Black Rainbow (4 page)

Lizzie was delighted to explain. "Why, miss, she's at the mill all day and every day, since her poor papa died—and
even before, when he was too sick to tend to business. I don't know how they would get on without her. You wouldn't believe the things she does, all those papers full of writing and figures—that's the worst, all those numbers— but she reads them pretty as you please and tells the men what they should do."

"And they take orders from her?" Megan asked.

"Well, but you see, she's Master John's child. There was nobody like him—the kindest master in the county. He took her with him to the mill when she was a tiny little thing. She was the pet of the place; the men laughed at her first-off, but it warn't long before they found she could add a column of figures faster than any on 'em, and she knew how all the nasty machines worked. . . ."

Megan was sorry she had asked. The old woman rambled on and on, boasting of Miss Mandeville's accomplishments. She actually seemed proud to see her mistress doing a man's work.

As Megan was to learn, the old nurse had not exaggerated by much. Miss Mandeville was more modest, but her explanation made it clear that she ran Mandeville's Fine Woollens and Worsteds.

"There was no one else to do it," she explained. "Edmund was away, first at school and then at university; when the Crimean affair began, he was wild to go, and Father did not feel he could stand in the way. It is a family business, you see. My grandfather founded it, and the workers like to feel that the family is still involved. I do very little, I assure you, beyond settling disputes and making sure all is working smoothly."

"I did not mean to criticize—"

"I assure you, I did not mean to apologize! There is not a machine in the mill I could not repair if I had to." Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she observed Megan's surprise. "No doubt you think me peculiar, Miss O'Neill, but you must take me as I am. I am too old and set in my ways to change."

"I think you are the kindest person I have ever known," Megan said sincerely.

"Then you must have met with only very unkind people. No"—she extended an impulsive hand—"that was a stupid thing to say. I know your life has not been easy. Would you like to come to the mill with me one day and see for yourself what goes on there?"

It was several days before the visit could take place. Megan did not press it; she had read the published reports of the commissions sent out to investigate conditions in mines and factories, and the descriptions of weary child workers falling asleep after twelve hours at the looms had haunted her for days. The mines, to be sure, were even worse, but an outraged nation, learning of small children crawling on all fours through fetid tunnels dragging coal carts, had forced the passage of legislation correcting some of these evils. Still, Megan was not looking forward to seeing the mill children, and when Miss Mandeville finally proposed that she and Lina accompany her next day, she voiced shocked protest.

"I will come, thank you. But the child—"

"It will not be her first visit. Good heavens, Miss O'Neill, what are you expecting to see? I think you are in for a surprise."

Though the mill was due south of the house, on the other side of the hill, there was no through road, so they took the long way around, through the small village of St. Arca Underhill. The big barracklike buildings, with their tall chimneys spouting smoke, had nothing attractive about them, but when the carriage drove into the stone-paved yard, Megan was impressed at the air of cheerful, purposeful industry. The men who turned from their work to touch their caps or their forelocks were all stout and healthy in appearance, and all greeted the diminutive figure of their lady-manager with grins or waves. Jane led the way into the countinghouse through an outer office where several clerks sat perched on their high stools, and she greeted each man
by name before proceeding to her own office. Once inside, she whipped off her bonnet and tossed it onto a chair, with a look of great satisfaction. She seemed almost to sniff the air as if it were filled with perfumed odors—which was certainly not the case.

It was a curious little room, quite unlike Megan's vague notions of what such establishments should be. Papers and account books were everywhere, and a table was littered with samples of the fabrics manufactured in the mill—tangled webs of scarlet and Lincoln-green thread, swatches of vivid plaids and stripes, and every solid color from black to pale cream. But there were several incongruous features— green plants on the windowsill, a few comfortable chairs, and a table near them holding a plain silver tea set, like the sort of arrangement that might be found in a lady's sitting room.

Lina went at once to the windowsill, announcing with a comically knowledgeable air, "The flowers are very thirsty, Aunt Jane. Shall I give them water?"

"Yes, please. You know where to find it."

The child picked up a small watering can and hurried out. Miss Mandeville waved a hospitable hand toward the overstuffed chairs. Seating herself behind her desk, she seemed to gain a foot in height.

"I had a chair specially made," she explained. "It was easier to have the chair raised than the desk lowered; and I believe it puts one at a disadvantage to be so much smaller than the workmen and buyers who face one across it."

Megan was much struck by the cleverness of this idea. "And this cozy little corner, like a lady's parlor?"

"That is another of my sly schemes," said Miss Mandeville, trying in vain to look devious. "It disarms some of the gentlemen in a way you would scarcely believe. After a nice chat and a cup of tea, they are unable to complain when I present them with their bill."

A succession of workmen and clerks followed one another
into the room, each with a report or a problem of some kind. Megan listened in growing amazement. She could not imagine how one small head, however clever, could keep track of the multitudinous details brought to its attention.

From time to time Jane tossed her an explanation. "We maintain an infirmary in connection with the mill. We do our best to avoid injury, but some accidents are inevitable. Which reminds me that I meant to ask. . . . Ah, here he is now. Good morning, Sam. You are late today."

"I had to have repairs made on the throstle. I told you yesterday the flyers wasn't right."

The speaker was young and rather short in stature, and so broad of chest and shoulder that his height appeared to be less than it actually was. When he removed his cap a tuft of black hair sprang up at the back of his head. He put up his hand to flatten it, in a gesture as habitual as it was ineffective, glancing rather selfconsciously at Megan as he did so. His features, rounded and rather coarse, reminded her of someone, but she could not think who.

"If it happens again, we must consider replacing the throstle," Miss Mandeville said. "There is a new model. . . ."

The ensuing conversation was unintelligible to Megan, so she turned her attention to Lina, who had finished tending the plants and was foraging among a heap of papers on a side table, looking for a blank sheet on which to draw a picture. Miss Mandeville appeared to be paying no attention, but before long she said suddenly, "Sam, have you time to show Miss O'Neill around the mill? (Miss O'Neill —Mr. Sam Freeman, one of our foremen.) And take Lina with you, please, Sam, she is wrecking havoc with my papers. Bring them back—preferably without stains—in an hour."

With a shriek of joy Lina flung herself at Sam. "I want to see the big pots of paint!"

He stooped to pick her up and, with a smile that transformed his rough features amazingly, said, "Do you then,
my honey? I make no promise about stains, Miss Jane; this one is like a magnet to attract the dye, even though I hold her safe away from the vats."

"I know," Miss Mandeville agreed, with a sigh. "The last time her frock looked like a cleaning rag, every color of the rainbow. Do your best; a man can do no more."

Shifting the child to his shoulder, where she clung like a little monkey, Sam opened the door and stood back to let Megan pass through. He didn't seem to relish the role of guide, or appreciate her company; after the first quick glance, he had not even looked directly at her.

As they passed through the various stages of the processes that turned the rough bales of wool into finished cloth, Sam's comments were brusque to the point of rudeness. Admittedly, the noise of the machines, particularly in the huge high-ceilinged room that contained the power looms, made it difficult to hear even a shouted explanation. Megan did not ask for elaboration, she only nodded and tried to look intelligent. In fact, she had not the slightest interest in the process and only the dimmest hope of ever understanding it. However, she noticed that almost all the workers were adults. Some of the women at the looms were very young, in their early teens, perhaps, but there were none of the pallid, pathetic children she had dreaded seeing.

Much more to her taste was the infirmary, where the brief tour ended. Megan's admiring exclamation at the sight of the neat little room seemed to please Sam; he smiled with unselfconscious pride.

"It's the finest in the county—indeed, in the country, save, perhaps, for the one at Mr. Owen's mill in Lancashire. He's a fine man, Mr. Owen; he and Miss Jane exchange ideas, and he visited us here a few years back."

"Robert Owen, the Socialist?" Megan asked. One of her employers had mentioned the name in terms of impassioned anger that had made it stick in her mind.

Sam scowled. "If a Socialist is a man who cares for the welfare of his fellow man, then Mr. Owen is a Socialist. And so am I."

Megan decided to abandon the subject. She preferred Sam's pleasant smile to his frown.

She was introduced to the nurse, a bustling matron with an accent so thick Megan could hardly understand a word she said. But her gestures were self-explanatory, and Megan had no difficulty expressing the expected congratulations. There were only four beds, and the other accommodations were of Spartan simplicity; but the wide windows, which now stood open to the summer breeze, were double glazed, and the presence of a vent for a stovepipe suggested that sufferers who occupied the place during the winter months could expect the most modern comforts.

The time had passed more quickly than Megan realized. When they returned to the office, they found Miss Mandeville gloved and bonneted, ready to leave. At the sight of Lina she exclaimed, "Dreadful child! What did you do, sit down in a puddle of dye?"

Such appeared to be the case. The back of Lina's frilly skirt was purple from the waist down. Involuntarily Megan glanced at Sam and saw on his face the same look of amused guilt she felt on her own. Miss Mandeville cut his apologies short.

"Never mind, she will have to ride home in her shift, like Lady Godiva. That is a local tale, you know, Miss O'Neill; we are proud of the lady's charitable impulse and resent the liberties sensational writers have taken with her costume. Have you ever ridden horseback naked? I did not suppose you had. I assure you that even a saint would find it uncomfortable."

As she spoke, her nimble fingers divested Lina of the paint-stained frock and lifted her into the carriage. Lina broke into a fit of giggles and insisted on standing up so that everyone could see her unconventional costume. Miss
Mandeville did not protest, but directed Megan to keep a firm hold on the rear of the small pantelets.

Turning for a last look, Megan saw that Sam was standing in the yard watching them. Finally that elusive sense of familiarity crystallized.

"He looks like you," she exclaimed, and then clapped her hand to her mouth, wishing she had not spoken.

"Not surprising," said Miss Mandeville calmly. "My grandmother was the sister of his grandfather. You'll see the Freeman features all over the neighborhood. They have lived in the parish for centuries. Sadly, however, the line seems to be dying out. Sam's kin have died or emigrated; he is the last to bear the name."

"He seems quite a superior person," Megan said.

Miss Mandeville's eyebrows rose. "Superior to what? His father was Papa's right-hand man and helper, though he could neither read nor write. Sam has taken steps to improve himself in the skills worldly people consider important; he is literate, he reads extensively, and he is perfectly well acquainted with the use of a knife and fork. More important in my opinion is the fact that he is his father's son, with all Mr. Freeman's honesty and intelligence."

"Oh, to be sure," Megan murmured.

Miss Mandeville did not pursue the subject. The remainder of the ride home was spent in trying to keep Lina from falling out of the carriage, which she seemed bent on doing.

The days settled into a pleasant routine. Megan's teaching duties were not onerous. Lina was intelligent enough, but she could not sit still for five minutes without wriggling or tapping her feet. As the balmy weather continued, teacher and pupil spent a great deal of time out of doors, exploring the grounds. The child was more receptive to instruction when she was allowed to move about, and Megan took advantage of their walks to introduce French vocabulary, which Lina picked up with surprising facility.