all here, the whole family. Even Hiram Fiske and the daughter, Daisy. Look at her, she’s a pretty thing and she knows it.”
An old man sat to the left of a large podium, straight and tall. His hair was white, his well-groomed mustache a perfect snowy match. Rumors were he would soon retire. But now he gazed at the line of mill girls filing into their seats with the approving eye of a general reviewing his troops.
Alice knew the story. Hiram Fiske—with several partners—had built the Lowell mill after Francis Cabot Lowell died. It was Lowell who had toured the cotton mills of Britain, memorizing their structure and machines and techniques. Not allowed to make notes, he had kept the information all in his head—and brought back to America a new industry. And this was the man who had known him, worked with him. Aged though he was, Hiram Fiske certainly didn’t look to Alice like someone who would tolerate being pushed aside.
The young woman sitting to his right wore a peach-colored silk gown that perfectly set off her fair, translucent skin. She fanned herself vigorously, looking calmly bored, her thoughts somewhere else.
And there was Samuel Fiske. He stood erect, hands clasped behind his back in what seemed to be an effort at ease, looking both in demeanor and clothing as prepared for a funeral as for a wedding. His eyebrows were dark and thick, which she hadn’t noticed before. He had an ample mouth held in mannered reserve. He looked fully trained to take on the role of responsibility expected of an elder son. She wished she could see him smile. His expression now was quite serious as he leaned sideways to whisper something in his father’s ear.
Hiram frowned slightly, nodding his head, continuing to watch the girls with their matching parasols moving into their seats, giving them a wintry smile.
“He approves of us; that’s good. If we had decent working conditions, all would be splendid,” Lovey murmured. She tossed back her hair in a careless gesture that immediately drew Jonathan Fiske’s eye.
“Lovey, no, not tonight. Please don’t court attention,” warned Delia, looking quickly right and left, her voice strained. Alice thought she knew why. Delia had been upset when Mrs. Holloway insisted that Ellie could not go to hear President Jackson. A child would disturb the decorum; she would have to stay in the boardinghouse. The cook would watch her. Company orders. She did not budge from her stance even when Delia’s protests grew increasingly fevered. Lovey had given Delia a warning nudge—not good to cause a scene.
“Have you been hearing the same stories I’ve been hearing?” Lovey said now. “One of the men downstairs was combing cotton and got his hand caught in the carding machine yesterday. Lost two fingers.”
Alice’s gaze shifted back to Samuel; surely he hadn’t recognized her. But there was a flicker when their eyes caught. Embarrassed, she looked away.
Lovey suddenly yanked hard at her shoulder. “Take off your hat before she sees you,” she hissed, pointing urgently to Daisy Fiske.
Alice looked. Was Daisy wearing the same hat? Yes. She fumbled with the ribbons under her chin, but it was too late. Daisy Fiske was staring directly at her with startled indignation.
“Yours looks every bit as good as hers, and she paid much more than fifty cents,” Lovey whispered lightly. “Anyhow, you weren’t looking to make her your friend.”
Alice sank into her seat, unnerved by Daisy Fiske’s frosty glare. She glanced up again only once, this time at Samuel. For an instant she thought she saw a faint smile on his face, but it disappeared; she had only imagined it.
“T hat mill girl, where did she get my hat?” Daisy Fiske whispered to her brothers. Her small mouth, the color of rosebuds, was pinched tight, with her lower lip protruding a bit more than usual. “Doesn’t she know that it is
not
appropriate for her?”
“Sorry, my dear sister—you can’t say, ‘Off with her
An old man sat to the left of a large podium, straight and tall. His hair was white, his well-groomed mustache a perfect snowy match. Rumors were he would soon retire. But now he gazed at the line of mill girls filing into their seats with the approving eye of a general reviewing his troops.
Alice knew the story. Hiram Fiske—with several partners—had built the Lowell mill after Francis Cabot Lowell died. It was Lowell who had toured the cotton mills of Britain, memorizing their structure and machines and techniques. Not allowed to make notes, he had kept the information all in his head—and brought back to America a new industry. And this was the man who had known him, worked with him. Aged though he was, Hiram Fiske certainly didn’t look to Alice like someone who would tolerate being pushed aside.
The young woman sitting to his right wore a peach-colored silk gown that perfectly set off her fair, translucent skin. She fanned herself vigorously, looking calmly bored, her thoughts somewhere else.
And there was Samuel Fiske. He stood erect, hands clasped behind his back in what seemed to be an effort at ease, looking both in demeanor and clothing as prepared for a funeral as for a wedding. His eyebrows were dark and thick, which she hadn’t noticed before. He had an ample mouth held in mannered reserve. He looked fully trained to take on the role of responsibility expected of an elder son. She wished she could see him smile. His expression now was quite serious as he leaned sideways to whisper something in his father’s ear.
Hiram frowned slightly, nodding his head, continuing to watch the girls with their matching parasols moving into their seats, giving them a wintry smile.
“He approves of us; that’s good. If we had decent working conditions, all would be splendid,” Lovey murmured. She tossed back her hair in a careless gesture that immediately drew Jonathan Fiske’s eye.
“Lovey, no, not tonight. Please don’t court attention,” warned Delia, looking quickly right and left, her voice strained. Alice thought she knew why. Delia had been upset when Mrs. Holloway insisted that Ellie could not go to hear President Jackson. A child would disturb the decorum; she would have to stay in the boardinghouse. The cook would watch her. Company orders. She did not budge from her stance even when Delia’s protests grew increasingly fevered. Lovey had given Delia a warning nudge—not good to cause a scene.
“Have you been hearing the same stories I’ve been hearing?” Lovey said now. “One of the men downstairs was combing cotton and got his hand caught in the carding machine yesterday. Lost two fingers.”
Alice’s gaze shifted back to Samuel; surely he hadn’t recognized her. But there was a flicker when their eyes caught. Embarrassed, she looked away.
Lovey suddenly yanked hard at her shoulder. “Take off your hat before she sees you,” she hissed, pointing urgently to Daisy Fiske.
Alice looked. Was Daisy wearing the same hat? Yes. She fumbled with the ribbons under her chin, but it was too late. Daisy Fiske was staring directly at her with startled indignation.
“Yours looks every bit as good as hers, and she paid much more than fifty cents,” Lovey whispered lightly. “Anyhow, you weren’t looking to make her your friend.”
Alice sank into her seat, unnerved by Daisy Fiske’s frosty glare. She glanced up again only once, this time at Samuel. For an instant she thought she saw a faint smile on his face, but it disappeared; she had only imagined it.
“T hat mill girl, where did she get my hat?” Daisy Fiske whispered to her brothers. Her small mouth, the color of rosebuds, was pinched tight, with her lower lip protruding a bit more than usual. “Doesn’t she know that it is
not
appropriate for her?”
“Sorry, my dear sister—you can’t say, ‘Off with her
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