She didn’t start with the request, but with an offer of help to fix dinner. Mrs. Bedlow was always grateful for an extra hand in the kitchen, even though the house was now down to only twenty girls.

“You give me more than the fortnight, Mrs. Bedlow, and I am obliged,” she said, once the cabbage had been chopped and the bread sliced.

“You were near to death, Lyddie. I’m not without heart.”

“Indeed not.” Lyddie smiled as warmly as she knew how. “You been more’n good to me and mine. Which is why I dare—”

“It won’t do, you know. I can’t keep her on indefinitely.”

“But if she was a doffer—”

“She’s hardly more than a baby.”

“She’s small, but she’s a worker. Didn’t she nurse me, ey?”

“She pulled you through. I wouldn’t have warranted it—”

“Could you ask the agent for me? Just until I got things set with my brother? All I want to do is take her home. It wouldn’t be for long, I swear. Meantime, I’ve not the heart to set her out with strangers.”

Mrs. Bedlow was weakening. Lyddie could read it in the sag of her face. She pressed on, eagerly. “It won’t be more than a few weeks, and I’d pay extra, I would. I know it’s hard for you with only twenty girls here regular—”

“I’ll speak to the agent, but I can’t promise you—”

“I know, I know. But if you’ll just ask for me. She’s a fine little worker, and so eager to make good.”

“I can’t promise anything—”

“Would you go now and ask?”

“Now? I’m in the middle of fixing dinner—”

“I’ll finish for you. Please. So I can take her over when I go back to work tomorrow …”

It was arranged. Lyddie suspected that Mrs. Bedlow had added a few years and several pounds in her description of Rachel to the agent, but a skeptical look was all she got from the overseer on the spinning floor when she presented Rachel for work the next morning. And Rachel looked so bright and eager and smiled so sweetly that even the skeptical look melted, and she was sent, skipping down the aisle, to meet the other doffers under the care of a kindly middle-aged spinner.

Slowly, Lyddie climbed the flight of stairs to the weaving room. Her worry for Rachel had pushed aside, for a time, her own fears of seeing Mr. Marsden again. She didn’t dare look in his direction, but went straight to her looms where Brigid was already at work, cleaning and oiling.