No copyright infringement intended. All characters belong to Stephanie Meyer. See end of chapter for notes. Beta'd by Michduran.
Bella willed herself not to look back at Edward as she entered her building, a small smile escaping at the thought that he wanted to see her again. That smile was quickly erased when she realized that it was after ten o'clock and the lights in the hall and stairways were already out. She let out a small sigh as she climbed the darkened stairway to the third floor and the rooms she shared with her parents. The smell of boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies filled her nose as the wooden stairs creaked under her feet.
Fishing her key out of her bag, she tried not to rattle the lock too badly and alarm her mother. The apartment was dimly lit by the dull glow of the fireplace embers and the moonlight that came through the apartment's sole window overlooking Delancey Street.
"Bella Mia? Is that you?" She heard her mother Renee call out from the bedroom.
"Yes Mama," She set her purse down and took off her hat, sticking the pin in the brim and setting in on its hook, "I hope I didn't wake you."
The sound of shuffling came from the bedroom, and Renee emerged wearing her nightgown and robe, her dark hair peppered with grey strands hanging loosely over her shoulders. She lit one of the oil lamps that sat on the little table set between her and Charlie's rocking chairs as Bella added a log to the fire, making the room glow with the light of false warmth.
"Of course, I waited for you," Renee scoffed as she moved towards the kitchen, "I have your supper set aside and left water on for you to wash."
"I can get it, Mama," Bella rushed to her mother's side and reached for her hands to still her from getting the food together. She rubbed them briskly. "You should be in bed; your hands are like ice."
"It is always so cold in here," Renee pulled them away and then laughed, "unless it is summer, and then it is boiling."
Bella smiled, thinking about the nights when she and her mother sat on the roof with other families from the building in a vain attempt to escape the brutal heat that built up during the summer months. The weather may have been uncomfortable, but the company of the other families that shared their building was always welcome. The Blacks, the McCarty's, the Uley's and the Quill's were always good company, as well as good friends. More than once the families had banded together to help one another through the tough times, as well as celebrating the good.
"Well, it's cold tonight, I heard talk of snow," Bella said, helping Renee sit at the table in the cane chair.
"So your father says. He said his knees are creaking."
Renee watched as Bella served herself some soup from the stove and took a chunk of bread from the bread box. She waited until Bella sat before asking.
"And this meeting tonight? What has happened?"
Bella took a deep breath. "We are striking."
She quickly took a spoonful of the soup, hoping her mother wouldn't argue with her, or worse begin crying or yelling. Renee was known to speak in rapid fire Italian at high volume when her ire was up. Bella prayed quickly that this was not one of those times.
"Oh Isabella," Renee said quietly. "Eat your soup," she instructed and then sat back observe as Bella did. Her dark eyes watching silently until Bella began to squirm
"Mama, things will never get better if we don't do this," Bella argued and Renee waived away her words.
"Yes, yes. I know this," she said impatiently, "but this doesn't help put food on our table."
She waved at the food that Bella had in front of her. She let out a long sad sigh before adding "I will take in more mending. Your father can find extra shifts."
"Mama…" Bella said sorrowfully.
"Ah no," Renee patted her hand and stood up slowly, "it is done. Now I go to sleep knowing you are home safe. Goodnight Bella Mia," Renee kissed her on her forehead and shuffled off to bed.
The soup that had smelled so inviting now made her feel sick. The bread felt like a lead weight in her stomach. She quickly finished what was before her and took her bowl and spoon to the sink. The water pump squeaked as she pumped out enough cold water to rinse them. It made her fingers ache.
She set her bowl and spoon in the cabinet above the sink, and moved to the chest in the corner to pull out her bed roll. A pile of thick woolen blankets made up her bed, a thin blanket on top and a quilt made by her grandmother in Ireland and a pillow with lace trim on the cover. She took the lamp with her into the hallway and quickly used the water closet they shared with the McCarty's, before locking herself and her mother in their flat.
She pulled off her shirtwaist and hung in neatly on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and used the water on the stove top and a flannel cloth to wash herself quickly, the warm water quickly cooling on her skin and making her shiver. Her skirt went on the back of the other chair and she pulled on her long white nightgown over her undergarments before she took the pins out of her hair and began brushing it out. She smiled as she thought of Alice and her outlandish idea of cutting her hair, if for no other reason than it would dry quicker after its weekly washing. Perhaps Alice had a good idea.
Bella blew out the lamp and climbed into her bed, her mind racing with thoughts about what would happen when the strike began. The nights events replayed over and over in her mind, but as she drifted off to sleep, she did so with the image of Edward Cullen's smile overriding everything else.
The next morning when Edward entered the sun filled dining room for breakfast, he found Carlisle alone, reading his morning paper, as the day maid, Angela, set out a plate of toast. The radiator ticked in the corner as it let off heat, competing with the Victrola that played the latest recording by George M. Cohan.
"Good morning," he said after he had poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the side board.
"Good morning Edward," Carlisle replied, setting his paper aside and turning his attention to his brother-in-law.
"Is Esme unwell?" Edward asked as he served himself ham and eggs and joined Carlisle at the table.
"Esme is in the kitchen," Carlisle told him. "She's standing over a pot of boiling water."
"Ah," Edward said and smiled, remembering the impassioned speech that Mary Alice Brandon had given them.
"Edward, why is Esme standing over a pot of boiling water? When I asked she wouldn't answer me," Carlisle looked truly mystified.
"A young woman we met last night described what it was like to work the steam presses at the Triangle Factory. I guess Esme is trying it out," Edward shrugged as he picked up the proper spoon to scoop up eggs. "They aren't allowed to speak, so I imagine that is why Esme couldn't tell you."
"Why on Earth…" Carlisle's words were drowned out when a clatter arose from behind the door that lead to the kitchen. Both Edward and Carlisle stood and rushed into the room to find the housekeeper, Mrs. Cope, mopping up water and a near hysterical Esme sitting on the floor, the front of her morning dress wet.
"Esme darling…" Carlisle rushed to kneel next to her, "did you burn yourself?"
"No," Esme sniffed her assurance, "the water mostly spilled on the stove top and the floor. Oh Carlisle, I can not stand it!" She turned into her husband's arms.
"When I think of those poor girls, and I couldn't last an hour! An hour Carlisle! I lifted the pot for about ten minutes, but then my arms just wouldn't do it. And then I stood there, the heat was unbearable! And you came in and I wanted to talk to you, but I couldn't! And then I tried to lift the pot again, but my arms gave out," Esme sobbed into Carlisle's shoulder.
"It's alright darling," Carlisle rubbed her back.
"No it's not alright," Esme snapped and stood up as quickly as her skirts allowed, not letting Carlisle help her to her feet. "Right now, less than five miles from here, there is a young woman who is working a steam press. She will be standing there for the next twelve hours doing this, and for what? Two dollars a day! That's all she'll get for hour upon hour of back breaking work."
"Actually Esme, she won't be," Edward reminded her. "She and her co-workers are going on strike."
"Yes they are," Esme said and used the handkerchief Carlisle handed her to wipe her tears. "And I am going to find a way to help them," Esme swept out of the kitchen in a whirl of skirts and outrage.
"What exactly was she doing again?" Carlisle asked Edward.
"Stand over the pot of boiling water, lift it over her head every thirty seconds for thirteen hours," Edward informed him. "No talking, one bathroom break, fifteen minutes for lunch."
"Hmm," Carlisle said with a grimace on his face. He leaned over and picked up the cast iron pot from the floor. Lifting it to shoulder height he then sat it on the stove and looked at it as if it would give him answers. "Thirteen hours you say?"
"Hmm," Edward hummed with a nod and Carlisle sighed sadly.
"I have a feeling your sister has found a new crusade to champion," Carlisle said as they returned to the dining room.
"She's not the only one, I'm afraid," Edward confessed. "These young women need to be supported in this Carlisle. It's not right how they are treated."
"You don't have to argue their case to me Edward," Carlisle assured him, "I know what the conditions are like in these factories, in the tenements where they live. Things are improving slowly, but they are improving. Look here," he pointed to the page of the New York Times that he had been reading, "infectious diseases are decreasing and the spread of Tuberculosis has gone down to just below three per one thousand. Measles, mumps, rubella, all down."
Edward skimmed the article and took in the figures just released from the year before.
"I know that conditions are bad, but they are getting better," Carlisle argued.
"And hopefully this strike will improve them even more," Edward sipped his coffee.
"Yes, hopefully. But there are groups that will use this strike to put forth their own agendas. The Ladies Garment Workers Union is filled with socialists and communists from Eastern Europe," he shook his head sadly, "their ideas are not popular here."
"Hmm," Edward hummed in agreement. He'd honestly never followed any of the news about the Unions before. The only reason he'd gone to the meeting was to give Carlisle peace of mind that Esme and Rosalie would be safe. But hearing the speakers and meeting Alice and most especially, Bella, had made him interested, gave him a face to put on the struggle.
"I worry for these poor girls Edward," Carlisle said as he tapped his index finger on the table, "not only for the conditions that they currently are in, but for the factions that will use this strike to put forth their radical agendas. There are too many groups that will use them to meet their own ends."
Edward picked up the paper and as he ate, read the report of the previous evening's meeting. His mind filled with the images of last night, and he wondered how, if in any way, he could help.
"I'm off to the hospital," Carlisle stood and excused himself.
Edward looked to the clock on the mantle and realized he had to be leaving for a lecture as well. He took a piece of toast with him as he headed out to get to class. Banner, their butler, was waiting at the door with Edward's coat and satchel and helped Edward get situated as he headed out for the day.
I'd like to thank everyone for the support in the Age of Edward contest. And huge thanks to my beta and Durannie BFF MichDuran. Without her help and encouragement, I never would have written this.