The Silent Companions

Curious to think of all the hidden steps, all the moments the factory floor had known, buried then swept aside with a broom.

She mounted the stairs leading up to the office and stopped halfway, leaning against the iron banister, where she could look out across the entire factory. Women filling frames and supervising the machines, all their vitality burning off with the steam. Sparks from rogue matches that snapped and died out. How quickly it happened, the fizz and transformation from one state to the other. One moment the match was a stick with a proud white head; the next a charred, wasted thing with a forlorn appearance. Shrivelled.

Handcarts ferried the bundles to and from the dipping room. Beyond that were the drying sheds, not quite visible through the windows.

There. That patch there, near the circular saw, just concealed from view. If you scrubbed down to the surface you would find it black and scorched. That was where the fire began. Where Pa ran to douse it, frantic. And then . . . where the blood had flowed. Copious amounts of blood. Red blooming on the sawdust. Red trickling between the table legs. A strange deep red, like claret. Thick.

Vinegar and mops had taken up the worst of it, but Elsie imagined a remnant lingering there beneath the sawdust. Brown, not red now. Brown like molasses.

Jolyon was only six weeks old when it happened. Pa hadn’t even changed his will to include a son yet. If Elsie had been determined, she might have found a way to retain the entire ownership of this factory until her marriage took place. But it was not natural to keep anything from Jolyon. She needed him to help her shoulder the burden of such an inheritance: a legacy born of blood.

Slowly, she deflated and sat down on the steps, her cheek pressed against the cold banister. Yes, there were terrible moments in the history of this place, but somehow the movement of the factory eroded them, wearing them away like the sea smoothing a stone. In their stead came another memory, far sweeter.

She had been walking down these very steps – not dressed in black, then, but vivid in fashionable magenta – when Jolyon ushered three gentlemen through the main doors. One wore a bowler hat, the other two toppers. They were roughly the same age – in their middle years, or a little older – but it was Rupert who caught the eye with his bright, active face. He looked more like a young man, damaged by a rough decade. His companions were what Ma would call badly preserved, their skin wrinkled, pickled.

‘Ah,’ Jolyon had said when he saw her. He was nervous but trying not to show it. A dark patch appeared beneath his armpit as he gestured. ‘Here is my sister come to assist us with the tour. Mr Bainbridge, Mr Davies, Mr Greenleaf, may I present Miss Livingstone?’

They bowed. Only Mr Bainbridge smiled. Well, she assumed that was the case – Mr Davies and Mr Greenleaf sported such monstrosities of facial hair that she could not be sure they even possessed mouths.

Mr Bainbridge was her instant favourite. He had a tidy, salt-and-pepper moustache, and was nattier than the others – even his trousers were checked, blue and green. He had a habit of toying with his watch chain as he walked.

She had taken Jolyon’s arm and shown the trio around the factory, giving prompts where required and explaining the women’s work. Jolyon talked about machines and production rates. Between them, they had it rehearsed as thoroughly as any play. The acts ran according to the script; their potential investors nodded at the right moments, asked the questions they were supposed to. It was only when they went to the office, and Elsie sat opposite Jolyon at the head of the long, mahogany table, that the first problem arose.

‘Forgive me, gentlemen, I thought we proposed to talk business?’ Mr Greenleaf had put his bowler hat on the table, glancing from Elsie to a decanter full of brandy and back again.

‘And so we do,’ said Jolyon. ‘Please, proceed.’

‘Hardly gallant, with ladies present.’

Elsie screwed up a smile. ‘I assure you, Mr Greenleaf, the factory is a topic of which I never tire. You need not be afraid of boring me.’

He inclined his head. Of course, boring Elsie was not what he feared – she knew it, he knew it.

‘Dear madam, let me be plain. The language in these meetings can grow a trifle coarse. It would be far better if your brother simply recounted the parts suitable for your ears at a later time.’

Rupert’s laugh was a single breath. ‘Upon my word, Greenleaf, I don’t know what sort of meeting you’re intending to have. Here I was, prepared to be mannered and civil.’

Jolyon coloured. His hands began to hover about his pockets. ‘You must understand this factory is Miss Livingstone’s inheritance, as well as mine. She has a right, I feel, to be present at any—’

‘Pshaw, no one’s disputing her right, man. But is there a need? Spare the poor lady the formal horrors.’

She could feel her heart pounding in her neck, furious at this fat old man, stuffed with prejudice and money. Horror. What did he know of horror? Only the thought of Jolyon held her tongue.

‘Bad language and formal horror,’ commented Rupert, swinging his watch. ‘I start to doubt whether I wish to stay here myself.’

‘Bainbridge, you know well enough what I mean. Figures of speech and business formalities we take for granted could prove shocking, not to mention tiring, for a lady.’

The worst of it was that Greenleaf would never admit the truth. He would not insult her intellect. He would not argue her place. Instead he took up this degrading charade, mimicking chivalry, pretending to object for her own dear sake.

Greenleaf went on. ‘I really see no reason, Livingstone, why your poor sister should be forced to suffer this. No reason at all.’

‘Unless,’ Davies put in slyly, ‘it is for yourself. Young man that you are, you might require an elder sibling’s presence?’

Jolyon turned scarlet. That was the trigger. She stood up and seized the decanter of brandy.

‘Well, gentlemen, you’ve had your say and I’m sure you’ve enjoyed it. As for Mr Livingstone and me, we have business to attend. Anyone who invests in this factory will have a master and a mistress to deal with, and that is not up for debate.’ She poured herself a finger of brandy and tossed it back. ‘If you’re too squeamish to talk business with a lady, you had better leave now.’

The speech seemed to have said itself. Elsie felt a flame in the back of her throat and gazed down at the brandy glass, unable to understand how it had got into her hand.

Mr Greenleaf and Mr Davies left. Rupert stayed.

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