Maggie forced away the frown blooming behind the handkerchief. Experience had taught her the best way to get people to do as you wished—be nice. “I am curious.” She made her voice sweet, innocent. “Please.”
“Fine.” He walked through the rows at a terrible speed, talking as quickly as he walked. “Water is crucial in the creation of cotton. It’s why we’re right on the Thames. This is a spinning mule. Finest of its kind. The Luddites tried to destroy it back in ’12, but I hired a group of men to protect my factories here and in Manchester. More than one Luddite body was broken that night. But the mules never even suffered a dent. Those were dark times I hope you know. I didn’t like what we had to do, but we did it to stay in business.”
She nodded. Tobias had said cotton was a nasty business, and despite the light flooding in from the high windows, she could see the darkness around the edges. “Are those children working that machine?”
“I need small hands, and their families need food.”
Sharp needles, crunching metal, moving gears. “It cannot be safe for them. Have any been hurt?”
He grunted. “Would you like to see the final product? The fabric will be more to your liking than the machines. Follow me.”
Maggie bristled. She needed to know about fabric, yes, but she also needed to know about the machines and about the people who worked them. She needed to know every detail so she could best help Tobias.
Mr. Blake strode up a staircase at the back of the factory, and she followed him. At the top of the stairs was a door, and through the door—a forest. From corner to corner, tall bolts of fabric nestled one next to the other like ancient trees. “Are … are they finished?”
“No. I’ll send them to another location to be dyed or block printed.”
Maggie ran her fingers down one bolt.
Mr. Blake leaned in and pointed. “The yarns that pass vertically are called the warp.” He ran his finger across the bolt’s width. “And those that run horizontally are the weft.”
“Warp and weft.” She put the words to memory. “Do you know everything about every aspect of your trade, Mr. Blake?”
He nodded. “It’s only wise.”
“Yes, I see. But there are so many moving parts—several factories, the making of the cotton, the dying of it, hiring laborers. Do you do it all yourself?”
“I did once. But when Blake Textiles grew too large, I hired a partner.”
At least she was better at fishing for information than she was at warning others she had information they did not want her to have. Gathering secrets had always been easier than using them. “What did you look for? In a partner?”
He touched the side of his nose and grinned. “Connections. Ruthlessness.”
Hm. Connections sounded fine, necessary even, but ruthlessness? No thank you. “Why do you think you’ve been so successful?”
“Efficiency. I embrace every new device that can speed production along and weed out anything or anyone that slows it down. The less we come to rely on humans the more efficient the process grows.”
“Efficient.” Each bolt nestled next to another just like it. “Do you think you’ve lost something, though?”
“Lost something? What would I have lost?”
She thought of the baby blankets she brought to the women in the village where she used to live. “When a woman knits a blanket, each one is different from the last, unique.”
“What use is that?”
“I don’t know. It makes the final product beautiful I think.”
“Hmph. Efficiency is beautiful.”
“Do you know the artist Robert Lockham?”
“Heard of him. Why?”
“I think the two of you might rub along famously.” She ached to lecture Mr. Blake as she’d lectured Lockham, but she needed to stay on good terms with her father-in-law. She bit her tongue and smiled instead. “And Henrietta’s shop uses your fabrics?”
He scowled. “Less and less.”
Interesting. “Oh? Why?”
