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“You want I should read to you, Rachie?”
“No. I want you should let me be a doffer.”
“We’ll have to wait and see, ey? When we hear from Charlie …”
But they didn’t hear from Charlie. They heard from Quaker Stevens.
Dear Sister Worthen,
Thy brother asked me to look into the sale of thy farm. All inquiry has come to naught, but as I have business in thy uncle’s neighborhood on Wednesday next, I will inquire directly at that time. I trust thee and the little one are in good health. Son Luke asks to be remembered to thee.
Thy friend and neighbor,
Jeremiah Stevens
She tried not to feel angry at Charlie for not writing to her himself. He had, after all, done the sensible thing. To the law and their uncle, they were only children. Judah would have to listen to Quaker Stevens. He was a man of substance. She was glad to know that Luke had gotten safely home. She had finally realized that the freight he had come to fetch was human.
The letter meant, though, that she could wait no longer. Something would have to be done about Rachel. The promised fortnight had passed, and she must go back to work herself on the morrow. She sent Rachel to the bedroom, stuffed the letter in her apron pocket, and went into the kitchen.
She didn’t start with the request, but with an offer of help to fix dinner. Mrs. Bedlow was always grateful for an extra hand in the kitchen, even though the house was now down to only twenty girls.
“You give me more than the fortnight, Mrs. Bedlow, and I am obliged,” she said, once the cabbage had been chopped and the bread sliced.
“You were near to death, Lyddie. I’m not without heart.”
“Indeed not.” Lyddie smiled as warmly as she knew how. “You been more’n good to me and mine. Which is why I dare—”
“It won’t do, you know. I can’t keep her on indefinitely.”
“But if she was a doffer—”
“She’s hardly more than a baby.”
“She’s small, but she’s a worker. Didn’t she nurse me, ey?”
“She pulled you through. I wouldn’t have warranted it—”
“Could you ask the agent for me? Just until I got things set with my brother? All I want to do is take her home. It wouldn’t be for long, I swear. Meantime, I’ve not the heart to set her out with strangers.”
Mrs. Bedlow was weakening. Lyddie could read it in the sag of her face. She pressed on, eagerly. “It won’t be more than a few weeks, and I’d pay extra, I would. I know it’s hard for you with only twenty girls here regular—”
“I’ll speak to the agent, but I can’t promise you—”
“I know, I know. But if you’ll just ask for me. She’s a fine little worker, and so eager to make good.”
“I can’t promise anything—”
“Would you go now and ask?”
“Now? I’m in the middle of fixing dinner—”
“I’ll finish for you. Please. So I can take her over when I go back to work tomorrow …”
It was arranged. Lyddie suspected that Mrs. Bedlow had added a few years and several pounds in her description of Rachel to the agent, but a skeptical look was all she got from the overseer on the spinning floor when she presented Rachel for work the next morning. And Rachel looked so bright and eager and smiled so sweetly that even the skeptical look melted, and she was sent, skipping down the aisle, to meet the other doffers under the care of a kindly middle-aged spinner.
Slowly, Lyddie climbed the flight of stairs to the weaving room. Her worry for Rachel had pushed aside, for a time, her own fears of seeing Mr. Marsden again. She didn’t dare look in his direction, but went straight to her looms where Brigid was already at work, cleaning and oiling.
“You’re looking much the rosier,” Brigid said. How pretty the girl was with her light brown hair and eyes clear blue as a bright February sky after snow. It was the smile, though, that transformed her into a real beauty. Lyddie smiled back. She did not envy other women their good looks. And even if she had been so inclined, she would never begrudge this bounty of nature to one so poor in everything else.
