The Ugly Stepsister (Unfinished Fairy Tales Book 1) (26 page)

My stomach heaves; I grip my umbrella tight. On the other hand, my brain tells me that if I’m feeling queasy just listening to the injuries, what kind of effect will it have when I get the stories down on paper?

“All right, Molly. Angus. Let’s get started.”

“What about Mr. Tolliver?” Angus says. He still looks scared when he glances at the man I knocked out. I can’t have him interfering with the interview.

“Is there any rope available?”

“Haul him under a running machine,” Molly says. “He won’t dare move an inch.”

“We can’t do that!” Angus cries. “Mr. McVean’ll kill us.”

In the end, we take the keys from Mr. Tolliver’s pockets and lock the doors from the inside. I exchange a warning glance with Krev, mouthing to him that he has to keep an eye on Mr. Tolliver.

The air is warm and humid, with wisps of cotton floating around, making it easy to sneeze and cough. The machines are huge, horrible, looming monsters. Children from six to sixteen are working with these machines, picking up cotton from the floor, adjusting the spindles, running back and forth. All of them have hunched backs, sallow skin, crooked knees, and bodies so thin that I could knock them over like bowling pins.

A few look up when I enter, but most are too busy to notice. I can’t interview them when they’re all occupied; moreover, the sound of the machines pounding is deafening.

I grab Molly’s arm. “Can we turn off the machines?”

She hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. She shows me how to pull the lever of the nearest machine—with some trepidation, I manage it. Angus runs up and tells the children working on the machine to move away. There’s an awful creaking noise—the wheels gradually become slower and slower—the machine stops.

Now that I’ve turned off the first machine, the rest get easier with practice. While I work on the machines, Molly and Angus explain my visit to the other children. By the time I finish with the last machine, I wipe sweat from my brow and sink on a stool. I feel like a hero in an action movie who has just stopped a ticking bomb.

“Um…” I make a clumsy gesture with both hands. “Hi. I know you’re wondering why I’m here. I…um…I had a friend. Who once worked here.”

“She’s a friend of Jimmy’s.” Molly said.

Disbelief and confusion spread across the children’s faces. They don’t believe that I, a well-dressed lady, am actually acquainted with Jimmy.

I plug on, anyway. “Jimmy’s sister was my handmaid. When he died, I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. I asked the government to change the law, but they didn’t succeed. So now I’m trying to get the story out to the public. If the whole country is aware how awful your conditions are, then we’ll have better luck next time.”

The kids look at each other. One of the older kids, about fourteen or fifteen, speaks up.

“Why’re you doin’ this?” he asks, a suspicious glint in his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing but the relief of not seeing broken or dead bodies,” I say.

“Shut yer mouth, Ian,” Molly suddenly says. “A lady who felled Mr. Tolliver is a friend.”

“She knocked him over with an umbrella,” Angus says.

Now the kids look at me with newfound respect. Ian nudges a boy nearby and whispers something I can’t hear. But the rest seem to warm up to me.

“Can we really stop working, if you publish our story?” A girl asks eagerly. Her left hand is a stump; I wince. Those damn machines.

“We’ll start with shorter hours,” I say, pulling out my pad and pen. “Okay, let’s begin before that awful Tolliver returns.”

Now that I’ve explained myself, the kids are eager to talk. Those who manage to stay awake, anyway. Most of them simply slump on the floor and start dozing. There’s this tiny girl who seems only about four or five. I take her in my lap so she can curl up in the thick velvet folds like a kitten.

“What’s your name?” I address the girl with only one hand. “How old are you?”

“Una. I’m ten.”

The same age as Paige.

“Okay, Una.” I try to copy what Blake does when he interviews others. “Can you tell me how long you work every day?”

“Six in the morning to eight at night. When the trade is brisk, they make us work from five to nine.”

I mutter a swear word under my breath. “Including the weekend?”

She nods.

“How do you manage to stay awake?”

“Mr. Tolliver straps us.” When I look bewildered, Angus answers for her: “He uses his leather belt to beat us, ma’am.”

“Didn’t you try running away?”

Una nods. “I got strapped pretty bad for it. But I’d rather take a beating than him imposing a fine. He does that sometimes, when the cotton amount ain’t going well.”

Upon more questioning, I learn that they can be fined for talking, whistling, failing to keep the machines clean (a bit of dirt qualifies), and that sometimes Mr. Tolliver alters the clock and accuses them of being late, which gets them “quartered” again.

I swallow my frustration as I write all of this down. I swear that before I leave Story World, I am so going to publish what I wrote today. Even if it means I have to hand write a hundred copies and pass them out in crowded areas.

It is afternoon when I return home, wet and shivering. It started raining again when I left the cotton factory, my mind reeling from the interviews. Van has this suspicious look when I climb in the hansom, but I give no explanation. We’ve worked out an agreement: as long as he doesn’t babble where I’ve been, I won’t tell Lady Bradshaw that he keeps a locket with Bianca’s hair in it.

“Good heavens, miss,” Martha says when I take off my cloak and stomp on the rug in the parlor, trying to shake off as much mud as possible. “There’s a horrid smell on you—where have you been?”

“Nothing, I just got caught in the rain and mud,” I say. “Can you draw up a bath for me in my room?”

Martha clucks her tongue. “I’d make you scrub yourself from head to toe, even if you didn’t ask. Now we’ve got to put some bergamot oil in the parlor, or Madam will certainly sniff out that smell when she comes back.”

The bath is another laborious process, in which Martha and another maid carry tin pails of hot water up and down the stairs. I don’t take baths as often as in the modern world, but luckily the weather is often cold enough that I don’t stink much. Today, however, I absolutely need a thorough body wash. I sink into the water and let out a contented sigh. I didn’t think I’d get so attached to this world, but I have.

I spend the evening editing my notes. I piece together sentence fragments, correct spelling, and eliminate redundant words. It feels weird to be handwriting entire pages of text instead of typing them up on the computer, but a few hours later, when I finally have a stack of neatly written pages on the desk, I’m proud of and satisfied with the results.

The next day I visit The Bookworm, though I tell Lady Bradshaw I’m going to Henry’s house.

The shop is closed AGAIN. I wonder what kind of nefarious plot they’re cooking up in the basement. Maybe a plan to blow up the parliament, since it’s full of idiots. Anyway, I go ahead and knock on the door.

No one answers.

I ball my hand into a fist and pound away like a hammer.

“Lassie!” Mr. Wellesley’s voice comes through the peephole. “We’re in the middle of a meeting now—”

“So let me in.”

Dramatically, I flourish my bundle of papers in front of the peephole. Like any normal person, Mr. Wellesley cannot resist curiosity. There’s the sound of a bolt being lifted, and the door squeaks open.

TWENTY-EIGHT

“What are those papers?” Despite the lines on his face, Mr. Wellesley manages a grin. “Forged documents of the king’s? Or the first chapters of a sensational novel you’ve penned yourself?”

“Bingo. Well, your second guess is pretty close.” I lay my bundle on the counter. “I went to Andrew McVean’s cotton factory and interviewed the children working there. This is the result.”

Mr. Wellesley lets out a strangled noise from his throat. “You did what?”

Edward emerges from the passageway. I guess Henry is still besieged by girls his mother set up for him. The poor guy.

“We need more public attention, especially from those who aren’t afraid of offending the factory owners,” I say, enjoying the look of utter surprise on his face. “Since I can’t go throwing wine on McVean, I thought I’d take a more resourceful approach.”

“But lass,” Mr. Wellesley sputters, “how did you get the children to talk? Not to mention the overseer McVean employs to keep an eye on the workers.”

“So that’s what it’s called—an overseer? I knocked him out.” I wave my umbrella in a comic demonstration.

Both Mr. Wellesley and Edward stare at me like I’ve gone crazy. I don’t blame them. Perhaps I do look the part.

“You can’t knock a man out cold with an umbrella,” Mr. Wellesley protests.

“Guess I got lucky,” I say smugly. “Ask Angus at the factory—he was there when I whacked Tolliver over the head.”

Edward picks up my report; the only sane action at the moment. After he flips through a few pages, his jaw tightens.

Heavy footfalls creak on the stairs. Godfrey appears; his eyes narrow when I enter.

“How much longer will this take?” he demands. “We’ve been waiting.”

“My apologies for dallying,” Edward says. “But I assure you the wait has adequate cause. The lady here has brought most interesting news.”

Godfrey gives a derisive snort. “Highness, I won’t stop you if you want to leave with the lady. Clearly a lady’s company is more preferable.”

“My name is Katriona,” I interrupt, glaring at him and Edward. “Not ‘the lady.’ And I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk as if I were invisible.” I square my shoulders and lift my chin, like I’ve seen Elle do. I’m going to leave this world once I achieve the happy ending, so really, I’ve got nothing to lose.

Edward smiles—a slow, appreciative smile that makes me fidget.

Mr. Wellesley throws out his hands, clearly incapable of arguing anymore. “Well then, how about we all go downstairs and discuss what to do with the lass’s papers?”

Godfrey still looks surly, but then he stomps off with a resigned air. Edward indicates Mr. Wellesley and I should go first.

In the basement, the rest of the men I saw last time are gathered around a table. Unsurprisingly, they look bemused when I sail inside like I’m late for their meeting.

Mr. Wellesley clears his throat. “Gentlemen, this is Lady Katriona Bradshaw, the second daughter of the late Earl Bradshaw. No doubt some of you remember her, as she is a very special patron of mine. Today, she has brought us something that may aid our campaign.”

He goes on to describe how I broke into McVean’s factory and conducted the interviews. Of course they all look like I’m an alien (which actually isn’t that far-fetched), but probably out of respect for Mr. Wellesley and Edward, they aren’t as hostile as last time. But most still look incredulous, and frankly speaking, I can’t blame them. Even now I’m kind of in awe of what I did.

“A pack of lies,” a bearded man growls.

Edward lays my report in his hands. “Perhaps you’ll form a different opinion when you read this.”

The man reads a few lines in a disbelieving voice. When he finishes the interview with Una, one of the other men speaks.

“That girl is my niece,” he says quietly. “I was there at the hospital when she lost her fingers. This is the reason why I’m here.”

Silence falls.

“If you’re convinced that I’ve actually been there,” I say. “Can we get the story into print?”

Godfrey and the other men look at each other. Mr. Wellesley clears his throat.

“What’re you planning, lass?”

Geez, isn’t it obvious? “Have loads of copies printed, of course. The best thing we can do is circulate the story among as many people as possible. Spread the word far and wide. I can’t imagine anyone who can read and has a heart not supporting our cause.”

“I’ll contact the editor of
Athelia Today
and see if he can fit the story into the next issue,” Mr. Wellesley says. “I’ll also try a few magazines; I have connections with one of the staff on board.”

“And pamphlets,” I put in, suddenly inspired by the campaigning we did for class president. “Have a stack in the store, and drop off copies at other bookstores.”

“That’s it!” A man wearing a tweed cap slaps a hand on his knee. “We can distribute them as hand bills to pedestrians, just like Old Mallory advertising his whisky!”

“And not just bookstores,” Mr. Wellesley adds. “Perhaps restaurants and pubs will take them?”

“Pubs won’t be much use,” Una’s uncle speaks up. “Most of the patrons can’t read.”

“Pay someone who can draw,” Mr. Tweed-Cap says. “Stick the pictures on the walls. Or spread them in a corner that’s close to the traffic.”

We launch into a discussion on how to distribute the article I’ve written. The key is to make it easily accessible, in everything from newspapers and magazines to pamphlets. I suggest handing out pamphlets in the park, where most of the rich and titled stroll around for their morning ride. When Godfrey questions the cost, Edward simply folds his arms and tells him to send all bills to the palace.

“That’s it for now,” Mr. Wellesley finally says. “Is there anything you won’t do, lass? Next thing you’ll be wearing breeches and going into the army.”

I grin.
Oh, the things you don’t know
. I wonder what he’d say if I told him I’ve been wearing pants and shorts for years.

Godfrey gives me a long, hard look. Then he shakes his head. “Well done, lady.”

“Thanks.”

“Real plucky, I mean. For a lady.”

I do my best not to roll my eyes.

“Well now, we’d better get to work,” Mr. Wellesley says in a no-nonsense tone. “Lad, isn’t it time you got back? Didn’t you mention there was a state dinner you had to attend?”

Edward doesn’t look happy about the dinner, but he nods. “I’ll escort Kat outside.” At first I’m confused why he takes it for granted I should leave with him, but I don’t argue. I want to ask him about Elle, and frankly speaking, I’m feeling pretty tired as well. Right now I just want to crawl into bed.