The next morning, the fog hovered among the buildings in town as if looking for something. Though the air was bright with the sun trying to burn through the mist, the fog held strong with feet dug in to stay. Briar raced from the boardinghouse to the mill, trying to shake the feeling that the mist was looking for her.
She’d slept in, making herself late, and her room-mates had gone on without her. Even after Ethel had woken her, she remained in bed, relishing a marvelous dream involving a magic spindle and reams and reams of cloth she’d woven on her very own looms. She’d never seen so much fabric, even more than the stacks in the warehouse, and she was quite heady with it.
The drink of water and two bites of breakfast she managed to gulp down helped to clear her thoughts and wake her up. The gates were still open when she got to the mill, but by the time she’d climbed the stairs, the bell had gone off, signaling the start to the day. Frustrated with herself, she yanked the door open and came face-to-face with a new overseer.
Her new boss stood with arm held aloft dangling a gold pocket watch from its chain. He was a slim man, not very tall, with a thick beard and mustache of the old style. His glasses had slid partially down his nose as if he didn’t need them, and he peered at her through the dark lenses with a look that made the hair on Briar’s neck prickle.
It was as if he had been waiting for her. He must have noticed a girl was missing and decided to welcome her.
Briar took a steadying breath.
If only she could see his eyes clearly. Mam said the eyes were a window to the soul, and you could tell a lot about a person by looking into their eyes. Something about him seemed familiar, yet at the same time, he was as out of place in their mill as a lit match. Perhaps she’d seen him in town before. At the bank? She paused to wait for the reprimand, but when he didn’t say anything, she scooted past and got her machines up and running.
Beads of sweat dripped down her back as the day wore on. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched, but every time she looked up, no one was there. The other operatives were all focused on their frames. Intensely focused on their frames. There were no smiles or passing comments.
“Is there a problem?” came a shout in her ear over the roar of the machines.
Briar jumped. The overseer had come up from behind.
She shook her head and busied herself with checking threads that were perfectly fine. Then out of the corner of her eye, Briar witnessed a chain reaction of threads spinning wildly and catching onto neighboring spindles. She’d never seen the like of it. Her persnickety frame had decided to practically explode.
She raced to shut down all her frames so she could deal with the mess. The overseer stepped back and watched with a glare. Briar’s face grew hotter the longer it took her to untangle the mess. Her fingers, normally nimble, were all thumbs as she fumbled her way through the strands. For once Briar was thankful for the raucous noise of the machines, or she was certain the overseer would be making disparaging comments. Of all days, this had to happen today.
When she finally had all the threads lined up and connected, the overseer glanced at his watch before walking away. He shut off the power to the spinning frames as the dinner bell went and the room fell silent.
Normally voices would rise to fill the void as the girls chatted on their way out of the room, but instead, the overseer called out, “Halt. You are all to come over here for a lesson.”
By “over here” he meant Briar’s frame. While waiting for the operatives to gather, he read the poems Briar had attached to her frame. At Ethel’s prompting, several of the girls kept pieces of poetry stuck near the windows where the light was true, or small pieces on their frames so they could think on lovely thoughts whenever they were tempted to think only of the monotony or the drudgery of their work. Books were banned, since too many girls got engrossed in what they were reading and forgot to mind their frames, so these bits of paper were a nice compromise, and the old overseer hadn’t minded.
She withered inside. If this lesson was long, they’d all miss dinner.
Once everyone had gathered, the overseer cleared his throat and spoke in a high, grating voice. “This operative is working at her lowest capacity. Her head is filled with silly notions of love.” He ripped down the poem attached to her frame and held it up as evidence.
Briar looked at her feet.
The offending poem by Rosalie M. Janas was awfully sentimental and romantic, especially under the scrutiny of the new overseer. It was about a love being meant to be. At least, that was how Briar interpreted it. Youth who flirted with love thinking it was blind and wouldn’t catch them missed that love was watching and waiting for the right moment to strike. She thought of Henry kissing her hand and her face warmed.
The overseer read the poem aloud in a mocking tone:
Rondeau
Love is not blind. Ah, no! Ah, no!
He only hides his eyes to show
A sweet unguarded mouth left free
To tempt his victims, while with glee
He works them thus confusion—woe.
For, sure as fate, rash youth will go
Too near that lovely Cupid’s bow,