The Trigger for Action
Amelia sat ather desk in theReview’soffices, poring over the railway commission’s safety reports. The investors’ meeting had unsettled her more than she cared to admit—not just Hereford’s unexpected possessiveness, but the undercurrent of tension whenever factory regulations were mentioned.
The report before her detailed a recent factory collapse in Manchester. Fifteen dead, dozens maimed. All because corners had been cut on basic structural requirements.
“Miss… Forgive me. Lady Hereford?” A hesitant voice broke her concentration.
She looked up to find Freddy, one of their errand boys, shifting nervously in her doorway. “Yes, Freddy?”
“There’s someone asking to see you. Says it’s urgent.” He lowered his voice. “Looks like a factory girl, ma’am. Her hand’s all bandaged up.”
Amelia felt something cold settle in her stomach. “Send her in, please.”
The girl couldn’t have been more than twelve. Thin face, work-worn hands, one wrapped in dirty bandages that couldn’t quite hide the dark stains beneath. She clutched her injured hand to her chest, tears streaming down her face as she fought to hold herself together.
“They said you might help,” the girl said, her voice breaking. “At the factory. Said you write about people like us.”
“Which factory?” Amelia asked, though a sick certainty was already forming.
“Crown Street Textiles,” the girl whimpered.
The location stunned Amelia into silence. Thirteen years had passed since she’d set foot in that place. Her leg began to throb with memory.
“What happened to your hand?” Amelia asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.
“Got caught in the new looms,” the girl explained between ragged breaths. “Foreman said it was my fault for not being careful. Doctor wants to take three fingers, says they’re beyond saving. But if he does, I can’t work, and my family…”
She couldn’t finish as pain overwhelmed her again.
“What’s your name?” Amelia asked softly.
“Mary Collins.”
“Mary.” Amelia rose immediately, reaching for her cloak. “We’re going to see a proper doctor right now.”
“But Miss, I can’t afford—”
“I will take care of everything.” Amelia guided the girl toward the door. “Thompson, cancel my appointments. I’ll return when I can.”
An hour later, with Mary’s hand properly treated by a competent surgeon who believed all three fingers could be saved, Amelia helped the exhausted girl back into the hackney. She pressed several banknotes into Mary’s uninjured hand along with a notecard bearing another address.
“This is where you can find temporary work while you heal. Tell the Duchess of Lancaster I sent you.”
After returning to her office, Amelia sat motionless, staring at the factory report without seeing it. Her wooden leg seemed to weigh heavier than usual, a physical reminder of what she’d lost. What had been taken from her.
After all these years, nothing had changed. The same dangerous conditions, the same callous disregard for lives treated as mere currency. She’d channeled her pain into advocating for reform,believing her words might eventually make a difference. But seeing Mary—a mirror of her younger self—made her realize the futility of mere words against men willing to sacrifice lives for coins.
With sudden clarity, Amelia knew what she needed to do. She needed to face the demon that had haunted her nightmares for a decade.
Standing with deliberate purpose, she gathered her notes and called for a hackney. It was time to revisit the past. Not as a victim, but as someone with the power to ensure there would be no more Mary Collinses.
*
The factory loomedagainst the graying sky, its brick walls stained black from years of soot. Amelia sat in the hired hackney across the street, her wooden leg propped carefully on the opposite seat. She hadn’t returned since that day, had deliberately taken alternate routes to avoid even glimpsing the building that had altered the course of her life.
“Sure you wouldn’t rather go home, m’lady?” the driver asked, clearly uncomfortable with keeping a lady waiting in this part of London.
“Wait,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the factory door.
