Harlequin Historical December 2020--Box Set 1 of 2 by Louise Allen

Author:Louise Allen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2020-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next morning found Raphael standing outside the factory in Mundy Street. Several foundries and a large brick-making yard stood close by and beyond them were rows of workers’ cottages. Carts laden with raw materials filled the road and Raphael watched them a moment before heading inside the factory, where he approached a clerk who sat at a large desk.

‘Yes?’ The clerk rose to his feet. ‘May I assist you?’

‘Possibly,’ Raphael replied. ‘I’d like to know how swiftly this establishment could provide me with coats for the men who work in my offices in the city.’

‘Would that be many coats, sir?’

‘Three dozen? Maybe four?’

The clerk was all ears. ‘In that case, I’ll take you to Mr Turnbull right away. Follow me.’

Raphael found himself being led up some stairs to a huge open workroom, at the far end of which men were cutting out pieces of fabric with large shears, while nearer to him were rows of women stitching intently, never looking up from their work tables. Their concentration, he noted, was aided by the presence of three burly overseers who walked up and down the aisles, watching to make sure no one dared to pause in their labour.

A rather stout man with a florid face and small, suspicious eyes came marching towards him. ‘I’m Elias Turnbull,’ he said. ‘Manager of this place. What’s your business?’

Turnbull was as rough and ready in his speech as he was in his appearance. The clerk who’d accompanied Raphael spoke to him with nervous eagerness. ‘Mr Turnbull, this gentleman is enquiring if he can place an order for quite a number of gentlemen’s coats.’

Turnbull’s expression softened, but only slightly. ‘Depends when you want them, of course. And what quality of cloth and so forth. Any order could take upwards of three to four weeks, since we’re mighty busy here. Though I suppose I could get these sluts to work a little harder.’

Raphael looked at the women he was pointing to, bent over their sewing tables while those men tramped up and down making sure they never rested. The sluts. He guessed they’d be paid pennies for long hours of working their fingers to the bone. They were absolutely silent now, but as he’d come in he’d heard them whispering to each other—until the overseers marched up to them and brusquely told them to get on with their work.

Which they did. But for just those few moments, he’d noted their speech.

He said casually to Turnbull, ‘I see you have some French women working for you. So they come knocking at your door, do they? For work like this?’

The man’s expression changed instantly. ‘What business is it of yours?’

‘None whatsoever. I was merely commenting on the fact that you employ foreigners.’

‘And they’re glad of the work! These Frenchies, they spend their last coins on their passage to England. Then they reach London with no money and nowhere to live and they’re mighty grateful, you understand?’

‘Is that why you feel justified in offering them starvation wages?’

The hovering clerk shrank back in dismay.

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