Without Fear
A Martha Beale Mystery
MY NUMEROUS THANKS to Marcia Rogers for the wondrous research materials she bestowed upon me: John F. Watson’s seminal work Annals of Philadelphia, first published in 1857, and A Memorial History of Philadelphia edited by John Russell Young—1840s Philadelphia seeps from their pages.
And ever and always, my abiding gratitude to my husband, Steve. You give me hope and joy.
THE TITLE WITHOUT FEAR is taken from a prayer attributed to St. Clare. “Live without fear; your creator has made you holy, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother.…” The message has a special resonance with me; I hope it does with my many loyal readers. I feel that Martha Beale, whom I continue to channel, would be especially moved and inspired by the first three words.
If you’re familiar with my previous novels in the series, Deception’s Daughter and The Conjurer, you’re aware that the world of mid-nineteenth century Philadelphia had horrors aplenty despite its elegant, cosmopolitan ambiance. The grisly—and true—discovery of a headless corpse on the outskirts of the ice-encrusted city was one of them. To my knowledge, though, Joseph Bonaparte’s palatial country estate, Point Breeze, never served as a backdrop for such a heinous crime. His years of residence there is just one facet of the city’s fascinating history. A collection of Napoleon artifacts can be found at The Athenaeum of Philadelphia.
Labor conditions in Philadelphia’s numerous textile mills were as grim as I have depicted them: children, women, and men working for inhuman wages under brutal conditions. As ever, I feel driven to address issues of social injustice. The interconnection between Philadelphia’s textile industry and the slave trade was very real; mercantile accounts register the amount of yard goods traded for human flesh. Although “polite” society was obsessed with regulations regarding appropriate etiquette and attire, it had its share of shameful secrets.
The Library Company of Philadelphia and The Athenaeum of Philadelphia continue to provide me with researcher’s havens; their collections inspire me to burrow into the past.
I look forward to responding to questions or comments about Without Fear. Please contact me via my web site www.CordeliaFrancesBiddle.com. I promise a speedy reply.
Chapter 1
Agnes
AGNES MUNDER WALKS AWAY from Quaker City Mill, walks away without a backward glance or a single misgiving about jeopardizing her employment, or that of her husband who so doggedly toils there. In fact, she gives him no more heed than she does the place itself, for she knows she’s meant for finer things than the noisome floors of a textile manufactory. Cloaks of damask rather than cheap cottonade should be at her daily disposal, and silk slippers, and bonnets trimmed with aigret, or fur, or flowers fashioned from genuine French peau de soie.
Oh, yes, she’s aware of what the other laborers will say when they discover that she’s quit her loom again. They’ll accuse her of imagining herself “above her station;” they’ll mutter that she’s “fanciful” and “capricious” and “prettier than she should be.” Many will even accuse her of being “not right in the head”—which words they’ll pretend to whisper, sending sidelong glances toward her poor, patient Oscar—although some will take pleasure in denouncing her husband for “sanctioning her wistful, hedonistic ways.” And a few will add sneering queries regarding the childless state of a wife who’s twenty-two and has been wed for five long years.
But what does any of that malicious cant matter? Agnes has inured herself to the combination of mistrust and envy. The other weavers, spoolers, throstle-spinners, carders, and cord-room hands can carp and cavil all they wish; and her masters can threaten and then dock her wages—as they’ve done repeatedly. And will do so again, she has no doubt.
She shakes her head in queenly forbearance of these trivialities, then pulls a red ribbon from her mantle pocket, ties it round her neck, and lifts her long skirt and smiles. Given her diet and station in life, her teeth are incongruously white; their only flaw a curious overlapping of the front two. Although, the effect makes her appear more winsome and naïve as if she were still half-child, half-adult and her years had been spent in pampered luxury.
“Ah,” she sighs aloud; her smile grows, beaming upon those around her. Casting herself as a lady of stature and means, she becomes one. So the true Agnes Munder is transformed, just as the streetscape improves, and the weather—the raw March day that threatens snow and worse—grows, in her invention, benign. Gone is the reeking, pulsing industrial heart of the city; gone is Fishtown and Otis Street where William Cramp and Sons build their vast iron ships, gone the Dyott Glass Furnace on Bank Street, the Vauclain Boiler Works that spread viscous, yellow puddles on Palmer, the stink-enclosed calico printing factory on Beach, the tanneries whose choking stench affects all but the hardiest of stomachs, the smelting works and the sugar refinery on Church Alley that belch out so much noxious waste it’s a wonder there’s any wholesome air left to breathe.
Gone also are the snowflakes that now have begun spiraling through the waning daylight, increasing in number and density while shrinking in size—an unwelcome change that often presages a blizzard.
Agnes trips along, oblivious to the truth. She holds her skirt just so—between her forefinger and thumb in the same dainty manner as the wives of the mill’s managers—while she drifts away from the docks that carry Quaker City Mill’s finished products to America’s southern states or the great world beyond. For a moment, she considers how it would feel to be a bolt of cottonade or calico and wonders what marvels she’d behold if she were to be stored in the belly of a ship and then off-loaded onto foreign soil. How would those fantastical places smell? Would the sunlight blind the eye? Would there be music instead of grinding gears and catcalls and oaths? Would there be food aplenty—and not just food, but morsels of indescribable sweetness and delicacy?
As she wanders, her black hair comes loose, spilling down from the single braid coiled at the back of her neck until the locks make a frame for her face. She knows this haphazard appearance isn’t seemly, because it garners curious and sometimes acquisitive looks from the men she passes. Agnes returns the hungry stares with a beneficent tilt of her head; to some men she even nods. Those who receive her attentions gape and then look away, frowning in recognition and confusion.
By now the snow is pelting down; it’s like fire ash spewing from a dirty chimney, although, of course, it’s white and frigid. The laborers employed along the wharfs or in the factories that comprise the city’s commercial center glance upward in dread. For them, a continuation of the icy days of February is like doom. Pennies saved for food will have to be spent on additional fuel; sickly babies won’t have the blessing of an early spring. Those men and women—and the child laborers among them—hunch their shoulders against the precipitation, lowering their heads as though waiting for God to strike them. Agnes remains unaffected.
Vanished wholly from her mind and heart is the filthy common privy built in a vault below the building she and her husband share with the other mill workers. Gone is the quarter of a day’s wages withheld for tardiness, or the full day’s earnings forfeited for poor work, or the salary paid but once a month when the rent must be delivered fortnightly. Vanished are the children chained to the looms’ frames, whimpering while their hands and bodies keep time with the steam turbines’ jittering roar. Forgotten also is the “spinners’ phthisis,” an affliction of the lungs that always leads to death. Instead, she sings to herself.
A carriage stops. It’s a very fine rig, a handsome brougham painted glossy black, and the gelding pulling it is the same lustrous color. The owner raps upon the door; the coachman reins in the horse, and Agnes is hailed through the carriage’s now half-open window.
When she approaches, the owner’s greeting is a discomfited “My apologies, miss. I mistook you for an acquaintance.”
Agnes is accustomed to this type of statement. Strange gentlemen in handsome rigs have summoned her before. How else could she have afforded the silk ribbon at her neck, the lengths of fabric for the cloak she’s fashioned?
“It’s no trouble, sir,” she says. Her smile grows brighter, and she tosses her hair, which elicits a sharp intake of breath from the master and a quieter sigh from the servant who remains aloft, his attention seemingly on the wet and steaming beast in the carriage traces.
“Are you employed hereabouts?” she’s asked, but her response is a cagey shake of her dark curls. Agnes never supplies her name or the name of the mill. “Or perhaps you work on your own?”
“Perhaps I do, sir.”
“And perhaps you’d care for a ride in my equipage?”
“That I would, sir. Indeed, I would, especially with the snow starting to make my path so treacherous. And me with such a sorry excuse for shoes.”
With that the coach door opens, and Agnes climbs up the steps into an interior that smells of new leather, polished brass, and eau de cologne. It’s a heady, rich scent and far superior to the oily odor of smoked and curing river eels that has given Fishtown its name. She inhales the pleasant aroma as if by swelling her lungs with it she could grow as wealthy and self-satisfied as the gentleman seated in that handsome space.
The brougham’s curtains are drawn shut; the owner taps his cane’s silver handle upon the wall leading to the coachman’s box, and the carriage moves away toward a less congested thoroughfare while Agnes smiles her glowing smile at her unknown admirer. “The hem of my dress is drenched,” she says at length. “And my little feet quite frozen. I should have better footwear than I do.”
Chapter 2
A Troubling Letter
NO MORE THAN A MILE distant from this transaction—although the setting might as well be one of those exotic climes for which Agnes longs—Martha Beale is seated in comfort. The surprise snowstorm that rattles the shutters and casements of her home on Chestnut Street and the night through which the blizzard rages are of no more consequence to her than the reality of the physical world is to Agnes.
Surrounded as she is by every manifestation of her wealth and her elevated position in society—the glossy suite of walnut furniture, the Turkey carpets with their lustrous crimson and indigo hues, the several layers of under and over draperies that cover the windows, the pier glasses, the landscape paintings in their gilded frames, and the myriad objets d’art that adorn all fashionable households—she should be experiencing the highest degree of peace and tranquility. In fact, the opposite is true. Martha stares into a fire that’s been carefully banked and attended by her servants and sees woes instead of solace, hears the muffled sounds of domesticity—her adoptive children attending to their lessons in the day nursery on the floor above, the creak of polished wood planking as the majordomo crosses the foyer below—and knows only loneliness and heartache. Even the aromas of hot-house flowers and pomander and eau de lavande that fill her private sitting room seem stifling rather than soothing, and her clothes chafe and pinch and feel frigid against her skin instead of providing warmth.
She releases a sigh; her corset stays sigh with her; her feet in their embroidered slippers kick aside the tapestry footstool; and the letter resting in her lap—and which she’s reread so often she has it memorized—slides to the floor. She watches the pages fall, then reaches an enervated hand to pick them up. Her eyes stare at the letters curled upon the paper until the lines blur and the words collide.
My dearest,
It is with heavy heart that I write you. I could not bear to call upon you in person in order to reveal my intentions, as I knew my resolve would weaken, and my plans come to naught. So I have chosen the coward’s way and now steal off aboard a merchant ship that calls herself Red Cloud before you can persuade me otherwise—before I can persuade myself. The vessel is a stout one; the captain seasoned and knowledgeable …
She rises, carrying Thomas Kelman’s missive to her escritoire where she flattens it on the polished surface as she’s done numerous times since its arrival a fortnight prior. Her palm bears down hard upon the creases as if she were attempting to eradicate a stain.
Other letters also rest there—supposedly casual messages from gentlemen acquaintances whom she suspects of more intimate designs. She’s an eligible heiress and, at the advanced age of twenty-seven, too old to put off marriage much longer. Those notes and invitations she bundles up, intending to consign them to a cubbyhole reserved for future correspondence. Instead, following some as yet unexamined motive, she grips the sheets of paper—thick, watermarked, many even scented with eau de cologne—and throws them into the fire, watching the flames flicker around the edges while her eyes pinch and her wide mouth sets itself into a merciless line.
The defiant act brings only momentary respite, however. The hurt, perplexity—and, yes, anger—that she feels cannot be absolved by attacking a surrogate. She returns to Kelman’s letter.
I am fully cognizant of the fact that in leaving the city, the (mistaken) results of the Crowther investigation will be blamed upon my inaction or dereliction—or both—and that my failure to explain the circumstances surrounding the case will make me appear to have relinquished the field without having given consideration to the repercussions. In short, I will be vilified, and my decision to seek my future and my fortunes elsewhere will be deemed the act of a dishonest man.
It’s not the missteps of the past that influence me, however, but you, Martha. The tragic conclusion to the Crowther affair—although deeply troubling still—has nothing to do with my resolution to quit Philadelphia. In the eyes of the world, I am not your equal, nor will I ever be. You are a high-born lady. My parentage is base. You are in possession of a great fortune; I live by my wits. Forgive my bluntness in these matters, but I fear you would be ridiculed by your peers—and perhaps even ostracized—if they were to guess that you had given your heart to a person like me—and that mine had been pledged to you. As to matrimony, you and I both know custom is firmly against us. No matter how much we may wish otherwise, no matter how often we may have imagined otherwise, the fact is that the many levels of society that comprise the city would never countenance such a union.
I will write to you when I have determined where I will settle, so that your thoughts may be at rest, but as that will be some months hence, I urge you not to wait for my message …
Martha spins away from the desk. Her stomach churns; her gray eyes spark like hot coals. Am I not allowed to participate in this debate? she argues. Thomas determines how both of us should behave, and I must keep my counsel? Reside quietly at home, my countenance serene, a vapid smile fixed upon my face as though my greatest worries were the visits we ladies are supposed to pay one another, or how often and how grandly I should entertain those of my acquaintance? Shouldn’t I be permitted to choose whom I should wed and when? Couldn’t Thomas at least have conferred with me before taking this drastic step—or given me a hint of warning about this Red Cloud and his plans? Am I to be treated no differently by him than I was by my father?
The questions, though, are met with a litany of dull and practical evidence. As much as she wants to believe herself above public scrutiny, she understands that what Thomas writes is true. A city founded on the tenet of religious freedom may sanction marriages between peoples of one faith and another: Gentiles may happily wed Jews; Catholics may form loving bonds with Protestants; those originally hailing from New England may ally themselves with Southern, slave-owning families. But class lines are never crossed. The rich keep to themselves. As do the poor.
At length, her wrath begins to ebb, leaving her spent and weary. There’s no Thomas to chide for adhering to custom, no dear, dear friend to touch her hand or lift her face up toward his own. There are no arms to encircle her, no scent of shaving soap and starched linen and maleness to breathe. The room is empty. It’s as if he’d never walked through the door. Having grown accustomed to his presence during the past year, her sense of isolation feels more acute than it did during the years before they met.
She sighs anew; this time the sound is a groan. Why must he journey on a merchant ship? And why to South America? Why not the western territories if he’s so insistent on becoming a man of means? There’s ample opportunity there—without the danger. With winter lingering, the Atlantic Ocean must he hazardous to traverse. In her heart, she knows the answers to these objections. Didn’t her father, the lauded financier Lemuel Beale, instigate trade in specie with the newest nations of the Americas? And doesn’t she, as his sole heir, continue the practice? Why shouldn’t Thomas also avail himself of those profits? Isn’t risk part of life?
“Oh … oh … oh!” The words fly out with all the vindictiveness of oaths. If she were her friend, Becky Grey Taitt, the invective might be genuine, but Martha doesn’t permit herself such hedonistic displays.
She studies her room, dim now and swathed in shadow, a pewterish color touching the silver toilette suite arranged upon her dressing table: the brushes and frizettes, the mirror and fingernail buffs, the jars containing pomade and rose water and bandoline. Here should be a realm so peaceable that no malign thoughts can enter. Instead, the ordinary seems fraught with ill intentions, and the unlit corners of the chamber lurk with demons.
AND SO THE DAY passes into evening and thence into night while the claustrophobic fall of snow upon snow encompasses the city. The stout walls and tall windows of Martha’s stately mansion are cut off from her neighbors’; the street fronting her house is isolated from the lanes beyond; well-tended parks become no more than a dot or two of sulfur-colored light where the gas lamps glow; back alleys devolve into their own icy worlds.
At length, she sleeps, but her dreaming mind provides no respite from her waking thoughts. She envisions mountainous ocean waves: white-streaked, white-flecked, roiling green walls that blot out half the sky. The sound they produce is a bellowing growl that obliterates all other noise.
The waves crest and fall, spitting out yellow spume and shards of black seaweed; everything below is crushed. Barques, schooners, gaffe-rigged fishing boats, men of war, paddle-wheel steamers: all succumb to the mammoth swells until the splintered masts and spars, the shattered keels, and the broken bodies of the dead voyagers are tossed upon a distant shore. Thomas is among them, but unlike the blanched corpses surrounding him, his is covered in gore as crimson as the brightest sunrise. Martha screams out in the strangled voice of slumber, but is powerless to help.
Chapter 3
On Callowhill Street
THE TEMPEST CONTINUES unabated for eighteen hours longer, whipping snow across the city as though the stuff were so much fondant icing. When the winds gust—and they do mightily—the icing billows up to half-obscure ground-floor shop windows, carriage doors, the entries to iron-works and tanneries, and the broad marble stairs leading to the mansions facing Washington Square. The shrubberies in each park and esplanade disappear; the subterranean entrances to the town’s ubiquitous oyster houses vanish; even the fire gangs that tear through the city are forced to keep indoors with their horses and wagons stabled. It’s fortunate no kitchen blaze erupts for many blocks would be consumed before the conflagration could be subdued.
Throughout it all, Agnes remains ensconced with her new gentleman friend. His house on Callowhill Street is new and pleasant and delightfully warm. Coal cobbles glow in every grate, so she can wander, half-clothed, from upper room to upper room as though the ice spattering the window panes were of no more concern than an unpleasant dream. She washes herself by squatting in a copper hip-bath in steaming water provided by a dour (and, Agnes suspects, disapproving) female servant who never utters more than a grunt or two as she clatters the large urns upstairs and down until Agnes deems the temperature to her liking.
Refreshed, she dresses in one or another of the expensive peignoirs her anonymous admirer has provided, sips port wine until her head grows dizzy and her words issue forth in plumy giggles every time she speaks, then stretches out upon his bed and sleeps—or tries to. He’s a most amorous person, for all of his refined manners and speech.
Several times she experiences pangs over quitting her Oscar in such an abrupt and unfeeling manner, but these she quickly squelches by promising herself she’ll return to him some day.
Or perhaps she won’t. Well, she’ll certainly send word advising him not to worry. Then again, maybe she won’t, because that act would be certain to produce jealousy or even a hunt to find her.
Or the gentleman might tire of her earlier than she’d like—like the last one, who only wanted her company for a day and half a night—and then she can creep home pretending to have been lost in the storm and rescued by a widow lady who spoke not one word of English.
Or she could have fallen into the hold of a ship bound for Wilmington or Baltimore and not found ready passage home. Certainly Oscar would forgive her misfortune if something as terrible as that were to occur! Even a week or longer would be excused if she were floating away on a creaky boat. And doesn’t Oscar always pardon her forgetful, little absences? Nor ask how sometimes she returns attired in finer garb than when she vanished? Her husband has always been the kindliest of people.
These strategies build in Agnes’s brain and evaporate just as rapidly while she hums to herself or nibbles at the preserved French plums the gentleman keeps in a handsome box or the colored sweetmeats layered so prettily among them.
The falling snow, she decides, is as beautiful as an imaginary elfin world. She hopes the blizzard never ends. Not until the very end of time.
Then she prays that her lover doesn’t tire of their escapades too soon, and that when the sun again shines, he’ll dress her in a fur-lined cloak and take her out for another ride in his snug and comfortable carriage. She’ll insist he reveal his name, too; and she’ll call him Mr. So-and-so, as if she were to the manner born. And he’ll call her Mrs. Munder. Or maybe even Miss.
Chapter 4
An Elegant Rig
“MISS BEALE, I SUGGEST you postpone your examination of the premises until the streets have been fully cleared.” This is Martha’s chief clerk speaking, the only one of her father’s former employees she trusted—and liked—enough to retain. The others either had the unhappy propensity of speaking down to her, as if a woman couldn’t understand the financial affairs of men, or else they gazed at her in quiet disbelief. For a mere female to preside over a banking and brokerage concern … Well, no more need be said.
“No, Mr. Newgeon, I’ll go. I need activity, not indecision. And besides, the factory can’t be closed down due to the snowfall we received two days ago. If the circumstances are adverse, it will give me the opportunity to judge how well—or poorly—the trade is plied.” Although Martha is seated in her formal first-floor withdrawing room as she delivers this speech, her body shows itself to be far from rest. A traveling bonnet is already upon her head; leather gloves encase her fingers; a fur-lined mantle is within easy reach. What the clerk can’t guess is the true motivation for her insistence on proceeding with the journey. Worries about Thomas Kelman, about her future and her marital prospects influence everything she thinks and does; and she simply cannot allow herself to remain confined at home for another day, or even another minute. “If an unexpected blizzard can hinder production, then perhaps the business lacks stability.” Having delivered this opinion, she stands, her spine rigid, her expression fixed. Her eyes shine brightly but not from hope or pleasure.
Newgeon regards her. Intemperance and stubbornness are part of the Beale character, as he well knows. In the father, those traits were always in evidence; in the daughter, they’re habitually disguised as either quiet resolve or youthful zeal. Today, however, Martha seems a replica of her intractable parent. Pondering this transformation, the clerk shifts his feet in the heavy boots he donned for his walk from the Beale Brokerage House near the Mercantile Exchange on Third Street. “Quaker City Mill is one of the best in Philadelphia. When their looms cease producing, it’s only to repair and clean the machinery—and that solely an hour before sunset on Saturdays. The mill’s goods, according to all reports, are in high demand.”
“Then let us not delay our visit.”
“It’s only your comfort that concerns me, miss.”
An argument rises in her throat. Newgeon wouldn’t have questioned her father’s ability to travel on icy streets; there’s no need to doubt hers. The words remain unexpressed; instead, she observes a pragmatic “I question why the owners are anxious to sell the company.”
Newgeon permits himself the briefest of smiles. Although of middling years, he’s of slight stature, hardly bigger or broader than a lanky boy, and with a head out of proportion to his torso as if all the numbers and facts he’d memorized on behalf of his former employer and that man’s daughter were stuffed inside. His features, too, resemble lines drawn in accounting books: eyes, nose, ears, and mouth formed like so many divisors, parentheses, and percentage marks.
“Very astute, miss.” There’s not an ounce of condescension in the tone; rather, it’s one of pride.
Martha studies him; her stern countenance momentarily softens. In the fourteen months since her father’s death, she’s learned a good deal about business transactions: why the Spanish currencies of the South American countries are stable and those of the United States are not; what commerce will prove a secure investment; what sections of the nation are burgeoning—despite the ongoing financial depression; which local districts will experience growth because of proximity to the anthracite depot; or where, like the industries in Northern Liberties and Fishtown, it would be wise to stake a claim. As the country’s preeminent manufacturing and banking center, Philadelphia is attracting international interest; local financiers must keep pace or risk forfeiting valuable assets.
“Why don’t they apply for additional capital rather than sell the company outright, Mr. Newgeon? If my father were alive, I’m certain he would have considered making a loan. And you know he was fastidious with his investments—and charged accordingly.”
The clerk thinks. He has a habit of tipping upward on his toes, although the activity still leaves him a good deal shorter than Martha. “Perhaps you could suggest such a scheme, Miss Beale.”
“No, Mr. Newgeon. I’m determined to purchase a factory. If Quaker City is offering itself for sale, and if their books and all else are in order, then I shall buy it. If not, I’ll look elsewhere.”
She says no more, although both Martha and her clerk know the rest of the speech: that her decision to become the owner of a manufactory rather than simply an investor is motivated by a desire to rectify what she believes are unfair labor practices. She’s resolved that under her governance men and women will earn a living wage in healthy conditions; that no child will be forced into drudgery; that housing will be adequate rather than cramped. According to the new Utopian ideal she’s been studying, she’s also decided to add a school to the premises. Now, of course, she’s more adamant than ever before.
“You’ll come with me, Mr. Newgeon?”
“If you wish it, miss.”
“I do. Your eyes will see what mine overlook.”
The clerk hesitates a moment before speaking again. His boots creak; his shoulders hitch themselves higher. “You’re aware, Miss Beale, of the conditions under which the men and women—and children—labor.”
“Yes.” A flicker of self-doubt crosses Martha’s face. “At least, as much as I can imagine from what I’ve read. Facts and figures aren’t the most inspiring of tutors. I do know, however, that a weekly wage of fewer than three dollars for a shift comprising upward of thirteen hours is poor payment indeed.
Newgeon nods but doesn’t comment on the customary compensation. “You may be met with unkind words. Even the managers and supervisors aren’t always treated with respect. And this unexpected return to winter may cause those unhappy with their employment to behave in ill-advised ways.”
“I understand, Mr. Newgeon, but I wouldn’t want anyone punished for speaking the truth. And I do mean to discover the truth in all things.”
“There are other facts you may wish to consider before your visit, miss” is the tentative reply to this declaration.
“I’m sure they’ll become apparent during my investigation of the operation. Now, shall we go? My carriage is waiting.”
DESPITE HER BOAST to the contrary, nothing has prepared Martha for the reality of a large textile mill in operation. First there’s the noise: The metallic din of gears and wheels and throstles and spinning bobbins and the blacksmith’s staccato repairs combine with the deafening roar of human voices trying to rise above the cacophony of man-made things. Words are screamed out, but the only attribute that identifies them as human is anxiety. Even the wood floors of the building vibrate and hum, and the wide beams quake under movement so continual it feels as though the property were a gigantic, living organism.
Entering the main building, she takes a reflexive step backward, and in the next second, her eyes and lungs are attacked by the myriad motes that fly through the air; cotton dust, sawdust, particles of steel and iron turn what little air there is a dense and murky gray. She retrieves a handkerchief, holding it to her nose while her eyes fill with burning tears. “You’ll get used to it; Miss Beale,” she hears the manager assigned to guide her shout, but she doubts she ever will.
“Thirty-inch wide pantaloon stuffs, the looms produce,” she’s further informed. “Three-million yards per annum … nearly the same as the great Silesia Mill in Manayunk.…”
But whatever the fellow is proudly declaiming, Martha ignores because her attention is arrested by the sight of people working other machines in the distance: women and children bent nearly double in order to reach the spinning frames that lie a mere two feet above floor level. If they notice a well-dressed lady in their midst, they make no sign; and Martha wonders how those tortured bodies straighten themselves at the end of the day, and whether they can hear anything but the constant drone or see images other than cotton strands for “pantaloon stuffs” rolling endlessly forward. Several of the children appeared tied to the machinery.
“Who are—?” she begins to ask.
“Families … We permit children … work alongside mothers …” is the disjointed reply. “It’s a kindness we do them.” Despite the noise, Martha detects duplicity beneath the boastful claim. The word “charity” is added before her guide marches her into another room and another, then up and down more staircases. “The blacksmith’s shop …” she hears, although the statement is no more than a whisper when compared to the clamor.
“Four-hundred power looms,” she’s told, “seven-thousand, one-hundred seventy-six spindles … adult weavers … adult carders … skilled mule spinners to man the spinning jennies.” Here the manager stops. They’re now on the building’s third story and entering a room so thick with whirling cotton chaff that visibility is severely reduced. A laborer is pointed out to Martha, but the man appears unaware of the attention. “Munder … one of our best mule spinners … keeps pace for others … knack with drafting twist that produces the best yarns for warp and weft … make him a supervisor one day, if I was you … knows his place … Munder, stand up and greet the lady who may become your new owner.”
The manager must tap the laborer on the shoulder before the mule spinner reacts. He does as he’s been ordered, pulling off his cap and regarding Martha not with hope or bitterness or apathy, but with an expression of such apparent grief that she feels the emotion herself. Then he replaces the chaff-covered cap and resumes his work, and the manager leads Martha back toward the offices where Newgeon has been examining the mill’s accounts. Her blue cashmere gown and capotte look as though they’ve been used to dust the dirtiest of houses.
“WELL, MISS BEALE? I believe you’ll find your clerk has discovered all is in order here. I trust you were satisfied with your examination of the premises.” It’s one of the owners who addresses her. He’s the only one on the premises and has the good Quaker name of Fox, although Martha finds him more closely allied to the animal than to his human forebears. He watches her with crafty eyes and a nose as pinched and sniffing as a snout.
Martha takes a proffered chair, flicking away clots of gray-white stuff that clings to her clothes. She’s glad she didn’t heed her maid’s advice to wear her sable-trimmed walking dress, as this costume is ill-suited enough and makes her appear less experienced than she would like. “I cannot say I was satisfied, Mr. Fox, but I did inspect each of your floors and workrooms.” She purposely doesn’t look at Newgeon. “Before I can decide how I wish to proceed, I have some questions to pose.”
He seats himself then leans back in his chair. He’s attired not in the sturdy cottonade his mill produces but in elegant Jacquard. His cravat is silk; his fitted jacket of a fashionable crimson hue, his trousers narrow and fawn-colored. “You wish to know why my partners and I have decided to sell.”
“No. I wish to discuss what influence our city’s Guardians of the Poor have in this place. The agency can’t be in agreement with the employment of so many children, nor with the conditions under which they toil.”
Fox smiles, and Martha has the impression this was precisely the issue he expected her to raise. “The Guardians of the Poor is a well-meaning group, Miss Beale; more than well-meaning, it’s an assemblage of exemplary citizens. But a textile mill must be a competitive force in the marketplace. If Silesia Mill out in Manayunk makes a practice of employing young laborers, so must we.”
It’s obvious from the smooth and patronizing tone that Fox intends to end his lecture there; the mention of Silesia Mill’s arrangements would give any other industrialist pause because it’s the region’s largest and most influential factory. But Martha has inherited more than a little of Lemuel Beale’s skepticism.
“Why is that, sir?” Her manner has become deceptively accommodating, and the owner is beguiled into thinking he’s found a willing student.
“Profit, of course, Miss Beale. Do you think children earn as much as women? Or women as much as men? I needn’t explain to you the effects upon the city and nation of the financial panic of six years past—which consequences we’re still enduring. Your father was an astute investor and weathered the disaster admirably, but many large and small businesses faltered. Laborers were summarily released from their contracts, causing the pool of skilled and unskilled laborers to grow. Silesia took advantage of that surplus; as a result, the owner was able to reduce wages for those continuing in his employ. Naturally, we followed suit.”
“Naturally” is Martha’s reply although the word sticks in her throat.
“And, as Silesia’s owner so persuasively states: ‘It is charity that we provide when permitting children to labor alongside their parents.’”
“Charity, I see …” She can sense Newgeon regarding her, but she doesn’t turn in his direction. Instead, she feigns interest in the room as though she were envisioning it equipped with furniture of her choosing and clerks of her hiring.
“If it weren’t for our compassionate intervention, Miss Beale, they’d be forced to wander the streets while their mothers toiled. To say nothing of their little hands being more nimble and their bodies better able to accommodate our more compact frames—”
“I noticed small boys carrying heavy boxes up the stairs,” Martha interrupts. Her delivery has become more pointed, but Fox is unaware of the change in attitude.
“Bobbin boxes,” he tells her with satisfaction. “Some of our young fellows are good for nothing else but dragging equipment from floor to floor. Sixteen pounds isn’t too much to ask; and the boys are glad of the work. It’s a favor we do them. Else, as I said, they’d be left to beg upon the streets. Surely no one wishes that.”
Martha nods; although encased in silk-lined gloves, her fingers clench with revulsion. “So the Silesia Mill determines how all other textile manufacturers conduct their business?”
“I wish that were not the case, Miss Beale, for I have no fondness for the owner. He’s a boorish man—foreign, of course. But their cottonade is the industry model. With its popularity among the southern landowners, we’d be fools not to imitate his success.”
“Ah, yes, the southern landowners,” she echoes. Fox apprehends her confusion and permits himself another superior smile.
“Slave owners, naturally. The fabric is cheap and durable and, therefore, desirable. Our brokers in South Carolina and Georgia sell the stuff in bulk—”
“Slave owners?” is all Martha can manage to gasp out.
“Surely you understood the backbone of our business, Miss Beale?”
“That this is a textile mill, yes.”
“The majority of whose looms produce an excellent quality of cottonade. It’s for that very reason that Quaker City is in such an enviable position. Fashions may come and go, but the need for solid, well-priced—”
The explanation is interrupted as Martha rises. Beneath the several layers of her gown, her knees wobble in dismay. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Fox.”
“But you haven’t examined the mill’s account books—”
“Mr. Newgeon did so for me.” She looks at the clerk; astonishment and censure pass across her face. You knew about this? her expression demands, but the silent gaze he returns is impossible to decipher.
“Miss Beale, I must protest; there’s a great deal more we need to discuss—”
“Not at the moment, sir. I fear I must bid you good day.”
“I trust you’re not ill, madam, or that I haven’t offended in some fashion?”
What can Martha answer but the truth? “I must tell you, Mr. Fox, that I’m not happy to learn that you abet an activity as vile as the bondage practiced in the southern states.”
He regards her in bewilderment. “People must be clothed, madam. You wouldn’t have the poor creatures walk about naked, would you?”
“I choose not to profit from another’s misfortune.”
The owner’s small eyes narrow further and his nose wrinkles as though scenting danger. “Madam, no one in business desires to be viewed in the despicable light you describe. My fellow owners and I are not ogres, nor are we the proverbial money lenders in the temple; we are simply men of affairs. The marketplace dictates our policies; it has always been thus—”
“Perhaps it’s time human beings established the rules, rather than your ‘marketplace.’”
“Madam, let us be rational. This is commerce, not a church aid society. Rather than castigate the men and women who produce the cloth, let us consider how fortunate the wretches are who receive it. Some folks sell shoddy goods to those lost African souls, but not Quaker City.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fox—”
The mill owner isn’t finished, however. “We take pride in our products, Miss Beale. And, yes, if you want my honest response, I’m heartened to know the mill’s goods protect bodies that might otherwise go unclothed.”
THE CARRIAGE THAT bears Martha and Newgeon back to the Beale Brokerage House is wrapped in silence; even the coachman’s verbal orders to the horse scarcely penetrate the space.
Her face averted, her body pressed against the door, Martha watches the streetscape roll by. Snow mounds in front of shovel shops and ironmongers; it nestles in the eaves of Reakirt’s White-lead and Window-glass manufactory and daubs the brick façade of the neighboring coffin warehouse. The sun, now high in the sky and very bright, glints down, producing a light that is painful to the eye. Despite the sting, Martha continues to stare about her. Slaves, her brain repeats, yards and yards of cottonade sold to slave owners.
“You knew about this, didn’t you, Mr. Newgeon?” she demands at length.
“Yes, miss.” He says no more for a moment or two. “But it was my feeling that looms producing a coarse quality of fabric can be altered to weave finer textiles instead.”