up with her and whirled her around to face him. “You could have been killed back there, and you have the audacity to be angry with me for my concern?”

“You have no right to accuse me.”

“I promised your father I would look after you. That gives me every right.”

Mia’s blue eyes narrowed as she set her face in a look that Garrett knew suggested she was ready to stand her ground. “Ever the vigilant big brother,” she retorted. “I thank you for your help in getting me out of that crowd, but I will not be insulted or accused of things I have not done.”

Garrett hated it when she referenced him as a brother. His feelings toward her were anything but brotherly—and hadn’t been for some time. At moments like this he wanted to kiss her long and passionately and see if she still thought of him as nothing more than a sibling. But instead, he held back.

Mia began to walk and Garrett put aside his thoughts and focused on matching her strides, knowing without being told that she was heading back to the church. For several blocks they said nothing, but as Mia approached her carriage, Garrett felt his anger stir again.

“I am not your brother, nor have I any desire to be. Frankly, I would not have such an unruly sister. Honestly, Agnes and Bliss behave more honorably than you do.”

Mia stopped and turned abruptly. “How can you stand there insulting me when people are suffering? Have you ever known concern for their welfare? You live in luxury and enjoy the fruits of their labors. How can you ignore their plight? How can you allow children to be killed in factories without protesting the matter for yourself?”

“Now who’s accusing?”

Mia shook her head. “But something should be done. There are so many and they . . . they . . . have so little.” Tears trickled onto her cheeks. “A woman told me her son died in the factory where they both worked. He was only twelve. Why are little boys even working, much less dying in factories?”

Garrett stepped forward, then stopped himself. He longed to take her in his arms, for he knew her sorrow was genuine— knew her concern reached deep into the very heart of who she was. “Mia, I hate it too. I long to see life for those people made better. I am doing what I can to see changes and to influence responsible people to right these wrongs.”

“I listened to those men talk—men who might well share the same social clubs and parties as my own father. They are heartless. They threaten and chide the people for their complaints. They tell them how good they have it, without ever having experienced that life for themselves. How would they ever exist in such deprivation—without their butlers and fine wines?”

“Still, we who are of the privileged class owe it to those less fortunate to try and influence such men. If they are truly in our company, then it should also be said that they are in our circle of influence. Perhaps by bringing up such topics at our dinners and parties, we can also help to remake the society of those less wealthy. Maybe we can actually give them a better life.”

“How, Garrett? How will dinner chats change the lives of those who haven’t enough food? How will your party conversation bring back the life of that woman’s son?”