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“I’ll pay, of course. Full board. And you see how small she is. You know she won’t eat a full share.”
Mrs. Bedlow sat down and picked up her paring knife. Lyddie held her breath. “A week. Even then—”
“It wouldn’t be more’n a fortnight. I give you my vow. I just got to write my brother.”
Mrs. Bedlow looked doubtful, but she didn’t say no. She just sighed and started to peel again, the long coil so thin it was almost transparent.
“I’m obliged to you, Mrs. Bedlow. I got nowhere to turn, else.”
“She mustn’t go outdoors. We can’t have her seen about the premises.”
“No, no, I swear. I’ll keep her in my room. The other girls won’t even know.”
Mrs. Bedlow looked at Lyddie wryly. “They already know, and there’s no guarantee they’ll keep their peace.”
“I’ll beg ’em—”
“No need to coop her up more than necessary. She can come down with me during the day. I’ll have Tim help her with her letters and numbers in the afternoon. She ought to be in school herself.”
“She will be, Mrs. Bedlow. She will be. Soon as I can get things worked out. I swear upon my life—”
“You need to watch your language, my girl. Set an example for the little one.”
“I thank you, Mrs. Bedlow. You’ll not be sorry, I promise.”
She wrote Charlie that night after curfew in the flickering light of a forbidden stub of candle.
Dear Brother Charles,
I hope you are well. I am sorry to trouble you with sad news, but Uncle Judah come tonight to Lowell and brung Rachel to me. They have put our mother to the asylum at Brattleboro. Now they are thinking to sell the farm. You must go and stop them. You are the man of the family. Judah won’t pay me no mind. They got to listen to you. I got more than one hundred dollars to the det. Do not let them sell, Charlie. I beg you. I don’t know what to do with Rachel. Children are not allowed in corporation house. If I can I will take her home, but I got to have a home to go to. It is up to you, Charlie. Please I beg you stop Uncle Judah.
Yr. loving sister,
Lydia Worthen
She could hardly keep her mind on her work. What was the use of it all anyway if the farm was gone? But it couldn’t be! Not after all her sweating and saving. And what was she to do with Rachel? The child hadn’t spoken a word since her arrival. She hadn’t even cried. She seemed more dead than alive. And precious time must be spent finding her a place to stay and precious money put out for her keep—more if she was to go to school. Why couldn’t the child work in the spinning room? There were Irish children down there who looked no older than seven or eight. They were earning their own way. Hadn’t Lyddie herself been working hard since she was no more than a tadpole? And doffing wasn’t as hard as farm work. Why those children hardly worked fifteen minutes out of the hour, just taking off the full spools and replacing them with empty ones. Then they just sat in the corner and played or chatted. Sometimes from the window on a clear day Lyddie had seen them running about the mill yard playing tag or marbles. It was an easy life compared to the farm, and still Rachel would be out of mischief and earning her own way.
As if she hadn’t trouble enough, Brigid was crying again. Lyddie glanced over at the loom. Everything seemed in order, but the Irish girl was standing there, staring at the shuddering machine with tears running down her cheeks. Lyddie quickly checked her own looms before walking over and saying in the girl’s ear, “What’s the matter with you, ey?”
Brigid looked around startled. She bit her lip and shook her head.
Lyddie shrugged. It was just as well if the girl learned to bear her own troubles.
Mr. Marsden stopped Lyddie at the stairs on the way to breakfast. Her heart knotted. How could he have heard about Rachel already? Had one of the other girls tattled so soon? They were jealous of her, Lyddie knew. She was the best operator on the floor. But it was not about Rachel that Mr. Marsden wished to speak, it was about the wretched Irish girl. “You must tell her,” he said, “that she must get her speed up. I can’t keep her on, even as a spare hand, unless she can maintain a proper pace.”
Why didn’t he tell her himself? He was the overseer. Brigid did not belong to her. She hadn’t asked for a spare hand—hadn’t wanted one—and now he was trying to shove the responsibility off on her.
She spoke to Brigid after the break. “He says you’ll have to speed up or he can’t keep you on.”
The girl’s eyes widened in fear, reminding Lyddie, oh cuss it, of Rachel’s silent face as the child sat crouched within herself in the corner of Mrs. Bedlow’s kitchen. “Oh, tarnation,” she hollered in Brigid’s ear, “I’ll help you. We’ll do the five looms together for a few days—just till you get on better, ey?”
The girl smiled faintly, still frightened.
“And keep your mind on your blooming work, you hear? We can’t have you catching your hair or being hit in the head by a flying shuttle because you’re being stup—because your mind is someplace else.”
Fresh tears started in the girl’s eyes, but she bit her lip again and nodded. Lyddie could see Diana smiling approval. Good thing she couldn’t hear me, Lyddie thought wryly. She wouldn’t be thinking I was so kindly then.
By the seven o’clock bell, Brigid was looking a little less distraught, and Mr. Marsden came past to pat both girls proudly. Lyddie sighed and hardly bothered to dodge him. She had gotten off the fewest pieces in one day since she’d had four looms, and she still had to go home to the burden of silent little Rachel.
