Chapter 40
Margaret left her charge guarded by the servants, with an admonition that no one else outside of the household was to be admitted. She saw threats everywhere. Even a simple visit by the vicar brought with it intrusions upon the secrets that they had been keeping.
Once Aaron had returned and was bandaged up, Sir Timothy and Martin Craig had sat him down in the office to glean every detail of the night’s misadventure. They had allowed Margaret to sit in on the discussion, though she was too overwhelmed to add too much to the queries. Although Sir Timothy had the same concerns and care as any father would for a boy who had undergone such a terrifying experience, he acted more as the justice of the peace and magistrate that he had been for many years. He led Aaron through his account, point by point, from the abduction to when Ivy and Alder had pulled him up onto their horse and taken him home. Margaret noticed he became a bit vague on what had transpired in the Wilkinson cottage, but Sir Timothy allowed him to elide that passage of time. In truth, it had nothing to do with the matter at hand, nor was it really any of their business.
Once they were certain that they had elicited all they could from Aaron’s memory, Martin had entrusted him to Hettie’s ministrations. Since then, the two men had been mewed up in the office, deep in discussion. They were horrified by the destruction of the unfinished aqualators, and concerned about the leader’s demands to know what else they could do.
“That’s something that we don’t want gossiped about,” Martin said.
Margaret had been more than alarmed by the mention of the Earl of Cork. She had asked Aaron several times to confirm that that was the name he had heard the man in charge to have said.
“I’m positive,” Aaron had said, over and over. “He only said it once, but I remember every moment of that night. I’ll never forget it.”
That confirmed her deepest fears. The wonderful invention that was meant to rebuild the fortunes of her family had drawn the attention of the one man who would be pleased to take vengeance upon her, if he could discover her connection to the Americans. And his henchman had swept up one of those very Americans straight from her home, as easily and stealthily as plucking an apple from a tree.
She had thought and thought about her enterprise, and how much it meant to the people of Barlaston. What wealth and fame it had brought and was bringing, but how much scrutiny had clearly come as well. She had caused this calamity. She was to blame for Aaron’s abduction, and no one else. No gentle confession would wash away that guilt.
She tapped on the door of her father’s office. The voices inside stopped for a moment.
“Enter,” Sir Timothy said. His face brightened when he saw her. “Ah, Margery, pray sit down and join us.” Martin was with him.
He had his special cut crystal bottle of brandy on a tray at his elbow. He poured a tot into a small glass and handed it to her.
“It seems as though all the fears that you’ve had were not an exaggeration,” her father said, as she took a sip of the bronze liquid. It burned its way down her throat. “The Earl of Cork does seem to have taken an interest in our small doings, as Lady Rita said in her letter. But it appears that he hasn’t twigged to the presence of our friends here. Not as Americans, in any case. We have continued to fool them in that way, at least.”
“Not for long,” Margaret said, setting the glass down without taking another sip. “That secret is fast making its way around the parish. The vicar has just left. Ivy Wilkinson went to make confession, and revealed all to him.”
“He’s a man of honor,” Sir Timothy said, frowning at her. “He will not endanger any of his flock.”
“I am not concerned about Mr. Olney speaking out of turn,” Margaret said. She wrung her hands together. “But others have learned, or certainly have guessed, that Master Martin and Aaron are not what we have told them. The secrets percolating away inside them can so easily bubble over. Some will have spoken out inadvertently.”
“Or foolishly, like Cedric,” Martin put in. “He’s not a bad guy. I think he’s a damned sight more impulsive than is good for him, but it’s not out of malice. He’s scared for his job.”
“And he should be!” Sir Timothy said, his round face turning red with anger. “I did not think that I would ever have to explain trade secrets to a master of his craft. Yet, he took his misgivings to the tavern, and this is where it has brought us. I cannot apologize enough, Master Craig, for putting your son in peril.”
“He’s all right, thank God,” Martin said. Sir Timothy and Margaret crossed themselves, and Martin looked sheepish. “That’s a habit I’ve got to unlearn, taking the Lord’s name casually. I’m sorry. But my boy is in one piece, if a little bruised up. It could’ve been far worse.”
“We can’t continue in this manner,” Margaret said. “If the king’s men are willing to try violence on a youth, then they are acting without morals or ethics.”
“Perhaps the king doesn’t know what is afoot,” Sir Timothy said. “I should write to him, or make the journey to offer an appeal to him directly.”
“You will not get past the Earl of Cork,” Margaret reminded him. “He is the gatekeeper to what His Majesty hears and sees. There is no aid in that direction.”
“Then, what?”
“I could send a message to Grantville,” Martin said. “But it will take at least a week to reach anyone on the continent. Could be a lot longer.”
“Are there no radios or other machines that can convey the message?” Margaret asked, recalling the room at the top of the presidential palace.
“Most of what we’ve got is short-range, meaning no more than a few miles, and only in line of sight. The long-range broadcasts aren’t set up for two-way communication.” Martin sighed. “I sure do miss telephones.”
“Then we must send a messenger,” Sir Timothy said.
“Who?”
“You,” Margaret said, her heart aching with the thoughts that had been building up in her all the night before and the day since. “And Aaron. I believe that it is time you went home. We are so grateful for the time that you have spent here with us. We can go on with the looms that we have, and we will cope with the coming competition once the other masters have received theirs.”
“They won’t be able to function unless Aaron sets them up,” Martin protested.
“We will have to find a way to make them function. I trust Daniel Taylor and Master Matthew to have learned everything they were shown. Aaron’s manual has been studied until it is nearly falling apart. Daniel and Matthew know how the pipes are put in place, how strong a flow is needed, and how to clean out the aqualators. If we run into trouble, we can send a message for assistance.” She folded her hands around Martin’s. “But, please, my dear, good friend, go home and keep Aaron safe. My conscience is hurting desperately for what he suffered. I feel that I am directly responsible for it, and I do not wish either of you to come to further harm.”
Martin’s brows drew down over his nose. “Ma’am, I don’t know what kind of cowards you think we raise in West Virginia, but I promise you we don’t cut and run at the threat of violence. We act.”
“But there are only two of you,” Margaret said. “And, to be frank, if you are discovered, more than the two of you will suffer for it. The Crown will execute women and children as well as men for treason. I…” She steeled herself. “I will do my best to keep silent unto death, but who knows what means the king’s executioners have of prying open unwilling lips?”
The men fell silent.
“It’s no good saying you can come back with us,” Martin said, after some thought. “Even though y’all would be a welcome addition to the USE. But I understand. You can’t just leave your life behind.”
“Too many souls depend upon us,” Sir Timothy said. “And we do not raise cowards in Staffordshire, either. Let us use our wits instead of our emotions, my dear. I share your alarm, but the reality can be addressed with cooler heads. The melodrama of threatening bodily harm is only one tool that is at the king’s hand. He can also fine me, or compel me to give up our manors, as happened to Sir Franklin Leigh. My fellow magistrates tell me that the grounds for the Leighs’ expulsion is a dispute over taxes remaining unpaid. The case is still pending, or so I have heard, as there has been no news at all from the royal court of appeals. The poor man and his family are living in a small house on the outskirts of Upper Nobut while coarse ruffians occupy the historic mansion.” He shook his head. “I’ve heard rumors that more than one nobleman has been threatened or disenfranchised by men claiming to be acting in the king’s name. I’ve been approached quietly by fellow landowners who are displeased with the growing attitude that those of us who live in the north are potential traitors. I do not care to have aspersions such as those cast upon us. None of us wishes to act prematurely, but that day may come when we have no choice. We are loyal subjects to His Majesty, despite his seeming lack of care for us. Curse it, we pay our taxes, as extortionate as they are.”
“Think there’s any connection to Aaron’s abduction?”
“If there is, it can hardly be official court business,” Sir Timothy said. “Or they would have approached us in an open manner, asking questions directly of me as the person of authority, or summoning me to appear at court to answer to His Majesty. If there is any further interference in our lives, I shall apply to have our case appealed to the Crown myself. In the meanwhile, we must keep Aaron and you, my friend, safer than we have.”
* * *
After a couple of days, Aaron was up and around again, his feet well-padded inside his socks. Margaret, Ivy, and Hettie spelled one another looking after him. Noah, the undergardener, had been told to stay with Aaron any time he was out of doors.
“Is that necessary?” Aaron pleaded. “I’m fine!”
“It is, my young friend,” Sir Timothy said. He tapped Aaron on the forehead. “You are the only source of the information that make the aqualators run. Despite all the training you have given us, and the manuals that we have copied, it is not the same as the knowledge in your head and the skill in your hands.”
“It’s embarrassing,” he grumbled. Miz Margaret held tight to his elbow as they made their way down the path to the barn.
She swung the door wide to reveal all of the masters, journeymen, apprentices, and women within. As soon as they saw Aaron, they began clapping. Aaron’s face turned pink. Margaret pulled him inside.
“Glad to have you back, my lad,” Master Blackford said.
“Thanks,” Aaron said. The guild master looked bemused for a moment, then smiled. The secret was well and truly out among their friends, as Miz Margaret had said. He scanned the big room.
“Where’s…?”
“Cedric?” Master Blackford finished his question. “He and Ned have been given a few days off to consider where their loyalty lies. All here support not only the aqualators, but you and your father. You’ve been good friends to us.”
“Well, then, lads,” Master Matthew said, clapping his hands together. “Shall we make it a six-bolt day, then?”
It became a contest, with the masters vying for the fastest and best lengths of cloth. The apprentices had their feet almost worn to nubs changing out shuttles as fast as they could wind them.
“On the rhythm, men!” Master Blackford said, walking to and fro among the looms. He slapped Fred Wilkinson on the back at his precious old machine. Fred still refused to weave brocade, but it had become a matter of stubbornness now, not resistance to the new cloth. If anything, he toasted it with pride in the inn at night. Still, he bid fair to make a full bolt of fine serge by evening. “On with you, then! To, fro, to, fro, to, fro!”
Aaron had a whispered conference with Margaret. She dissented at first, then shrugged in resignation. She sent Hettie and Noah back to the house on the run.
They returned a few minutes later. Hettie held Aaron’s precious record player, and Noah the much heavier case of albums.
“Let’s have some music!” Aaron declared. “That’ll keep the rhythm going.”
It was the first time for most of them hearing the sounds and voices of the future. Just out of pure reaction, Fred made a face, but Margaret saw his expression change when he glimpsed the delight exhibited by his daughter. It seemed one could teach an old dog new tricks. Or songs. But the beat of the new music did keep everyone keen. Perhaps it was like the drums on a galley, but with less whipping. She grinned to herself at the thought. Aaron had been right. It was an aid to productivity. She had to learn to relax and let things be.
By nightfall, hands were raw and backs were stiff, but the workers were jubilant. Sir Timothy was summoned from the house to take account of the weavers’ output.
“There we are, Squire!” Master Matthew said, proudly, brandishing the big pair of shears to cut the weaves loose with a ceremonial flourish. “Seven full bolts, and one nearly done.”
“It’ll be perfect in the morning, sir,” Sam Crowforth said, abashed. “Had to replace two heddle wires. It put us behind.”
Sir Timothy walked among the looms, stroking a length of cloth here and there, stopping to admire the fine indigo-blue brocade on Master Walter’s machine. He came to the end of the long room and clasped hands with Master Blackford.
“I am proud to say that I employ the finest weavers in England,” he declared. As tired as they were, the workers cheered. “In celebration, I declare tomorrow to be a half-holiday! You’ll all be given full pay.”
Alder Wilkinson stood up and held his hands high. “To the best employer in England!”
Everyone roared their approval. Margaret was proud of them all. It was the best day she could imagine. Everyone had surpassed themselves. Aaron was safe, and their future was assured.
“Go on home, then,” Sir Timothy said. “Sweep up, and I’ll see you all tomorrow afternoon. Come up with us, Master Blackford. Let us drink to our good fortune.”
“Gladly,” said the guild master. “Master Aaron? After you.”