Page 36 of Love with a Notorious Rake

Well, that thought killed his inappropriate sexual instincts. Fighting not to roll his eyes at the ridiculous statement, he gripped Tessie’s wrist and halted her inapt actions. “Answer my questions first; if I like the answers, I’ll give you three shillings.”

Her eyes grew wide, and he could see feral hunger in them. A roll of compassion enfolded him. To think she had to debase herself in order not to starve. A pox on the men who would take such advantage of her grim circumstances.

“Aye, the overlooker would put an extra shillin’ in me pay packet if I sucked him twice a week. As for Master…don’t ask me, sir.” True fear registered on her face.

“Has McRae ever harmed you?” he asked. “It’s all right, Tessie. I will tell no one. I merely wish to know what manner of man I’m working for.”

Tessie tried to pull away from him, but he held her still. “I can’t. Not here in the hall.”

“Then come into my room. I will not hurt you. You do not have to do anything for the money except tell me the truth.” He guided her toward his door.

“No. No!” She pulled away, lifted her tattered skirts, and ran down the stairs, disappearing outside. He wouldn’t chase after her. No use causing a scene. But the fright in her eyes had told him plenty. Aidan wouldn’t let this pass. Next he had an opportunity he would make it clear that the three shillings was a standing offer. There was no mistaking that she needed the money.

One way or another, he would get to the bottom of this.

Chapter 11

Three days had passed, and in that time, Aidan kept a close watch on the workers in the spinning room. He finally had it narrowed down to which youth was Rokesmith. Since the boy was too tall to be a scavenger, he did odd jobs, carrying pails of water from the well to pour on the spinning room floor to keep the area damp. He also swept up cotton fluff or delivered baskets of bobbins or cotton from room to room. All the while, Rokesmith kept a sharp eye on the younger children scurrying under the machines on their hands and knees.

The shift tonight was ending at seven, and Aidan was determined to follow the children to wherever it was they slept. According to the law, a suitable area must be provided for child workers living on the premises, including proper meals and bedding. It was mentioned in more than one factory or apprentice law that some modicum of education must be provided, of which he had seen no sign of at Morris Mill. These children often toiled fourteen hours a day, regardless of age. Aidan made note of it all. He had already started writing a report to send to his father and grandfather.

As for Tessie, she purposely ignored him. How to make her talk? If she needed the money badly enough, she would tell him anything. Hopefully, that would include the truth. He would approach her again in a few days.

The steam whistle blew and the machines at last grew silent. If he came out of this with a hearing problem, Aidan would not be surprised. Or he could develop a lung ailment from all the bits of cotton floating through the air. The adult workers filed out, heading to their homes. Once they left, the children climbed out from under the machines and gravitated toward Rokesmith. What was he, a pied piper? More like a big brother, for the children all gazed up at him adoringly. Aidan followed them, staying well behind. They headed toward the cotton warehouse. Rokesmith lifted a cellar door, and the children climbed down the stairs into a pit of darkness. Hearing someone approaching, Aidan ducked out of sight, but his gaze remained on the open door.

“Rokesmith! Come get the pies,” a man barked. Rokesmith’s head popped up and he reached for the basket. The man closed the door and sauntered away. A cellar was not a proper dormitory, as spelled out in the laws.

Aidan marched toward the door, flung it open, and descended the rickety stairs. A collective gasp rose from the children. There were two lit candles sitting on a long table. It was hardly adequate lighting for this dismal crypt. The children sat around the table on rough-hewn benches, all clasping their pies with their grimy hands.

Rokesmith stood, a wary expression on his face. “Wot do ye want, Mr. Black, sir?” His accent was thick, and Aidan thought it counterfeit. It didn’t sound genuine.

“I’ve come to see your living conditions.” He took a pie from the basket, broke off a piece, and popped it in his mouth. After chewing it for about a minute, Aidan immediately spat it out. That wasn’t beef, pork, or mutton, and it damn well wasn’t chicken. The few vegetables swimming in it tasted old. It was mostly flour paste and mystery meat with a greasy crust. Not a proper pie at all. “What are you served for breakfast?”

“Wot do it matter?” Rokesmith answered with an insolent tone.

“It matters to me. Answer the question.”

“Gruel and water,” a little girl piped up. Aidan turned in the direction of the voice and the child gave him a sweet smile. Despite her unkempt appearance, she was a pretty wee thing with long, curly, golden hair. She waved at him, then shyly ducked her head. God save him from precocious brats.

“Lottie, hush now,” Rokesmith admonished gently.

Gruel: a thin, watery porridge to give the children energy, but a tasteless and bland diet nonetheless. And cheap. The food of the workhouse. It hardly constituted a proper meal. According to the law, boys and girls were to have separate sleeping areas. Not here. He glanced about the dim area, anger tearing through him when he saw that wooden pallets littered the floor, acting as beds. No blankets or pillows. A few of the children were obviously underage, including the girl who had spoken up. No child under the age of nine was to work in a factory, and those aged nine to thirteen were only to have a nine-hour day with an hour lunch break. Again, he had witnessed none of this. Multiple violations. It turned Aidan’s bile.

“Rokesmith, I want to speak to you outside.”

With a surly look on his face, the lad reluctantly followed him up the stairs. Hell, it was brighter out-of-doors than it was in that damned cellar prison.

He grasped the boy’s arm and pulled him around the corner to shield them from any prying eyes. “I want you to be completely honest with me. You don’t know me at all, but I am not the master. Not in any way.”

“I don’t know nuffin’.”

“I appreciate it, truly I do, but I can be trusted. Where do those disgusting pies come from?”

The lad cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “Why? Wot’s it to ye?”

“That pie isn’t fit to give a mongrel dog, that’s why. I want to help, but we must keep it between us. How often does the management inspect your living quarters?”

Rokesmith didn’t answer. Instead, he stared into Aidan’s eyes as if trying to ascertain if he could be trusted. “They don’t. Twice a year they scour it with lime. They feed us gruel for breakfast and lunch, and these pies for supper.”