The weavers’ room at Ponden was one of the things that kept the substantial house from being completely gentrified, despite the best efforts of the Heatons to make themselves gentlemen. The lofty room, lined on two sides by long windows, was made all the brighter by the light reflected off the snow that surrounded them. This room had been added along with the workshop and office below some forty years earlier to join the small farmhouse to the peat loft as a place of industry in the heart of their home. The wool was spun and carded down at the mill at the bottom of the hill, but it was here that the looms continued to click and clack in a regular percussion, and the best quality cloth was spun. Those great machines that could fill a building were on the rise, and as Charlotte stood by the door and watched the weavers work, she wondered how much longer such craftsmanship could withstand the emergence of the power loom—for a little while longer, at least, she hoped. The relentless march of the automated world frightened her as much as it thrilled her. So much more was possible now: so much more production, more trade, more investment. The tighter the globe was wound in cotton, the smaller it became, feeling as if even its furthest corners could be within reach for anyone with a mind to travel. And with that, the waste also increased—the by-products that were tossed away once they were all used up, amongst them the sickly impoverished children just like the Top Withens child.

“Mr. Riordan”—Charlotte smiled at the young man who worked one loom—“your work is very fine.”

“Thank you, miss,” he replied without taking his eyes off the work.

“Robert,” Charlotte asked her host, “I wonder if it would be acceptable if I took a minute of Mr. Riordan’s time to ask him for some information about my . . . er . . . interest?”

“As long as Pa doesn’t catch him standing still and he meets his quota for the day, then a minute or so is yours entirely,” Robert said, nodding to the other weavers. “Now, then, Branwell, let’s see if we can locate that tea I promised you, shall we?”

“Marvellous,” Branwell said, winking at Charlotte. “And perhaps a dash of brandy against the cold?”

“How may I help you, miss?” Eamon asked warily, stepping away from the loom, his large hands clasped anxiously.

“What part of Ireland are you from?” Charlotte asked him. He dropped his gaze, dismayed, no doubt fearing the scorn that followed his countrymen wherever they went. “My own father was born in Ireland, in Annaclone, County Down,” Charlotte added.