“A lady must understand money.” She looked pleased, and I continued, “In that spirit, would you suggest an inn where Harriet and I could stay in London?”
“What? You are very welcome here. We certainly have room.”
“I do not wish to impose.”
“That is nonsense, and you know it.” She wiped her pen and stood, skeptical and concerned. “Is something wrong?”
We were alone, and Lizzy’s simple question deserved truth. “I am uncomfortable this close to Yuánchi.” Her eyebrows rose. I added, “Doyounot want me away from him?”
Dryly, she said, “Because you are his soulmate, or whatever? He and I have discussed that. We are bound. It is as simple as that.”
If I concentrated, I could sense all three of them: Yuánchi blazing behind the house, Lizzy heated with the same fire, and, faintly, Mr. Darcy a few rooms away. “It is not so simple for me.”
“Oh, Emma.” She reached for my hand, and I stepped back. She smiled ruefully, a few steps between us. “Pardon me. I forgot. When I brought you to Yuánchi, the last thing I wished was to make you uncomfortable.”
“I know that. I am sure we will visit endlessly. At the school this afternoon, to start.” That was enough to launch Lizzy into enthusiastic plans.
At noon,Harriet and I stood with Lizzy on a London corner. The fabled Martin School was across the street, visible in glimpses between passing carts and strolling dock workers.
I had sent my own letter this morning, and my reticule held an encouraging reply, so this was only Harriet’s and my first stop of the day.
The school’s classrooms and boarding were in a two-story white wooden building, the same one we gathered in after yesterday’s frightening events. It had broad, shop-like windows on the bottom floor, but otherwise it could have been a plain, oversized country home. Two other buildings housed what Lizzy called “practical education.” They were red brick and tall as barns, with arched entrances wide enough to admit coaches. Their steeply peaked slate roofs had multiple chimneys and an industrial style.
The three buildings surrounded a grassy yard teeming with children from six to ten, both boys and girls. The youngest squealed and ran in games. The oldest lounged with studied calm.
“The younger classes are on break now,” Lizzy said, on her toes to see better. She pointed to one of the red brick buildings. “That is the smithy. The other, we call the factory. It has machines and tools away from the smoke and fumes.”
“They are so large!” exclaimed Harriet. Mrs. Goddard’s boarding school would have fit in half of any of them.
“How many students are there?” I asked.
“Six and forty,” Lizzy answered. “Some pay tuition and return to their homes after school, but most are charity, and most of them board at the school. Although I dislike the connotation of ‘charity.’ I may rename their status to sponsored or scholarship. What do you think?”
“Charity is a virtue,” I said.
Lizzy’s curly chignon flung as she shook her head. “You should be right, but society abhors those who require assistance. Providing charity is a virtue. Receiving it is a sin. Even among the students, there were conflicts. Theworking class sneers at the poor, and the gentry sneer at those who work, but it is accidents of birth or health that dictate who has wealth, and who struggles—” She broke off with a wry smile. “At this rate, I shall be wearing black and marching with Mary. Oh, we have been seen!” Lizzy waved at a lady in her mid-twenties who had raised her hand in greeting from the doorway of the white building. Lizzy crossed the street at her preferred, skirt-thrashing pace. Harriet and I followed more sedately, dodging traffic.
Introductions at the white building were brief due to a class in progress. We looked inside the smithy, where a man in a leather apron was pounding noisily on red-hot metal before a semicircle of boys, then entered the factory building. A gaggle of girls gathered around Lizzy with a mix of curtsies and excited, childish “Good morning, Mrs. Darcys.”
Lizzy walked to a mechanism of iron and wood the size of a pony. It was spinning a metal wheel at a leisurely pace while blowing modest puffs of steam. The precise motion and shimmering heat made me think of draca. Lizzy tapped it affectionately. “A Watt steam engine. The Luddites smash them, but I am certain they are wrong. They should protest for more production and higher wages, not break tools that reduce labor.” She raised her voice to be heard over the clanks. “Girls, who will show our guests how to thread a bolt?” Excited hands shot up. Lizzy chose a quiet, thin girl around twelve. “Martha, would you please?”
Martha nodded, bobbing fuzzy black braids, and took a metal rod a few inches long from a bucket. “The boys smith these round tenons. They are supposed to be three-eighths of one inch, but we check because boys are not careful.” The other girls giggled while she soberly slipped the metal through a plate with several sized holes. “Then we cut the thread with a die.” She fastened the metal rod into a clamp.
“How will this bolt be cut?” Lizzy asked in an enraptured tone.
“A three-eighths-inch Martin bolt has sixteen threads each inch,” the girl answered. The tip of her tongue poked out while she dabbed a single drop of liquid on the metal—“Linseed oil”—then she gave a sparkling smile and cried, “Watch this!” The pony-sized mechanism began to shriek and rattle, spinning wheels every which way while steam whistled. The metal rod vanished into a whirling silver plate, then popped back out. The girl presented it to Lizzy with a curtsy.
“Is it not beautiful!” Lizzy exclaimed, holding it out for us.
Harriet and I put our heads together. The rod had one square end, and fine lines on the round part.
“What is it?” I said finally.
Harriet was squinting. “They hold coaches together.” That insight caused ecstasies of delight from Lizzy, and Harriet cast me a private, astonished glance. Another student brought a small piece of square metal. The two were twisted together, the class applauded, and Martha smiled shyly.
“And what is the impediment to efficient use of bolts in manufacturing?” Lizzy asked in a sing-song tone.
“Non-standardized threads!” the girls chanted back.
