Part One: Autumn
September 1816
Chapter One: The Factory
Sarah let go of the lever, ran a blistered hand through her matted blonde hair, and wished for the thousandth time that the power loom had never been invented. The machine was one of many grotesque assortments of gears, ratchets, and rollers that lined the factory floor. Sarah snuck a glance over her shoulder to ensure that the overseer was not watching her, then neglected her tasks to flex her sore fingers and let her mind wander.
Her mother loved to weave, and she had passed many a day that way, sitting at her own loom and passing the shuttle back and forth with a gentle scraping noise. Her father and Thomas had returned from the fields of Norfolk every evening with ample energy to eat dinner as a family. Sarah had spent her days teaching Abigail to read and winding bobbins for Mother, and her nights listening to Thomas read poetry and watching the starry sky. If not for the power loom, these would be Sarah’s reality rather than her memories. Instead, she found herself in the midst of a twelve-hour work day, moving levers and rollers until her arms ached in a cramped London factory.
“Star,” said a familiar voice. A smile spread across Sarah’s face at the sound of her childhood nickname, and she turned to face her brother. At fifteen, three years Sarah’s elder, Thomas Lee was tall and lean, and his muscular build had long since given way to the thin look of malnourishment. His round face was pale and studded with pimples. Sweat plastered his blond bangs against his forehead, and he staggered under the weight of the three boxes of heavy tools in his arms. Thomas hoisted the boxes higher and flashed Sarah a lopsided grin.
“How do you do?” he asked, raising his voice above the whirring of the machines and the clamor of the workers. Some, like Sarah and her mother across the room, worked on the looms, while others carried boxes or stood on tall ladders against the walls.
“Sore as always,” said Sarah, picking at a blister on her palm. “But I’ll be fine. You?”
He shrugged, shifting one of the boxes. “All right. Happy to be off the looms for the day. Where are Father and Mother?”
“Mother’s on a loom across the floor, and Father’s working the ladders, I reckon.”
A man passed behind Thomas, and Sarah glanced between them, trying to give Thomas a silent warning. The overseer made rounds on the factory floor every few minutes, and he hated idleness.
“We were just getting back to work, sir,” she said, returning to her work and keeping her gaze from lingering on the cane in the overseer’s hand.
“Of course,” the man sneered. “See that you don’t leave it next time.”
Sarah watched the loom and braced herself for the inevitable tap of the cane against her calves. Behind her, Thomas stumbled and clutched the boxes in his arms as the cane struck his knees. The pain was fleeting as always, and after the overseer had gone, Thomas nodded at her to confirm that he was unhurt. Sarah nodded back, and they returned to their labors.
Six months at the factory had ingrained the motions into Sarah’s memory until she hardly needed to think, and in minutes, Sarah sank into a mindless pattern. The room’s sweltering heat and the noise from the loom faded until her only sensation was the cold metal against her hands.
Panicked shouts shattered her lethargy, and through the chaos, Sarah was able to make out the word ladder. She turned towards the back wall just in time to see one of the ladders against the wall sway and begin to tilt. The worker standing near the top turned and leapt from the falling ladder as his companions scattered. He hit the ground hard and collapsed, clutching his right leg. His groan ricocheted through Sarah’s rib cage and sent a chill of recognition down her spine.
“Father!” she cried.
As if her call had awakened the same realization in her brother, Thomas let his boxes clatter to the floor and dashed to Father’s side. Sarah left her post and slid to her knees beside Thomas. Father’s right leg had crumpled underneath him, and it was twisted at a sickening angle. He was gasping from the pain, gripping the fabric of his trouser leg until his knuckles turned white.
“Sarah, move.”
Sarah’s mother joined them, taking in the damage as she often had while treating injured workers on the farm. “Merciful Heavens, William,” she said. “I think it must be broken after that fall. Let me….” She began to roll up the leg of his trousers, and he inhaled sharply through gritted teeth. Mother rolled it halfway to his knee, then hissed and pulled it back down. “This…” She swallowed, meeting Thomas’ eyes. “This is beyond my expertise. We’ll have to call a doctor.”
Horror seized Sarah’s chest, constricting her throat. Whatever Mother had seen, it was enough to incapacitate Father for weeks, perhaps even months.
“Pardon me, ma’am,” said a voice from behind Sarah. It belonged to a girl about Thomas’ age, with brown hair beneath a bonnet and a musical quality to her voice as though it had been made for song. “My father is a physician, and while I haven’t much practice myself, I’ve seen him treat injuries like this. I think I might be of some help to you.”
“Thank you, miss,” said Mother, moving to let the girl kneel beside her. The girl rolled up Father’s trouser leg and nodded grimly.
“We’ll have to set it before you can rise, sir,” she said. “So we’ll need bandages and some sort of straight rod.”
“Thomas, Sarah, check the boxes,” said Mother. “Sarah, did you hear me?”
Sarah tried to budge her frozen muscles. She wanted to rise and help Thomas search, but some invisible force had rooted her to the spot, trapping her in front of her injured father.
“I’ll go,” offered the physician’s daughter, and she and Thomas crossed the factory floor to search the boxes that Thomas had discarded. Sarah relaxed her fists, which she’d unconsciously clenched against her apron.
Thomas and the girl returned with a rod and strips of fabric. Regaining mobility at last, Sarah lurched to her feet. Mother took the supplies and set to work under the girl’s instruction as Thomas brought Sarah aside.
“Breathe, Star,” he whispered as she leaned against him, her chest hitching painfully.
“He can’t walk, Thomas.” Sarah’s panic leaked into her voice. “How would we afford a physician? How are we even going to get him home?”
Thomas swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I don’t know,” he said, “but we’ll find a way. We always do.”
Mother rose behind them. “This ought to hold until we get home,” she said.
“Who is going home?”
Sarah gritted her teeth as the overseer stalked over to them, surveying the chaos: Mother and the girl at Father’s side, his leg wrapped in bandages, the boxes rooted through, the ladder on the floor.
“One of the ladders fell,” Father managed. “My leg…”
“He’ll have to be taken home and treated further, sir,” said the physician’s daughter.
The overseer turned to her. “These four are family,” he said, “but you are the fifth to waste my precious time. Go back to your post.”
He rewarded her kindness with a tap to the legs with his cane. Sarah let out a breath, fuming. Thomas tensed beside her.
The overseer turned his gaze on Mother. “How many must be spared?”
“Two,” said Mother. “And one of them ought to stay home with him.”
He looked over Thomas and Sarah. “The girl may go,” he said finally, and Sarah bristled. “The boy has a man’s strength.”
Thomas knelt and slung Father’s arm over his shoulder to help him rise. They looked at Sarah, who shook her head, struck with an idea.
“I can’t lift him, sir,” she said. “Someone else with a man’s strength would do better.”
The man huffed in annoyance and thrust the cane from him, where it clattered to a stop behind the nearest loom, then helped Thomas lift Father to his good leg. Father’s face contorted in pain. Sarah tiptoed to where the cane had fallen and tucked it into the folds of her skirt, then edged towards the side door to the street and slipped outside. She planned to be far away by the time he noticed it was gone.
It was a chilly, overcast September afternoon. Smoke curled upwards from the factories and dissipated into the gray sky. The bleak weather and the failed crops from earlier that year had dealt a severe blow to London’s economy and left many citizens deep in poverty. The Lees lived and worked in the Parish of Saint Clement Danes. On the outskirts of the main city, Drury Lane was just wide enough for two horse-drawn carts to pass between the tight rows of buildings. The edges of the street slanted downwards and collected a contemptible mix of mud, rubbish, and manure.
Sarah skirted around the factory and met Thomas and Father outside, where they were making slow, painful progress away from the door. Thomas met her eyes in confusion. “Where were…?” His words transformed into an incredulous laugh as she withdrew the cane. “Why, you little thief!” he whispered, and Sarah was relieved to see him grin.
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“We can give it back,” she said with a shrug, handing the cane to Father.
Father gripped the handle of the cane and tried to take a step, but gasped and stumbled into Thomas. “That blasted ladder,” he said between labored breaths. Muscles in his face twitched in his effort to suppress a wince. “One minute… I was working, and the next—”
“No matter,” Thomas murmured. “Just concentrate on getting home. If you use it on your left side and hold onto me… That’s it.”
As they turned onto Stanhope Street[1], Sarah caught sight of someone sitting on a bench in the shadow of a tall building. It was a child, a small boy who looked to be about eight years old, his face framed by brown curls. His dark-eyed gaze darted from her to his bare feet as though he didn’t want to be seen.
Sarah hung back, letting Thomas and Father pass her as she turned to watch the boy. Money was short, and Father would have scorned the thought of Sarah giving their hard-earned wages to strangers. But Father was limping ahead of her, and this boy looked as though he hadn’t eaten a full meal in weeks. Sarah slipped her hand into the pocket of her apron and handed the boy tuppence[2] of the money she had earned the day before. His eyes grew round as the coin itself. He didn’t speak, but met her eyes for a split second and cupped the coin in his dirty hands.
“God bless you,” Sarah said to him. It wasn’t until after the boy had darted away with his prize that she turned back to her family and realized that Thomas was watching her.
He’d craned his neck backwards to meet her eyes, still supporting Father. His brows rose in a silent question.
Sarah held his gaze. “Keep my secret,” she whispered, beginning the exchange she and Thomas often used as a promise.
Thomas let out a quiet sigh and finished the phrase under his breath: “To the grave.”
Sarah’s family lived on the second floor of a brick building, the lower story of which was uninhabited, and until that moment, the stairs to their flat had hardly disturbed them. Father and Thomas began the long journey while Sarah ducked past them to ready Father’s bed.
The Lees’ flat spanned three rooms: a sitting room, a bedroom for Sarah’s parents, and a bedroom that Sarah and her siblings shared. An ash-filled fireplace lay at the opposite end of the room from the landing of the stairs, and a window protruded from the adjacent wall. The room’s furniture was sparse: a table in the center with benches on either side, a cupboard where they stored most of their possessions, a barrel that contained food and old clothing, and a water basin with a metal spout.
Sarah had scarcely had time to look over the sitting room before Abigail ran to the door to greet her. “You’re home early!” exclaimed Abigail, throwing her arms around Sarah. Abigail was six years old and bursting with the energy that was characteristic of a young girl who remained alone at home for hours at a time. Clad in a dirty white chemise[3], Abigail stood just above Sarah’s waist, with pink cheeks and fair hair that desperately wanted washing.
Sarah extricated herself from Abigail’s embrace. “I know, Abigail. Listen. Father’s hurt from work, and I need you to stay out of the way when he comes.”
Abigail’s face became solemn. Sarah propped the door to Father and Mother’s room open with a stone and pulled back the sheets of the bed as Thomas and Father lumbered in.
Father eased himself onto the bed he shared with Mother. Thomas offered Sarah a wet scrap of cloth. “Mother says to elevate it and try to keep the swelling down,” he said. Sarah lay Father’s leg across a pillow, apologizing as he winced at the motion, then pressed the cloth against his bandages.
“I ought to go back,” said Thomas, pulling Sarah into a hug as she left Father’s bedside. “Thank you.”
Sarah smiled at him and wiped her wet hands on the skirt of her brown dress. Thomas pulled on his jacket and left for the factory.
“Father, are you well?” Abigail asked the moment he’d gone, trying to clamber onto the bed beside him.
“Abigail, no—please.” Father guided her back onto the floor. “I hurt my leg at the factory.”
Abigail gestured to the cane. “Where did you get the stick?”
“No more questions,” Sarah said hastily, leaving Father’s room and kneeling by the hearth to kindle a fire. “Will you show me your writing?”
Abigail scrambled into her bedroom and opened the trunk that she, Sarah, and Thomas shared to retrieve her stack of paper, where she had been practicing her letters. Sarah’s parents had taught her and Thomas to read and write, and now Abigail learned from Sarah, Thomas, and their parents by turns. Although there was far less time to teach Abigail now that the rest of the family worked, Sarah tried her best to keep up the little girl’s studies.
Abigail displayed her untidy handwriting page. She’d written her name, Abigail Lee, over and over, followed by the alphabet and numbers. The letters were still nearly illegible, but Sarah could usually decipher approximately what they read. “Be sure that your R’s aren’t backwards,” she said, indicating the mistake. “But the rest of your letters are correct.” It was definite progress from earlier that year, when Abigail had been writing entire words in reverse.
Abigail picked up the pencil. It stuck up from her right fist, and Sarah took it and showed her the correct way to hold it. Abigail wrote a new sentence, her tongue poking between her lips as she focused on forming each letter.
“I love my sister Sarah and my brother Thomas,” she read.
“You’re getting good at spelling,” said Sarah. “You ought to show your writing to Father while I’m making dinner.”
She struck a flint against a steel hook to light the fire, then took the water basin outside and carried it down the street to fill it from the pump. The basin was so heavy when full that Sarah had to hold it around the middle with both arms. She set a pot of water over the fire to boil and added tea leaves. When the tea had brewed, she poured it with difficulty into five separate mugs, then filled the pot with five slices of dried meat and set it stewing.
Mother and Thomas returned home at about twilight, hands filthy and cheeks flushed. Mother washed her face in the water basin, exchanged her bonnet for a plain white mob cap, and knelt at Father’s bed. “How are you?” she murmured.
Father tilted his head from side to side. “A bit better,” he replied. “Thank you.” The swelling in his leg had lessened, but pain was still evident in his eyes.
Mother kissed his forehead. “I’ll bring you dinner.”
“Thomas, where have I seen the physician’s daughter before?” Sarah asked. She didn’t know her by name, but she was certain that they’d met before.
“Miss Catherine Mortimer,” said Thomas, turning away to hang up his jacket. “The dratted overseer was keeping a close watch on both of us after I came back, or else I would have thanked her. I shall tomorrow.”
The name clicked into place. “She and her father go to our church, don’t they?”
“Aye. I remember him, Dr. Mortimer. We had better see if he can have a look at Father’s leg.”
Sarah hesitated. “Do you think it was wrong to take the cane?” she asked.
Resentment clouded Thomas’ face. “Oh, I doubt he minded. He had another in the afternoon, and he used it liberally. Besides, we need it more than he does, particularly if they’re canceling Father’s wages this week.”
Sarah’s jaw dropped in indignation. “What?”
Thomas nodded grimly. “We can’t keep records of your hours if you leave in the middle of the day. Damned fools.”
“Thomas,” Mother scolded.
“Sorry.” Thomas drifted towards the bedroom he shared with Sarah and Abigail, catching the door jamb as he passed and swinging into the room.
“He isn’t wrong, Mary,” said Father.
Mother crossed the room to lean against the doorway to his room. “Wrong or no, I don’t want to hear that sort of language from the mouth of a child of mine. Besides, Heaven forbid Abigail use it—you know how she takes after him. Sarah, have you started dinner?”
Sarah nodded. “I started the meat when we got home. It’s probably done. Abigail, will you set out the plates for dinner? Leave them on the bench beside Father’s bed.”
Abigail obliged as Mother knelt in front of the fire to take out the meat. Sarah entered her room and walked over to the window, where Thomas rested his arms against the sill, lost in bleak rumination. Cool air wafted through the open window, kissing her skin.
“Are you all right?” she asked her brother.
Thomas started. “Star! I didn’t see you. Yes, I… suppose I’m all right.”
“You’re angry about the money?”
Thomas was silent for a moment. “I wish we could go back to the way things were.”
“So do I,” Sarah sighed, watching her brother gaze at the darkening city. The flickering light of candles and streetlamps were the only illumination of Great Wild Street. Smokestacks and chimneys were shadowy silhouettes against the indigo sky, which was still lit with a halo of pale blue from below the horizon.
Thomas blew a puff of air that fanned his bangs upwards. “All this blasted smoke,” he murmured, still facing the window. “I miss seeing the stars.”
“I know.” Back at the family’s farmhouse in Norfolk, East Anglia, Thomas would venture outside at night and watch the stars forming patterns in the sky. Sarah would sit with him and beg him to tell her stories about the figures depicted in the constellations, and he’d oblige her with enthusiasm. In London the stars were blocked by factory smoke, and Sarah knew that her brother longed to see them again.
Thomas turned to Sarah, his wistful expression morphing into a grin. “No matter. The most important Star is right here.”
He ruffled Sarah’s hair, and Sarah laughed as she smoothed it again. “You’re far too dramatic for factory work,” she said. “Perhaps a job at the theatre would suit you better.”
Thomas rolled his eyes, but the conversation had raised Sarah’s spirits despite her teasing. She was closer to Thomas than to either of her parents: their two-year difference in age hadn’t prevented an inseparable bond from forming between them. He could soothe her with a glance and bring a laugh to her lips no matter the circumstances. They exchanged silent conversations at work and trusted each other with the deepest of secrets.
“Thomas, Sarah, come and help move the benches,” Mother called. “We’ll eat in the bedroom today.”
Sarah and Thomas left the window, and Thomas heaved one of the benches into Father’s room. Abigail managed to lift the second bench and nearly lost her balance, but Sarah caught one end before Abigail could swing it into the wall. They shuffled into the bedroom, carrying the bench between them.
Father sat up, wincing as the movement jostled his leg, and Mother handed him a tin plate and a mug of tea. She distributed the rest of the dishes, then said a quick prayer, and they began to eat.
After a minute of silence, Mother said, “I don’t think it’s safe for Sarah to return to the factory.”
“Me?” Sarah said in surprise. The four of them had worked there for nearly five months, and while it was far from enjoyable, at least it was routine.
“You’re the most likely to be hurt. You’re a child.”
“I’m twelve.”
“Exactly.”
“We need all the money we can get,” said Father.
Mother shot him a look. “What difference will two fewer shillings make?” she asked, and Sarah bristled. “Money is beside the point. You of all people know what that place can do to someone—it could kill her.”
“She can hear you,” Sarah muttered under her breath.
“Abigail, use a fork, for Heaven’s sake,” said Mother.
Abigail dangled the beef over her plate, holding it between her finger and thumb. “I can’t. It’s too big.”
“Give it here,” Sarah told her. “Thomas, pass the knife, please.” He did so, and Sarah cut the meat in her lap.
Father nodded, still lost in thought. “Very well. We can’t risk another of us getting hurt.”
“I agree,” said Thomas, taking a bite of beef.
Mother turned to him. “You also, Thomas.”
He shook his head and swallowed. “Mother, no. I earn more than you do now. I ought to keep working.”
Mother gave a slight huff. Sarah had often wondered why the factory paid a boy of fifteen nearly twice the wage of a grown woman, but Mother had told her that only a few decades earlier, it was nearly unheard-of for a woman to work at all.
“So be it,” said Mother. “Sarah, you’ll stay home and care for your father. It will do Abigail some good to have company, anyway.”
Sarah nodded and sipped tea from her mug. Her objection to staying home lay only in guilt that she would not earn any money, not in fondness for the factory itself. She rubbed her blistered hand against the warm metal of her mug and smiled, feeling a secret satisfaction in finally being rid of the horrible place.
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[1] not the Stanhope Street that currently exists in London, but a street parallel to Drury Lane, at the approximate location of the modern Kean Street
[2] In the British LSD (pre-decimal) system, twelve pence (singular penny) were one shilling, and twenty shillings were one pound. Words such as “tuppence” or “twopence,” “threepence,” and “sixpence” were used. Other denominations included farthings (a quarter of a penny), crowns (five shillings), and guineas (twenty-one shillings).
[3] a loose, white cotton dress, either an under- or outer garment