The Daring Ladies of Lowell by Kate Alcott Page A

one of them, even after those graceful words at the dinner table; she must be cautious.
    “To discuss your concerns,” he said.
    There were dark circles under his eyes. Could it be that he, too, hadn’t slept much last night? “But no one was interested.”
    Her honesty made him falter. She stood so close, one foot on the lowest step of the carriage. She would vanish in a moment.
    “I apologize for my family; I had hoped for something better.”
    She looked up into his face. “Mr. Fiske, I thank you for your words at the table last night.” She took a deep breath. “You have been kind. But I believe I was brought here to feel awed and intimidated, someone to send back to Lowell with a nice story about sipping tea off of fine china, provided by the open-minded Fiske family. Please tell me—am I wrong?”
    “Not entirely, and I tell you that in all honesty.”
    She started to say more but feared she might endanger her job if she did so. Instead, she climbed into the carriage.
    He reached through the open window, his hand only an inch or two from hers. “I will be at the mill next weekend,” he said, then paused.
    His face was so close. She could have reached out and touched him. She waited. What was he asking?
    “Perhaps I could show you around and explain how the mill was developed—”
    “I’m on the weekend shift.”
    “Well, then,” he said helplessly.
    And then the carriage pulled away, hitting, she was convinced, every possible bump in the road on the way back to Lowell.
    U nsettled, Samuel watched until Alice’s carriage vanished from sight. He had given her every courtesy and had been treated rudely. He had every right to be annoyed. It was a train of thought with which he was familiar, but it didn’t satisfy, not today.
    “Well, after hearing that little exchange, I’d say your flirtation with the Barrow girl didn’t quite work out.”
    He wheeled around to see Jonathan standing in the doorway, looking red eyed, his clothes rumpled.
    “Where have you been?”
    “What business is that of yours?”
    “I couldn’t care less, but Father was angry that you didn’t show up for dinner last night.”
    “Oh yes, the ‘democracy at work’ dinner. Don’t you think we’re both getting a little too old to be doing his bidding every minute of the day? Maybe you aren’t, but I certainly am.”
    Samuel willed himself not to respond. His brother looked too brittle, not just his usual mocking self. “Where have you been?” he asked again.
    “Carousing, of course,” Jonathan replied. “And having a good time doing it. A little carousing wouldn’t hurt you, Samuel—might loosen you up.”
    A flash of memory, a twist of melancholy, gave Samuel pause. There had been a time when Jonathan was little, adoring, looking up to his big brother, holding his hand, asking him questions. Still, there was something there in his brother’s eyes this morning that reminded Samuel of that younger boy.
    “Let’s get you some coffee,” he said quietly, putting an arm around Jonathan’s shoulders. They turned and walked back into the house.
    D aisy sat alone in the dining room, picking at a boiled egg in a silver egg holder, flipping through a copy of
The Lady’s Book.
    “What do you like so much about that magazine?” Jonathan said as he sank into a chair, yawning.
    “Fashion stories, of course,” she answered promptly, closing it hastily. “There’s nothing else for me to do.”
    Only Samuel noticed that she had pushed between the pages a scribbled piece of paper. Once before he had picked up such a slip of paper that had fallen from her magazine and saw a poem written in his sister’s hand. It had not been very good; annoyed with himself for having read it, he had said nothing.
    “Why were you so unkind to Alice Barrow?” he asked.
    “Oh, here we go, I’ve been expecting another display of indignation from you. Has it occurred to you that
you
were the rude one last night, dismissing your family as