Defiant Rose (37 page)

His grin slowly faded as he found the correct file and leafed through, hearing Morris’s light knock at the door. There was a problem with their mill investments—Morris felt they should be making much more money from the manufacture of clothing, men’s shirts in particular. Morris wanted to look into the matter before the last quarter and decide on a course of action to increase profits.

“Michael. It’s so good to have you back.”

Michael rose and shook the man’s hand, giving William Morris a warm smile in return. Middle-aged with a rotund appearance and the amiable goodwill of a man who’d never been without money, Morris had been instrumental in Michael’s career and had always possessed a keen sense for business.

“Thank you. You know, it’s odd. I’ve been gone five months, and yet everything is still the same. Stocks are down, bonds are up. Investments are questionable and mortgages rising. I feel as if I’d never left.”

Morris chuckled and accepted a green leather seat. “That’s the business, my boy. I hate to burden you with this since you’ve just returned, but our dividends on the textile funds are rapidly decreasing. You’re the best comptroller I know, Wharton, and I have a great deal of respect for your ability to turn a losing investment into a profitable one. What do you think?”

Michael opened the file and displayed the documents within. “I’ve gone through this, and it seems that there’s a high turnover and low productivity from the work force. Do you have any idea what could be contributing to that?”

Morris’s smile vanished, and he assumed a look of disgust. “The mills are located in Kensington. As you know, it’s a predominantly Irish ward, and the workers possess all of the undesirable qualities of that group. They are feckless and lazy, they brawl and drink too much, then they are too tired to work. With the lack of jobs and the sheer number of immigrants vying for the same work, you’d think they’d show some dedication, but they don’t.”

Michael stared at the man, feeling vaguely uncomfortable with his assessment and his obvious belief that Michael would be in agreement. “Maybe there are other reasons,” he began, glancing down at the papers. “I see the working hours are from seven in the morning until after six at night. Perhaps that is contributing to fatigue.”

William shrugged. “They are paid by the piece, so it is really up to the worker as to what hours he keeps.”

“I think we may have to drive out there.” Michael closed the file and stood up, reaching for his coat. “If you want to get to the root of the problem, I think we need to see the situation firsthand. Any changes we make without full knowledge of the working environment will be money out of our pockets, perhaps spent uselessly.”

“You’re right.” Morris sighed and got to his feet. “I suppose we have no other choice.”

Michael’s smile was grim as they started for the door. The Irish wards were dangerous and unsightly. It wasn’t a place he would have liked to seek out, either, but one thing he’d learned from Carney’s: it was a capital mistake to make judgments without all the facts.

The southside tenements looked drearier than he’d remembered. Michael gazed out the window of his fine carriage, appalled at the shabby appearance of the brick rowhouses and alleyways that were built just a short time ago. Although it was autumn, the remnants of summer flowers struggled to bloom, and laundry, strung from one window to the next, bore constant discoloration from the endless chimneys. Irish immigrants flooded the wards, their thick brogues ringing out through the streets. Children chased a barking dog as it ran down the road with a stolen piece of meat, while the shrill voices of women echoed with the cries of the little ones.

The carriage rolled to a halt before a large brick building, and Michael disembarked with Morris, who stared disapprovingly at the humble houses. “Filthy, aren’t they? You’d think they could get rid of this everlasting soot. Overcrowding…it’s that damned Catholicism.”

“It might also be starvation,” Michael replied dryly. “This was supposed to be the land of opportunity.”

Morris shrugged, and together they entered the manufacturing shop, newly appalled at the sight which met their eyes.

It was no more than a sweatshop. Michael saw row after row of men cutting out cloth and marking the spotless linen with chalk. Then came rows of work-weary women, women who pushed the sewing treadles endlessly, running cloth after cloth through the pounding needle, never seeing the completion of their job. Lastly, children sat around them sewing buttons and finishing off trimmings, children as young as seven and eight. They looked as weary as their mothers and as hopeless as their fathers. They stared unquestioningly at the two polished gentlemen, their fingers never leaving their work.

“Where is Bryson? I thought he was running this shop.” Michael coughed as the thick air choked him and his lungs filled with the cotton fibers and dust from the endless manufacturing. He started to take off his coat but was instantly chilled. It was then that he noticed the women were bundled in thick shawls and rags, while the children were hobbled in blankets. One of the women stared up at him, her face thin and gaunt, her eyes without luster. Recognition tugged at him, and he suddenly recalled who she was. The Widow MacFarland’s daughter. He’d gotten her this position in order to pay back the bank note. My God, she had been young and pretty then, just a few short months ago….

“I’m here, sir.” A stout little man with a good overcoat and a cane approached them, doffing his hat at the sight of the two men. “Mr. Morris, I haven’t seen you in some time. And this is Mr. Wharton?”

Michael inclined his head, acknowledging the man, then indicated the shop. “I notice the conditions here are disgraceful. Is there reason for this?”

Bryson looked from Michael to William, then back again as if the banker had lost his mind. “Shall we talk in my office, sir?” He indicated a small alcove beyond the workers’ hearing.

William and Michael joined him, passing the shivering children and the empty glances of the men and women. Morris shook his head while Michael grew more furious with each passing step. Even the lighting was inadequate, and he wondered how any of them could even see what they were sewing. He glanced back at the widow’s daughter and felt a surge of guilt.

Bryson’s office was clean and well furnished. Michael glanced curiously at the good leather chairs, the unscarred desk, the pictures adorning the walls. A good fire burned in the stove, and the room was comfortably warm. If he had any doubts as to who was skimming the company profits, one glance around him helped to identify the source.

The door had barely closed when Michael turned on Bryson in outrage. “We are in your office now. Would you mind explaining what is going on here? Where is the heat? Why do they all look so tired? And the children! You can’t possibly think we can keep these people under these conditions, do you?”

Bryson sat in his chair and eyed Michael speculatively. “You wanted to make money, sir, did you not?” He shoved a thick ledger book at the banker. “I made it for you. Take a look at the figures.”

“I’ve seen them.” Michael refused to open the book but stared the man down. “Actually, that’s the reason for our visit. Profits are down, due to loss of productivity and high turnover. After seeing these conditions, I’m not at all surprised.”

Morris said nothing but fingered the book, softly turning the pages. Bryson turned a bright shade of red.

“It has naught to do with me, sir! It’s these damned immigrants! You’ve said it yourself in the past, I’ve heard tell. These Irish don’t want to work. They are lazy and feckless. Give them a jar of whiskey and a bottle of beer, and they’re happy. Give them work, and they cry and complain. They expect to get something for nothing.”

Michael winced, stung by his own words. He remembered saying something very much like that once, and it sounded even worse to hear it repeated now. Glancing out at the shop, he saw a corner filled with rags that was obviously home to several rats. He shuddered, then turned back to the two men.

“I know I’ve been less than understanding of the workers’ plight. However, it makes good business sense to me to reduce their work load and make their lives more enjoyable. People who are happy work longer and harder and are more motivated than those who feel oppressed. I know this is a radical idea, but I think if we try to increase their profits and improve their working conditions, we will see an increase in productivity.”

Morris looked thoughtful while Bryson appeared astonished. “Are you mad, sir. Productivity! These people ought to be grateful they have any job at all! Do you know how many women we turn away each day, looking for work? So what if there’s turnover! We have more than enough of these louts to replace them. Look outside, man!”

“I am more than aware of the lack of work,” Michael said, seething. “And of the abundance of cheap labor. However, that is no excuse to exploit a fellow man just in the name of profit! Especially when we can achieve the same goal with a more humane approach.”

“Is that right?” Bryson turned a reddened eye toward Morris. “And do you think the same, sir? If so, I can take my leave. I’ve been with this shop for five years now, and I was head sewer in the ward long before that. I run not only the shop but half a dozen houses where the women take in extra work on their own time. If you think it’s an easy task, getting these men in here six days a week, then you have another thought coming!”

“Actually, I’m in agreement with anything that will increase profits.” Morris closed the ledger book and turned toward Michael with a sharp glance. “Though the change in you, Michael, astonishes me. One year ago you would have agreed that this shop was commonplace. Do you think you have a better idea on how to run it?”

Michael nodded, ignoring Bryson’s indignant expression. “I will have to look into it more carefully, but my instincts tell me that this is no way to get the best out of people. I’ve had a recent stint as a hands-on manager and learned that the hard way. Give me one month to straighten out the shop, and if we aren’t seeing an improvement, then I will defer to Mr. Bryson.”

Morris smiled, a smooth, catlike grin. “Is that agreeable to you, Bryson?”

“It is not.” The supervisor scowled, his ruddy face deepening in color. “If Mr. Wharton thinks he knows more about it than me, let him find someone else to run the place. Let him chase after these workmen when they don’t show up and drag them out of the local taproom. Let him get after these urchins who want nothing more than to play, or their mothers who do naught but complain all day. I’ve had it, through and through.”

Michael smiled, but there was no mirth in his eyes. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Mr. Bryson. In order for my plan to work, I don’t think he can be a part of it. It is up to you, William. We can go on as is, losing money while Bryson furnishes his office with our profits, or we can reinvest our funds to educate and motivate the work force.”

Morris smiled, then extended a hand to Michael. “I must say, Wharton, your idea intrigues me. And I would like to see that turnover figure cut. It costs quite a bit of money to train these people, only to have them leave. If we could prevent that from happening, I think our bottom line would be much healthier.”

Furious, Bryson picked up his polished top hat and cane. “You will regret this, sir. When you can’t get these scoundrels to pick up a needle, you’ll come calling for old Phipps Bryson, damned if you won’t.”

He stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him. Morris fingered the shiny desk and grinned. “I suppose he’ll come back for these things. Do you have a replacement in mind?”

Michael nodded. “There’s a man by the name of Sean O’Casey that lives just north of this ward. He is a tailor by trade. My father thought very highly of him. I’ll stop by to see him and, with luck, persuade him to take the job. He has very enlightened views on managing people. Odd, but a few years ago I thought him every kind of fool, yet his mills are outproducing everything in the area.”

“Then he may not take the job,” Morris pointed out.

Michael nodded. “If not, I think he can recommend someone. Either way, we’ll be much better off than we are now. Once we improve the conditions, increase pay, and motivate these people, we should see our production rise.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, boy. Although I have some doubts, what you are saying makes sense. We’ll give your way a month, Michael.”

“Are you serious about this?” Rosemary stared in dismay at the gaudy sheets of paper printed with delicate flowers, angels, and clouds. Clara handed her a pair of scissors and a paper book.

“This is apparently the rage among young ladies. I had it from Mrs. Wharton herself,” Clara said primly.

Rosemary stared at the garish-looking figures, then at the empty sheets of paper. “I am supposed to cut these figures out—”

“Scrap,” Clara interrupted. “They’re called scrap.”

“And paste them into this book.” Rosemary gestured to the large album.

“That’s what Mrs. Wharton says. She says young ladies make these scrapbooks for their children, to keep as heirlooms. She has several that she’s made for her own family, and she assures me that a lady of breeding occupies her time in such matters.”

Rosemary sighed and picked up the scissors. “I spent yesterday doing needlepoint until she finally realized that I have no taste or talent for embroidered roses or any other such rubbish. Then it was making necklaces out of human hair….”

“Yours looks quite nice. It must be the color.”