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Lyddie was strong again. Her body no longer betrayed her into exhaustion by the end of the day, and she was past shedding tears for what might have been. It was a relief, she told herself, not to carry the burden of debt or, what was worse, the welfare of other persons. A great yoke had been lifted from her shoulders, had it not? And someday the stone would be taken from her breast as well.
Between them, she and Brigid coached several of the new spare hands, all of them wearing far too much clothing in the suffocating heat. “But me mither says me capes will cape me cool,” one of the girls insisted. Lyddie let it be. She hadn’t managed to persuade Brigid to take off her silly capes, how could she expect to persuade the new girls? Still, she was more patient with them than she had ever been with poor Brigid at the beginning. She had to be. Brigid herself was a paragon of gentleness, teaching the new girls all that Lyddie and Diana had taught her, never raising her voice in irritation or complaint.
Lyddie watched her snip off a length of thread from a bobbin and lead one of the clumsier girls over to the window and show her in the best light how to tie a weaver’s knot. It was exactly what Lyddie remembered doing, but she knew, to her shame, that her own face had betrayed exasperation, while Brigid’s was as gentle as that of a ewe nuzzling her lamb.
She smiled ruefully at Brigid as the girl returned to her own looms. Brigid smiled back broadly. “She’s a bit slow, that one.”
“We’re all allowed to be fools the first week or two,” she said, hearing Diana’s voice in her head. There had been a short note from Diana telling her not to worry—that she had found a place in a seamstress’s shop. But how could she not be anxious for her?
“Aye,” Brigid was continuing sadly, “but I’m a fool yet.” She nodded at the Psalm pasted on Lyddie’s loom. “And you such a scholar.”
Lyddie slid her fingers under the paper to loosen the paste and handed it to Brigid. “Here,” she said, “for practice. I’ll make another for myself.”
Brigid shook her head. “It will do me no good. I might as well be blind, you know.”
“But I sent you a note once—”
“I took it straight away to Diana to read to me.”
“You’ve learned your letters at least?”
Shamefaced, the girl shook her head.
Lyddie sighed. She couldn’t take Brigid on to teach, but how could she begrudge her a chance to start? She made papers for the girl to post.
“A is for agent.” Beside it was a crude picture of a man in a beaver hat—the stern high priest of those invisible Boston gods who had created the corporations and to whom all in Lowell daily sacrificed their lives.
“B is for bobbin and Brigid, too.” B was instantly mastered.
“C is for carding.”
“D is for drawing in.” She went on, using as far as possible words Brigid knew from factory life. Each day Lyddie gave her three new papers to post and learn, and, at the end of the day, to take home and practice.
So it was that day by day, without intending to be, Lyddie found herself bound letter by letter, word by word, sentence by sentence, page by page, until it was, “Come by when you’ve had your supper, and we’ll work on the reader together.” Or on a Sunday afternoon: “Meet me by the river, and I’ll bring paper and pens for practice.”
She did not go to Brigid’s house. She was not afraid to go into the Acre. She was not frightened by rumors of robberies and assaults, but, somehow, she was reluctant to go for Brigid’s sake. She did not want Brigid to have to be ashamed of the only home she had.
At last a letter came from Charlie. She had not allowed herself to look for one, but when it came she realized how she had longed to hear—just to be reminded that she had not been altogether forgotten.
Dear Sister Lyddie,
(Charlie did make his letters well!)
We are fine. We hope you are well, too. Rachel began school last month. Her cough is nearly gone, and she is growing quite fat with Mrs. Phinney’s cooking.
Luke Stevens says he has had no reply. Do think kindly on him, Lyddie. You need someone to watch out for you as well.
Your loving brother,
Charles Worthen
She almost tore this letter up, but stopped at the first tear. She had nearly ripped the page across Charlie’s name.
* * *
* * *
September came. Some of the New England girls had returned to the weaving room, though the room now was mostly Irish. No Diana, of course, though there was something in Lyddie that kept waiting for her, that kept expecting to see the tall, quiet form moving toward her through the lint-filled room. She had taken something from the weaving floor with her going. There was no quiet center left in the tumult.
