of her, she was deeply engrossed in a sketch of the woman sitting at the machine directly in front of her. A shaft of golden light seeped in from the window overhead, illuminating soft tendrils of hair around the woman's face and turning her thin visage into a sheen of moisture on porcelain. Georgina wished she could capture the image, but she knew she wasn't skilled enough.
The foreman cleared his throat, and she gave him a preoccupied look. "I trust I'm not disturbing anything," she said vaguely before he could ask her to leave. "I'm waiting for my father to come out of a meeting. I shall be quiet as a mouse, I promise." She returned to her sketching without giving him a chance to reply.
He hesitated, nodded without speaking, and drifted toward the office door. If anyone were to question the boss's daughter, it would have to be the boss.
Georgina sketched a few more minutes before she became aware of a latent air of hostility shimmering in the overheated room. With the foreman out of the way, a few murmurs rose in far corners despite the constant clacking of the machines. The woman she was drawing threw her a look of annoyance, and she perceived a decided glare from the woman at the machine behind her.
She had never been an object of hostility before. Bewildered, Georgina tried to return to her work, but her hand was shaking. She gazed at it incredulously. Surely a few mutters and glares shouldn't affect her to this extent. Was she afraid?
Fear was a new experience. Wherever she had gone, wherever she was, she had relied on the people around her to see to her safety and comfort. Money provided the best hotels, the finest carriages, private railroad cars, and excellent guides as she roamed through Europe. At home she was always with parents or friends who looked after her. It had never occurred to her to be afraid of anything.
But the growing resentment she felt in this room made the hair rise up on the back of her neck.
Georgina didn't like the feeling. Laying her pencil down, she glared back at the woman she had been drawing. "If you object to my sketching, just say so," she commanded.
"And have you run to your daddy and complain? Not on your life." Tightening her lips, she returned to her sewing.
In that brief glance Georgina realized the woman wasn't much older than herself, and she drew a little confidence from that. "What would I complain about? It's your likeness, not his. I'm not a very good artist, but you looked so pretty in the sunlight I had to try. What I would really like is to take a photograph, but my father says the chemicals are too dangerous." She was chattering, she knew. She always chattered when she wished desperately to make an impression.
Her only reply was a skeptical look.
"Why don't you go dangle with your fancy feller, Miss Smarty-Pants?" a voice called out from somewhere within the chaos of machinery.
"Yeah, leave us working girls to our jobs before you get us in trouble," someone else finished for her.
A piece of bread crust came flying through the air, tangling in Georgina's elaborate coiffure. As she scrambled to pull it out, other small objects took flight in her direction. A shower of spools and screws and odd objects fell all around her, driving her to her feet, and the irate words grew louder and more daring.
"You'd better leave, miss," the pretty woman whispered quietly as Georgina stood in bewilderment at the center of the growing tempest.
Before she could retreat, the office door burst open, and her father and the foreman walked into the room. The sudden silence fooled no one, and George Hanover's gaze focused on his daughter. He didn't have to say anything. Georgina hurried to follow him out.
"Where's Blucher? You shouldn't be down here." He practically dragged her through the office, past his staring secretary.
"Mother needed him to run some errands. He'll be back shortly." Georgina resisted his pull. Admittedly, her introduction to the factory had been an unmitigated disaster, but she couldn't give up. This was the only hope for her future that she could see. "I want to learn about the factory, Papa. I'll start at the bottom and work up if necessary."
"That is very conscientious of you, my dear, but not in the least bit necessary." George pushed her through the front door and followed her out, glancing anxiously at the street