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“You—you sent for me, sir?” It came out like a hen cackle.
“Yes?”
“You sent for me, sir.” She was glad to hear her voice grow stronger. The man kept staring as though she were a maggot on his dish. “Lydia Worthen, sir. You sent for me.”
“Ah, yes, Miss Worthen.” He neither stood nor asked her to sit down. “Miss Worthen.” He gathered the papers he had been working on and tamped the bottom of the pile on his desk to neaten it, and then laid the stack down on the right side of the desk. Then he scraped his chair around to face her more directly. “Miss Worthen. I’ve had a distressing interview with your overseer this morning.”
She couldn’t help but wonder how Mr. Marsden had retold last night’s encounter.
“It seems,” he continued, “it seems you are a troublemaker in the weaving room.” He was studying her closely now, as closely as he had studied his papers before. “A troublemaker,” he repeated.
“I, sir?”
“Yes. Mr. Marsden fears you are having a bad influence on the other girls there.”
So there had been no report of last night. That, at least, seemed clear. “I do my work, sir,” Lyddie said, gathering courage. “I have no intention of causing trouble on the floor.”
“How long have you been with us, Miss Worthen?”
“A year, sir. Last April, sir.”
“And how many looms are you tending at this time?”
“Four, sir.”
“I see. And your wages? On the average?”
“I make a good wage, sir. Lately it’s been three dollars above my board.”
“Are you satisfied with these wages, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. And the hours?”
“I’m used to long hours. I manage.”
“I see. And none of this …” He waved a massive hand. “None of this ten-hour business, eh?”
“I never signed a petition.” I meant to, but no need for you to know it.
There was a long pause during which the agent took off his spectacles as though to see her better. “So,” he said finally, “you are not one of these female reform girls?”
“No sir.”
“I see,” he said, replacing his spectacles and looking quite as though he saw much less than he had a few minutes before. “I see.”
She took a tiny step forward. “May I ask, sir, why I’m being called a troublemaker?” She spoke very softly, but the agent heard her.
“Yes, well—”
“Maybe …” Her heart thumped in admiration for her own boldness. “Maybe Mr. Marsden could be called, sir? How is it, exactly, that I have displeased him?” Her voice went up to soften the request into a question.
“Yes, well …” He hesitated. “Open the door.” And when Lyddie obeyed, he called to the clerk to summon Mr. Marsden, then turned again to Lyddie. “You may sit down, Miss Worthen,” he said, and went back to the papers on his desk.
Though the chair he indicated was narrow and straight, she was grateful to sit down at last. The spurt of courage had exhausted her as much as her fear had earlier. She was glad, too, to have time to pull her rioting thoughts together. But the longer she waited, the greater the tumult inside her. So that when the clerk opened the door and Mr. Marsden appeared, she could only just keep from jumping up and crying out. She pressed her back into the spindles of the chair until she could almost feel the print of the wood through to her chest. She kept her eyes on the dizzying oval spiral of the rug.
There was a clearing of the throat and then, “You sent for me, sir?” Lyddie nearly laughed aloud. Her exact words, not ten minutes before.
