Page 25 of Real Earls Break the Rules

Large windows illuminated the factory, but each casement was sealed closed. The hot, steamy air was filled with dust and lint that soon covered Brandon’s Hessians and clothing and made it difficult to breathe. “The air is stifling. Why aren’t the windows open?”

“The heat and moisture keep the cotton threads from breaking. You grow accustomed to it, my lord.”

Brandon doubted that. Sweat rolled off his brow as he followed the factory supervisor up a wooden staircase to the second floor of the factory.

“Here we are,” Higgins said. “This is one of the power looms that’s giving us difficulty.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“The shuttle gets stuck and stops working.”

“Can’t it be fixed?”

“We’ve tried. Each time the repairs are made, another part malfunctions,” Higgins said. “Others have had similar problems, but thankfully only one at a time.”

Brandon frowned. It didn’t make sense to him. Why would parts keep breaking randomly? He already knew the numbers from studying the reports. Even with only one power loom inoperable, productivity suffered.

“I want a report on all the broken-down equipment and the names of the workers completing the repairs,” Brandon said.

“There have been many repair efforts—”

“I want it by the end of the week.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Brandon turned away and studied the factory floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a child working—a young, barefoot boy climbing high upon a spinning machine to replace bobbins. He looked about more closely, not at the machines this time, but at the workers.

His workers now.

He spotted girls walking up and down long aisles, brushing lint from the machines. Others watched the whirling spools for breaks in cotton threads. One girl, who looked to be close to ten summers, mended a break in the thread by quickly tying the ends together as the machine kept spinning dangerously close to her fingers. All the tasks were hazardous, and he imagined it required the children to be on their feet for hours at a time.

Brandon’s brows drew together. He knew child labor was a frequent practice in English factories, but that didn’t mean he was comfortable with it in his own mill.

He walked the rows, aware of Higgins trailing behind. More workers rushed around busily seeing to other equipment and tasks—men, women, and more children. Some looked as young as seven years old; others appeared in their early teens. All had one physical trait in common—gray complexions from working long hours in the mill without ever seeing the sun.

“You use child labor?” Brandon asked.

The supervisor’s chest puffed with self-importance. “The families are happy for the extra income. Our productivity speaks for itself.”

Clearly Higgins believed Brandon was pleased.

“Why so many children?”

“We’re teaching them a trade. They’re happy to be here.”

From the looks on their faces, they appeared far from happy.

“Most are from the local orphanage and are apprenticed for seven years.”

Brandon spun to face the man. “Apprenticed? You mean we don’t pay them?”

“Pay?” Higgins brows drew downward in confusion. “They’re learning a trade for free.”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed. The work was dirty and dangerous. If he had a child, he’d cut off a limb before allowing him or her to work in such a place.

But that was the difference, wasn’t it?

No matter how much money he needed, his life was luxurious next to these people. “I want a second report on the number of children that are employed in the mill.”