know?”
“She’s new to Lowell, I think. She opened an account at our bank earlier this year.” Rather brave, Samuel thought, for the girl to speak up without being flustered in this daunting environment.
Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Really? And why did you notice her?”
Samuel was spared an answer when Jackson spoke again.
“A laudable accomplishment, my dear. And what is your name?”
“Alice Barrow.” She was a bit dizzy at her own impulsiveness, conscious of all eyes upon her.
“So, Miss Barrow—let’s hear more. What do you like
least
?”
Alice glanced quickly at the Fiske family, concentrating on Samuel, who leaned forward in his seat, as if awaiting her reply. Why did she think she could take a chance and be honest? She would ponder that later.
“Some of our working conditions, sir,” she said.
A sigh rippled through the hall, giving her shivers.
“And what might they be?”
“The cotton fibers—” She stopped.
“The cotton fibers?” Jackson’s eyes glittered slightly, a small smile on his lips.
“There are so many of them in the air.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“The girls breathe them in!” yelled a man’s voice from the back of the hall.
“I see. Anything else?”
What could she say? The long hours, the mandatory tithing? No. “Sometimes the machinery doesn’t…” She hesitated. She didn’t dare speak of the dangers, not here. “Can be hard to use.”
A roll of approving whispers was spreading through the hall. “Tell him more,” the same male voice shouted from the back. “About the accidents!”
Hiram Fiske jumped to his feet. “Thank you, Miss Barrow,” he said, walking quickly to the podium, clapping a familiar arm around Jackson. “We mustn’t use up any more of President Jackson’s time. Sir, we are honored by your presence. Thank you for your visit, it will be long remembered.” He raised both arms above his head. “A hand, please, for the president of the United States.”
Amid the ensuing applause, Hiram escorted Jackson from the stage.
Alice caught a fleeting glimpse of the president’s expression—she detected a self-satisfied smile and wondered: had she been manipulated? And Hiram’s face? Stony. She shivered, not for the first time.
“F or heaven’s sake, just fire her,” Daisy said. “She spoke out of turn.”
Hiram Fiske, hands clasped behind his back, stopped pacing up and down in their suite of rooms at the Lowell Inn and viewed his daughter somberly. His jacket had been discarded and tossed over the arm of a high-backed chair in one swift motion as he walked into the room. The buttons on his waistcoat were clearly at maximum effort, straining over his ample girth. His color was too high.
“That would be unwise. There was real dissatisfaction in that crowd tonight, and it was triggered by that damnable Jackson. Making her a scapegoat would not resolve anything,” Hiram seethed.
“Oh, give her a pretty dress or something, she’ll be grateful for a treat.” Jonathan tried to hide a yawn, sneaking a look at his pocket watch.
“You have things to do?” Daisy asked archly. “And with whom, Jonathan? One of Jackson’s ‘bright, intelligent faces’? Not that any of those girls looked all that bright and intelligent to me.”
“Stop teasing,” he retorted. “What I do is my own business.”
Hiram ignored them both. “We’re becoming a target for those who would organize our laborers, and I want it stopped.”
“We could plant spies in the mill,” Jonathan said.
“That’s useless; they’re always spotted, sooner or later.”
“Did something happen between you and Jackson when you left the stage?” Samuel asked.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That bastard wanted to hear complaints, he as much as admitted it. He’s trying to force my hand, pressing me to show my ‘democratic values.’ What he really wants is to embarrass us.” Hiram fell into a glum silence.
Samuel walked over to the fire and picked up a
“She’s new to Lowell, I think. She opened an account at our bank earlier this year.” Rather brave, Samuel thought, for the girl to speak up without being flustered in this daunting environment.
Daisy raised an eyebrow. “Really? And why did you notice her?”
Samuel was spared an answer when Jackson spoke again.
“A laudable accomplishment, my dear. And what is your name?”
“Alice Barrow.” She was a bit dizzy at her own impulsiveness, conscious of all eyes upon her.
“So, Miss Barrow—let’s hear more. What do you like
least
?”
Alice glanced quickly at the Fiske family, concentrating on Samuel, who leaned forward in his seat, as if awaiting her reply. Why did she think she could take a chance and be honest? She would ponder that later.
“Some of our working conditions, sir,” she said.
A sigh rippled through the hall, giving her shivers.
“And what might they be?”
“The cotton fibers—” She stopped.
“The cotton fibers?” Jackson’s eyes glittered slightly, a small smile on his lips.
“There are so many of them in the air.”
“Why is that a problem?”
“The girls breathe them in!” yelled a man’s voice from the back of the hall.
“I see. Anything else?”
What could she say? The long hours, the mandatory tithing? No. “Sometimes the machinery doesn’t…” She hesitated. She didn’t dare speak of the dangers, not here. “Can be hard to use.”
A roll of approving whispers was spreading through the hall. “Tell him more,” the same male voice shouted from the back. “About the accidents!”
Hiram Fiske jumped to his feet. “Thank you, Miss Barrow,” he said, walking quickly to the podium, clapping a familiar arm around Jackson. “We mustn’t use up any more of President Jackson’s time. Sir, we are honored by your presence. Thank you for your visit, it will be long remembered.” He raised both arms above his head. “A hand, please, for the president of the United States.”
Amid the ensuing applause, Hiram escorted Jackson from the stage.
Alice caught a fleeting glimpse of the president’s expression—she detected a self-satisfied smile and wondered: had she been manipulated? And Hiram’s face? Stony. She shivered, not for the first time.
“F or heaven’s sake, just fire her,” Daisy said. “She spoke out of turn.”
Hiram Fiske, hands clasped behind his back, stopped pacing up and down in their suite of rooms at the Lowell Inn and viewed his daughter somberly. His jacket had been discarded and tossed over the arm of a high-backed chair in one swift motion as he walked into the room. The buttons on his waistcoat were clearly at maximum effort, straining over his ample girth. His color was too high.
“That would be unwise. There was real dissatisfaction in that crowd tonight, and it was triggered by that damnable Jackson. Making her a scapegoat would not resolve anything,” Hiram seethed.
“Oh, give her a pretty dress or something, she’ll be grateful for a treat.” Jonathan tried to hide a yawn, sneaking a look at his pocket watch.
“You have things to do?” Daisy asked archly. “And with whom, Jonathan? One of Jackson’s ‘bright, intelligent faces’? Not that any of those girls looked all that bright and intelligent to me.”
“Stop teasing,” he retorted. “What I do is my own business.”
Hiram ignored them both. “We’re becoming a target for those who would organize our laborers, and I want it stopped.”
“We could plant spies in the mill,” Jonathan said.
“That’s useless; they’re always spotted, sooner or later.”
“Did something happen between you and Jackson when you left the stage?” Samuel asked.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That bastard wanted to hear complaints, he as much as admitted it. He’s trying to force my hand, pressing me to show my ‘democratic values.’ What he really wants is to embarrass us.” Hiram fell into a glum silence.
Samuel walked over to the fire and picked up a
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