“We are Mr. and Mrs. Goodnight,” the older man began. “We apologize for arriving uninvited to impose upon your hospitality—”
“No, we aren’t sorry,” his wife interrupted, her strong voice determined. “We’re here because we’ve nowhere else to turn. It has been a grueling journey—”
“Three long days in the basket of a mail coach, stuffed on top of the roof with the luggage—”
“—and we must return to our family posthaste.” Mrs. Goodnight’s pale blue eyes were haunted. “How I fear what might happen if…”
“We live outside Manchester,” Mr. Goodnight explained. “Tipford-upon-Bealbrook is a small town without much to speak of, save the local cotton mill. The Throckmorten manufactory employs hundreds of laborers. Sometimes it feels as though we all work there.”
“That is, wedidwork there,” his wife corrected him. “We’ve since grown too old. Our fingers shake, and our eyes aren’t what they used to be. It is our daughter-in-law Adella who works there now. Our son Ned worked at the manufactory, too, but…” Her voice caught.
“He was injured in an accident at one of the machines,” Mr. Goodnight said gruffly. “His wounds became infected. Adella is a widow now…and six months pregnant.”
His wife took a deep breath. “Poor Adella is our family’s only source of income. It is barely enough, and there will be no coin at all once she gives birth. That is why our grandson Victor took a post at the factory the morning after we buried his father.”
Graham’s heart ached for the young boy who had lost a parent due to the callous negligence of an employer. It was visceral. It waspersonal. But he did not talk about his past. Not even with clients.
“How old is Victor?” he asked quietly.
“Little Victor is eight.” Mrs. Goodnight swallowed. “But there are children who are even younger.”
“Whenever possible, Mr. Throckmorten requires his employees’ children to work beside their parents for negligible pay. To decline this kind offer is to lose one’s post—yet, to accept is to put one’s child in danger.”
Mrs. Goodnight nodded. “Victor is small for his age, so he is one of the unlucky ones sent inside the machines to make adjustments and repairs, often with the machines still running.”
“It’s how our son was injured.” Her husband’s voice grew thick. “One of our neighbor’s children got caught in a moving machine, which tore her arm from her body. When our son leapt in to save her…”
“It happens all too often,” said Mrs. Goodnight. “In every cotton manufactory. Most of the workers are women and children. We are hardworking people who take pride in a job well done, but the hours are grueling.”
“A decade ago, we worked fifteen hours a day. Mr. Throckmorten now demands sixteen hours or more, six days a week, with only one short respite at midday.”
Mrs. Goodnight’s eyes were pleading. “Small children aren’t meant to be worked like pack animals from the moment they open their eyes in the morning until they finally stumble home to bed. There’s no time left for children to bechildren.”
“We worry not just for our own family, but for our neighbors. We are all in these wretched circumstances together. The constant exhaustion is how fatal mistakes are made. Every person in the manufactory is at risk.” Mr. Goodnight’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Such as Molly, the poor little girl who lost her arm. And our son Ned, who lost his life by saving Molly’s.”
“With our daughter-in-law Adella in a delicate way…It’s too much.” Mrs. Goodnight wrapped her arms about herself and shuddered. “Mr. Throckmorten won’t see that we’re not out to cheat him. All the local families have begged him to allow half days for children. Eight hours of work in a hot, dangerous environment is surely enough for a child of as many years, is it not?”
“The blackguard won’t hear of it,” Mr. Goodnight said angrily. “He says, ‘Those who wish to work, shall work the full schedule without complaint, or find employment elsewhere.’”
“For most of us, thereisno elsewhere!” his wife burst out. “There is only Mr. Throckmorten, and he knows it.”
“Adella has been with child thrice before. Only Victor survived. She asked Mr. Throckmorten if she could work fewer hours at a reduction in wages until this babe is born safely. He said if she made so much as an unauthorized visit to the chamber pot, she’d be out on her ear.”
Kunigunde’s mouth fell open. “How cruel!”
“In Tipford-upon-Bealbrook, Mr. Throckmorten is like a god. His mill employs most of the town. None of the workers can afford to leave their posts—or to anger Mr. Throckmorten. Several years ago, there was talk of a strike. Mr. Throckmorten found out and dismissed every worker sympathetic to the rebellion.”
“It hadn’t even happened yet!” Mrs. Goodnight said in disgust. “Lately, there have been rumblings of organizing again, of making a complaint or taking some sort of action. But there’s no one to complainto, and none of the families can afford to lose a single day’s pay, much less their posts. It’s a dangerous game. With your help, mayhap it needn’t come to that.”
“I have money,” Kunigunde blurted out from beside Graham. “I could give you—”
Mr. and Mrs. Goodnight straightened in affront.
“We are not beggars come crying for alms,” Mr. Goodnight said stiffly.
“I know, but—”
Mr. Goodnight’s cheeks flushed. “We are respectable people, happy to work for our due, and we wish only for a master who respects his dependents as fellow humans. We did not come to line our own pockets, but for you to put a stop to this horrible practice for all of our neighbors.”
