calls for safety improvements.”
Alex’s temper pulsed beneath his ribs. He did not like Julian Bennett. The magnate’s opportunistic smugness reminded him not of his father, but of Josiah Todd. Such a bully believed everything was his. He just hadn’t claimed it yet.
Instead of indulging in his burgeoning anger, Alex pulled a meticulous note from a stack of papers he had culled. “Speaking of safety improvements, I feel compelled to point out two facts. Since the installation of the fans at Christie Textiles, instances of illnesses and absences have dropped dramatically, and employee turnover has been halved. Quite the return on an investment, you must admit.”
Bennett actually laughed—a wet, grating sound. “You won’t need me to buy the factory from you, Christie. You’ll give it away to the union whips instead!”
“So, you know how they think?”
“Think? They’re animals. They want as much as they can snatch from unwary men. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Tell me then your opinion of those maggots.” He set the empty tumbler on the desk with jarring force. “Good day.”
The chuckle in his voice did nothing to alleviate Alex’s disquiet. He had worked alongside unions in Philadelphia, hoping fairness in legislation would promote a better society. Fewer children working. More people educated. Mamie’s passion for fairness had obvious origins in her father’s abuse, but that did not mean Alex believed in it any less passionately.
Yet the sabotage was undeniable. He needed to find the culprit, all the while keeping men like Bennett at arm’s length and proving his authority to the board.
For a moment, needing to quiet his agitated brain, he leaned against the wingback chair. His brother and sisters had all been assigned similar tasks, with Viv sent to Cape Colony and the twins, Gwyneth and Gareth, to equally unfamiliar locales. Although busy lives meant few opportunities to spend time together, they had corresponded frequently. He’d known all about Gwen’s latest auditions and opera performances, as well as Gareth’s stylish friends and his string of female admirers. He’d shared sympathieswith Viv as her marriage teetered on the verge of collapse, just as she’d pulled him past his dark sense of failure following Mamie’s death.
Even his father had written once a week, as regular as he was gruff. He had been a hard man to understand and even harder to love, but Alex missed him with a sharp ache. He missed them all. Surely word would come from them soon, and he would be able to report his successes.
Yes. Success.
It was just past eight. He stood and inhaled deeply as anticipation heated his skin. Time to see his factory . . . and to track down his key to understanding the weaver’s union.
Polly Gowan.
Four
A lex skipped the cab, preferring to work the tension out of his limbs. Spring suited Glasgow well, layering a bright shimmer over the harsh industrial architecture. The citizens remained as spirited as ever, with their steps quicker and their smiles wider as the day stretched its legs. That robust spirit reminded him so much of his father that it almost hurt to watch them. Rough people. Hard. Crude, even. Yet they lived with an abandon he envied.
A half hour later, he arrived at the factory, where the first shift was already busy and loud. Employees operated what looms they could. Thirty such looms bordered the large square building, poised beneath windows to keep their gears and engines cool. The clamor of whisking machinery was equal to that of a barreling locomotive.
A haze of white fluff was being sucked toward where steam generators powered massive fans. The blades dragged cotton fibers out of the air in a steady river ofminuscule white specks. Over their hair, women wore kerchiefs, which were made pastel by fibers and lingering ash. Most of the male workers sorted through the rubble of the back wall. A hole as big as a hackney offered an unnatural view of the rear
Alex’s temper pulsed beneath his ribs. He did not like Julian Bennett. The magnate’s opportunistic smugness reminded him not of his father, but of Josiah Todd. Such a bully believed everything was his. He just hadn’t claimed it yet.
Instead of indulging in his burgeoning anger, Alex pulled a meticulous note from a stack of papers he had culled. “Speaking of safety improvements, I feel compelled to point out two facts. Since the installation of the fans at Christie Textiles, instances of illnesses and absences have dropped dramatically, and employee turnover has been halved. Quite the return on an investment, you must admit.”
Bennett actually laughed—a wet, grating sound. “You won’t need me to buy the factory from you, Christie. You’ll give it away to the union whips instead!”
“So, you know how they think?”
“Think? They’re animals. They want as much as they can snatch from unwary men. I’ll see you in a few weeks. Tell me then your opinion of those maggots.” He set the empty tumbler on the desk with jarring force. “Good day.”
The chuckle in his voice did nothing to alleviate Alex’s disquiet. He had worked alongside unions in Philadelphia, hoping fairness in legislation would promote a better society. Fewer children working. More people educated. Mamie’s passion for fairness had obvious origins in her father’s abuse, but that did not mean Alex believed in it any less passionately.
Yet the sabotage was undeniable. He needed to find the culprit, all the while keeping men like Bennett at arm’s length and proving his authority to the board.
For a moment, needing to quiet his agitated brain, he leaned against the wingback chair. His brother and sisters had all been assigned similar tasks, with Viv sent to Cape Colony and the twins, Gwyneth and Gareth, to equally unfamiliar locales. Although busy lives meant few opportunities to spend time together, they had corresponded frequently. He’d known all about Gwen’s latest auditions and opera performances, as well as Gareth’s stylish friends and his string of female admirers. He’d shared sympathieswith Viv as her marriage teetered on the verge of collapse, just as she’d pulled him past his dark sense of failure following Mamie’s death.
Even his father had written once a week, as regular as he was gruff. He had been a hard man to understand and even harder to love, but Alex missed him with a sharp ache. He missed them all. Surely word would come from them soon, and he would be able to report his successes.
Yes. Success.
It was just past eight. He stood and inhaled deeply as anticipation heated his skin. Time to see his factory . . . and to track down his key to understanding the weaver’s union.
Polly Gowan.
Four
A lex skipped the cab, preferring to work the tension out of his limbs. Spring suited Glasgow well, layering a bright shimmer over the harsh industrial architecture. The citizens remained as spirited as ever, with their steps quicker and their smiles wider as the day stretched its legs. That robust spirit reminded him so much of his father that it almost hurt to watch them. Rough people. Hard. Crude, even. Yet they lived with an abandon he envied.
A half hour later, he arrived at the factory, where the first shift was already busy and loud. Employees operated what looms they could. Thirty such looms bordered the large square building, poised beneath windows to keep their gears and engines cool. The clamor of whisking machinery was equal to that of a barreling locomotive.
A haze of white fluff was being sucked toward where steam generators powered massive fans. The blades dragged cotton fibers out of the air in a steady river ofminuscule white specks. Over their hair, women wore kerchiefs, which were made pastel by fibers and lingering ash. Most of the male workers sorted through the rubble of the back wall. A hole as big as a hackney offered an unnatural view of the rear
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