what purpose? You told me yourselves that this business is fraught with risk. It would hardly take a robber baron to judge that Stirwaters hangs on by mere threads. Rosie, I won't have you spouting nonsense and upsetting your sister.
"Now." He lifted the teapot and poured us each a fresh measure. "I must impress upon you the importance of viewing these events in the proper perspective. Perhaps this is a sign that it's time for you to give up your foolish attachment to your father's little operation."
"But I don't understand. I thought you wanted to help us."
"Rosie, dear, of course I do. That's why you must listen to reason now. I was willing to play along with your little fancies, for your mother's sake. I know how fond she was of the mill, after all. But it's time you saw sense."
Rosie shook her head and pulled her hand out of Uncle Wheeler's soft grip. My uncle had opened his mouth to speak, but I rose to my feet. "Uncle, please," I said. "We appreciate everything you're trying to do, but as I said when you arrived, we simply can't sell the mill. It's impossible." I added, much more confidently than I felt, "We'll just have to find somewhere else to send the cloth."
Up in the bedroom, I peeled my damp stays from my body, splashed some lukewarm water on myself, and slipped into a clean shift. The air was stifling; no breeze at all lifted the curtains on the open window. I collapsed onto the bed and watched the late sun burn the afternoon into dusk as I turned futile thoughts over and over in my mind.
Rosie arrived with a tray from Rachel, dumping it unceremoniously beside me. Grabbing a roll but not eating it, she paced between the window and the bed, a frown creasing her forehead. She had a fire building in her, and there was nothing for it but to let it burn out. Finally she said, very quietly, "Maybe it's true, what they say."
I pulled myself up on one elbow. "What?" Rosie looked at me. "You know. The curse. No -- listen. We've had more than even our share of bad luck this year. Father, and then the mortgage, and the cloth -- and now this?"
I sighed. "Rosie, honestly. Everything that's happened has a rational explanation. I think your first theory made more sense."
She sat down beside me. "Pinchfields?" I nodded grimly.
The news was all over the village by morning. Shearing gossip is a force of nature; besides, what was the point in keeping it a secret? I passed through a crowd of pale, questioning faces as I went to unlock the mill doors. I lay a hand against the rugged wood, but made no move to open up.
I turned to them. "It's all true," I said. "Everything you've heard."
"What'll you do, then, Mistress?" Eben Fuller asked. His voice was gentle, but I was bone weary and thin on patience.
"I don't know. Look, go home, all of you. There's nothing to do here today."
"But, Mistress," Mrs. Hopewell said, "it's bearing-home today."
"Go home," I repeated. "Call it a holiday, call it -- call it whatever you like. But there's no reason for any of you to be here. Not today. Not..." I meant to say, "Not anymore," but I just couldn't get the words out.
A strong arm took me by the shoulders, and I was grateful for it. It was Harte, of course, and with a few calm words, he got everyone to disperse.
I had told the millhands to leave, but I could not take my own advice. Despite the baking oppression of the mill, I climbed up to the office. My father's atlas lay open to the map of Worm Hill. I lifted it to put my finger on our stall, my lost, forfeit stall, and nearly dropped the book.
It read Pinchfields in curvy, spidery script. I closed my eyes tight, sure I was imagining things. A count of ten passed before I looked again, and surely as the turning wheel, the word remained. My hands shook, and I slammed the book shut and clutched it to my chest. A person needs rest after a shock. Maybe my uncle was right. Maybe I was finally breaking under the strain.
"Charlotte?"
I started. Rosie had
"Now." He lifted the teapot and poured us each a fresh measure. "I must impress upon you the importance of viewing these events in the proper perspective. Perhaps this is a sign that it's time for you to give up your foolish attachment to your father's little operation."
"But I don't understand. I thought you wanted to help us."
"Rosie, dear, of course I do. That's why you must listen to reason now. I was willing to play along with your little fancies, for your mother's sake. I know how fond she was of the mill, after all. But it's time you saw sense."
Rosie shook her head and pulled her hand out of Uncle Wheeler's soft grip. My uncle had opened his mouth to speak, but I rose to my feet. "Uncle, please," I said. "We appreciate everything you're trying to do, but as I said when you arrived, we simply can't sell the mill. It's impossible." I added, much more confidently than I felt, "We'll just have to find somewhere else to send the cloth."
Up in the bedroom, I peeled my damp stays from my body, splashed some lukewarm water on myself, and slipped into a clean shift. The air was stifling; no breeze at all lifted the curtains on the open window. I collapsed onto the bed and watched the late sun burn the afternoon into dusk as I turned futile thoughts over and over in my mind.
Rosie arrived with a tray from Rachel, dumping it unceremoniously beside me. Grabbing a roll but not eating it, she paced between the window and the bed, a frown creasing her forehead. She had a fire building in her, and there was nothing for it but to let it burn out. Finally she said, very quietly, "Maybe it's true, what they say."
I pulled myself up on one elbow. "What?" Rosie looked at me. "You know. The curse. No -- listen. We've had more than even our share of bad luck this year. Father, and then the mortgage, and the cloth -- and now this?"
I sighed. "Rosie, honestly. Everything that's happened has a rational explanation. I think your first theory made more sense."
She sat down beside me. "Pinchfields?" I nodded grimly.
The news was all over the village by morning. Shearing gossip is a force of nature; besides, what was the point in keeping it a secret? I passed through a crowd of pale, questioning faces as I went to unlock the mill doors. I lay a hand against the rugged wood, but made no move to open up.
I turned to them. "It's all true," I said. "Everything you've heard."
"What'll you do, then, Mistress?" Eben Fuller asked. His voice was gentle, but I was bone weary and thin on patience.
"I don't know. Look, go home, all of you. There's nothing to do here today."
"But, Mistress," Mrs. Hopewell said, "it's bearing-home today."
"Go home," I repeated. "Call it a holiday, call it -- call it whatever you like. But there's no reason for any of you to be here. Not today. Not..." I meant to say, "Not anymore," but I just couldn't get the words out.
A strong arm took me by the shoulders, and I was grateful for it. It was Harte, of course, and with a few calm words, he got everyone to disperse.
I had told the millhands to leave, but I could not take my own advice. Despite the baking oppression of the mill, I climbed up to the office. My father's atlas lay open to the map of Worm Hill. I lifted it to put my finger on our stall, my lost, forfeit stall, and nearly dropped the book.
It read Pinchfields in curvy, spidery script. I closed my eyes tight, sure I was imagining things. A count of ten passed before I looked again, and surely as the turning wheel, the word remained. My hands shook, and I slammed the book shut and clutched it to my chest. A person needs rest after a shock. Maybe my uncle was right. Maybe I was finally breaking under the strain.
"Charlotte?"
I started. Rosie had
Similar Books
