Young Writers Society

Lizzie

****Part Two****

“I do not understand a word he is saying,” I whispered to my father. We were being taken on a tour of my father’s factory by the manager, Henry Hopkins. He wasn’t an unattractive man, but I couldn’t possible show my fondness of him. His persistent ramblings about the mill made him seem proud of himself. He stood straight with a smug smile across his face. He walked with a certain grace that wasn’t exactly flawless, but ordinary.

“Just smile and nod,” my father muttered back to me.

“The river just out there,” Henry said, pointing out the window. “It is considered a mill pond, used to power our machines. The water wheel you see there, spinning about; the flow of the river turns the wheel when it catches the flashboards, turning a chain of gears, pulleys, shafts, and belts connected to the machines on all the floors. The wheel is the power center of the mill.”

I stood beside my father as we traveled through the tight corridors and stuffy rooms. Prudence and I would stand close together while we were stopped, staying quiet and looking where Henry would point, letting the men lead us.

I rocked back on my heels, admiring our tour guide. Whenever he would glance at me while he spoke, I would flash him a coy smile. As if we were having a conversation with our eyes, he’d life his brow just slightly higher when he noticed my smile. He took my smile as a polite “hello” or “good day.” Our silent communication made my heart fall deep into the chasm of my abdomen. At the time, I couldn’t be sure if such a feeling was good, or devastatingly bad.

“Now, now, Mr. Hopkins,” my father bellowed. “Let us not bore out two young women here.” My father gestured for us to turn and walk back down the hall the way we came.

As they began to walk, I stared out the window some more. The constant sloshing of the river against the water wheel caught my attention. I looked around the mill at the surrounding lands, letting the cool breeze kiss my soft cheeks. The heap of grass was surrounded by fields of wildflowers and trees.

Such an isolated and ignored land had beauty everywhere I turned. The only culmination that could come to mind at the time was that the people that came to such a charming place were the problem, not the land.

I turned away from the wondrous sight, but the men had already left the hall. I quickly followed the hall back the way we’d came, but I couldn’t here any voices of the roar of the machines.

When I came to the end of the corridor, I decided to try a few doors around me. One door led only to a broom closet. Another door led to something more astonishing. It must have been one of the looming rooms. Machines that I had known to be looms were lined up in columns and rows, five looms in six rows. They were not running and the room was completely baron of touch. Dust lined the floors along with the machines.

I ran my finger along the side of one machine and picked up a layer of the filthy soot. As I began to walk away from the loom, I felt a slight tug of my dress. I turned to see what it had caught, but turning only made the rip worse. I was tightly wound close to the machine.

“What a predicament,” I said sarcastically to myself, knowing that the damsel in distress gag was horridly overrated.

I took a hold of the satin of my dress that was caught in a crevice of the loom and began to pull. When I was finally free, I lost my balance and flung back through the air to my back. I didn’t reach the floor, however.

“Oh,” I said breathlessly.

I felt the pressure on my back of being cradled like a child. I looked up to see it was that was holding me, only to be shocked that it was a young stranger with handsome unambiguous features.

“You should watch you step around here,” the young man said to me, a complacent smile on his face. “It can be rather dangerous to not only you, but for everyone around you to wear such a voluptuous gown,” he continued, gesturing to my Mantua.

“Excuse me!” I blurted out, squirming and twisting my way out of his clutch. “You must work on your manners, young sir.” I said, attempting to stay calm to try and make my point. “Touching a woman in such a manner is strictly frowned upon and not gentleman like,” I said, searching for the right words.

“Gentleman like?” he repeated, questioning my intelligence.

I scoffed and turned away from him. “You’d think a man would be gallant, noble,” I paused in thought. I could hear the chuckle that the man was suppressing. “Honorable!” I spat.

He couldn’t hold it in any longer. He burst into a deep and true laughter. Doubling over and clenching his belly, he shook with amusement. The boy had dark brown hair that curled towards the ends. He was incredibly taller than I was and awfully majestic. Underneath his thin shirt, it was quite obvious that he was brawny and the way he rolled up his sleeves to his upper arm proved that he was proud of such a build.

Clearing my throat, catching his attention again, I asked, “What is your name, young sir?”

“Jeremiah, Jeremiah Thompson.” He outstretched his hand towards me, expecting me to shake it. I stared at his palm curiously. It was scraped and scarred.

“Were you mauled?” I blatantly asked. He instantly pulled his hand back, looking away embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Thompson, sir,” I said shyly. “That was rude.”

The awkward pause between us grew stronger as the seconds ticked by.

“What is your name?” he asked apprehensively.

I pulled at my fingers behind my back nervously. I had never felt such a fluttering feeling within me, nor have I ever spoken to a gentleman without a chaperon. It was just unheard of in England.

He raised his brow when I didn’t answer. This slight change in expression made him look older, wiser. Such a change brought years of experience into his eyes that made my heart begin to pound within my chest.

“Elizabeth,” I finally said. Then thinking about it for a moment, I said, “Lizzie Lamport.”

I had never cherished my name; I preferred Lizzie for shirt. Elizabeth was my mother’s name and due to resemblance, my name reminded everyone, especially my father, of her. And seeing the sadness in their eyes at my own name; there was no questioning my favor of a shorter name.

Jeremiah’s eyes grew with recognition and he stepped away from me, deeper into the abandoned room. “My apologies, Miss Lamport. I should have known you weren’t a worker here.” He looked down at my gown again.

I followed his gaze to my dress. It was an expensive gown that my father bought for my as a bride to move to our new home. It was lined with light pink lace and its bodice opened in the front, unlike most corsets. The skirt flowed to the floor and was a soft rose color. It was beautiful, even with the newly torn rip down the side.

“Please,” I said softly. “Do call me Lizzie. I will not tell my father of our small tiff here today. Do not worry of such things.” I had no idea why I spoke so formal to Jeremiah. It seemed the proper thing to do at the time.

His lips pulled up in a crooked smile that sent my heart fluttering. “Thank you, Lizzie.” My name rolled off his tongue so gently, so smoothly, as if my name was made to be spoken by his angelic lips alone.

I smiled at my new friend and turned to leave the room. “Do make an effort on you manners, Mr. Thompson.” I teased as I left the room.

Later, I had wondered back to my father in Mr. Hopkins’ office. They hadn’t noticed my disappearance, or didn’t make any recognition that I had returned to them. Anthony was signing a contract with the manager and my father was reading over his shoulder. Henry sat at his desk with a large smile across his face and his hands folded, fingers entwined. Prudence, to no surprise, was standing in the corner, observing.

I took my place next to her. She smiled at me, and I replied with one as well. Her eyes traveled to the tear in my dress, and then she looked back at me with wide brown eyes. My smile grew as the memory of my adventure to the abandoned looming room flashed through my mind. I wanted to tell her of my experience with Jeremiah, but something inside told me not to. Something that overpowered my mind and body. Something so potent, I could not deny its feelings.