"Master Millar, you know I am your man. I'm doing my best. But the men aren't happy and they're not listening. They want better conditions, Master. They're talking strike." John Lachey held his hat in his hands and hoped that the Master would give him some kind of concession or offering to take back to his disgruntled mill workers before the threat of strike action became a reality.
But Master Millar did not become a wealthy and powerful man by being soft. As the epitome of the rising middle class, Hamilton Millar had reached his position by being smart, opportunistic and ruthless. He saw good business as being able to identify a need and supply it. Hence, his cotton mill was one of the busiest in the north of England. To this end, it was his practice to find out the needs and desires of those he did business with and then use them to his advantage.
So as his lead man in the mill sat there informing him of the increasing agitation of his workers, Hamilton was considering how best to handle the situation. "Tell the men that you have spoken with me and I have listened." He sat back in his leather bound arm chair, his long, thick fingers tapping the tempo of his thoughts on the side rests. "Tell them that I am working on a range of improvements for them designed to bring some comfort and improvement to their lot. Tell them that the welfare of my workers is important to me. You need to pacify the men, John, until I can work out how best to deal with this."
"Master, the men don't want words no more. They want action. They are talking big, Master, and I have nothing to give them by way of answers. With all due respect, Master, nice words aren't going to matter a fig to them. They want some meat for their meal. They want rest breaks. They want more coin, Master."
Instead of responding to his visitor, Hamilton rang for his head steward. Franklin appeared at the door formally. "Master?"
"Bring my wife here, please," Hamilton ordered.
John Lachey moved uncomfortably in his chair. "Master Millar... it is not necessary... I do not need..."
"Stop." Hamilton's voice was low but carried the authority of a judge's gavel striking the bench. "You are my man. You represent my interests to my workers. In return, I will look after you as promised. As my wife is an extension of me, so too is it her duty to take care of you." As he completed this statement, Vivian Millar entered in a simple green gown, her blond hair piled into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and a jade pendant hanging at the base of her throat by a thin black velvet ribbon.
"My Lord?" She inquired of her husband before her eyes rested on John Lachey, sitting with his cap placed in his lap to hide the stiff response to the woman who had just entered. She smiled warmly and approached him. "So pleased to see you again, Mr Lachey."
"My pet, John is taking care of our interests with the workers, but they are somewhat discontent right now." Hamilton looked at his obedient wife and explained, "I think we need to show John how much his efforts are appreciated, and that we understand his needs."