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Chapter 15


“I think they liked the cloth, especially the lightweight twill, mistress,” Hettie said, as they wove through the maze of corridors. “Admiral Simpson is the one you have to convince, I can tell. He’s a stickler.”

“Yes,” Margaret said, lost in thought. “They have no real need other than friendship to buy from us, and I have no guarantee that I can make the guild masters agree to make use of the machines from the future. I will almost certainly end up having to ask for a loan from the Americans instead. No. We need to think as though we were from the future ourselves, and find a solution that everyone can live with. That’s the only way forward. Come with me. Let us delve back into the books, and see what steps we really can take.”

But every page in the history books brought new revelations, and made Margaret feel as though her family’s business was rooted in almost biblical times, as far as their machinery went. The looms were driven by foot pedals, and the heddles were raised and lowered by foot, and the shuttles sent flying by hand.

To incorporate the water looms and spinning jennies she had seen in the books would require very detailed plans, as well as the assistance of master blacksmiths and turners, probably more than were employed by the manor in any of the small villages around them. But how to tie them all together? Though she knew the ins and outs of weaving and spinning, she couldn’t picture the means of making looms and spinning wheels into the massive facilities she saw in the books.

She pushed away the book before her and let her head sink into her hands. All these ideas were beyond the capabilities and the temperament of the Churnet House weavers. Nor did they in fact address the problem that was at the bottom of it all: even at full capacity, they couldn’t promise that they would be able to provide fifteen percent of the woolen cloth required by the USE, not without reaching out to other manors for fleeces or thread, which would be an extra cost. Add in the need to hire and train other spinners and weavers, fullers and dyers. But subtract the cost of shipping the goods to Magdeburg, and more red ink splashed the accounting ledger. Not only that, they couldn’t possibly raise the rates for the cloth to cover all of their costs, because it had become clear from their visit to Christiansen and Schwartz that their goods were no longer competitive with woolen cloth coming from the continent, a mere wagon journey, train trip, or barge trip upriver.

So, even at full capacity, with all things being perfect, what the manor could produce couldn’t pay enough to meet expenses, make even a modest profit, and still pay the tax that the crown required. There would be nothing to share with the weavers, who would undoubtedly begin offering their services to other manors, even leaving the county.

They were in a trap from which Margaret could not see escape. Sir Timothy and James no doubt realized the same thing, which was why James did his best to trade other goods for the commission he could bring home to his parents. Sooner or later, and most likely sooner, the manor would fail, and they would lose everything. Hundreds of years of family history, gone! She never dreamed that she would see the day.

Margaret felt a warm arm slip around her shoulders and squeeze gently.

“Stop looking at the books for now, mistress,” Hettie said. “Come out for a walk. We’ve not seen much beyond this room and a few parties. We shouldn’t waste the time we have here, since it’s likely to be the only time.”

Margaret straightened up in her seat and sighed. She put her hand on Hettie’s and squeezed it.

“Bless you. You’ve been my true friend. All that Prime Minister Stearns said about you is true. I must not take you for granted.”

Hettie blushed. “Ah, mistress, you never do. But let’s get you out of here and into the fresh air. All these closed windows are letting bad humors cloud your brain.” She took Margaret’s cloak off the peg and fastened it around her mistress’ shoulders. “I’ve got a little surprise for you, if you will. I was talking with the Senator’s maid, and she told me there’s a chocolate room not far where women are permitted same as men! Where have you heard of such a thing?” With a look of daring, she donned her own cloak and opened the door.

“There are so many new ideas in the USE,” Margaret said, following her. “Many more than may fit in my poor head.”

* * *

As they came down the main stairs, a strongly built young man with curling brown hair and wearing plain but good ochre-colored trousers and tunic over a gleaming white shirt spotted them. He had a sword hanging from his belt. With gestures of apology, he left the knot of those with whom he was conversing.

“Fräulein de Beauchamp,” he said in barely accented English. “I am Stefan Lauter. Frau Stearns has instructed me to escort you this day to enjoy the chocolate. Will you permit?”

Margaret turned her gaze upon Hettie in horror, who held up her hands helplessly. “I hate to impose upon Madame Stearns’ kindness, sir.”

“It is not an imposition,” he said. “If we had known you would like to see more of the attractions of Magdeburg, we would have made arrangements sooner. But, as Herr Prime Minister Stearns will say, ‘better late than never.’ May I show you the way there?” He held out his arm to her. He extended the other to Hettie, who backed away in embarrassment.

Margaret felt color rise in her cheeks as Stefan brought her out of doors and turned to the right.

“I never asked for anything, mistress,” Hettie said in an undertone, walking at Margaret’s other elbow. “I vow that I only heard about the shop. Her servant must have mentioned it to her. I had the directions myself.” She held up a slip of paper.

Stefan threaded his way expertly through the busy streets, chatting to them all the while. Despite being early spring, delicate blue and white blossoms poked their heads up through the soil in the red-brick flower beds in the center of the wide avenues near the presidential palace. More flowers adorned the center of the open squares that surrounded the imposing building, but something overwhelmed their scent. When asked, the driver drew their attention to the factory buildings that were in sight down the streets toward the waterfront. Smoke rose thickly from the chimneys, and Margaret smelled burning coal. A couple of ships stood at harbor, unlike any that Margaret had ever seen in Liverpool or London. Their sides appeared gray instead of brown.

“What are those, sir?” she asked Stefan.

“The new warships, Fräulein,” he replied. “Admiral Simpson’s designs. Most remarkable. Metal hulls. They acquitted themselves bravely in Denmark.”

Magdeburg bustled, not only in business, but in relaxation. In every square stood a public house of some kind. As it approached noon, those filled up with customers chatting over mugs of beer and shared platters of food. As the weather was fine, most of the customers sat outside at long wooden tables. Some of them smoked long wooden pipes, the tobacco of the Americas.

She noticed that men and women alike occupied the squares and the gardens, talking to one another as though it was nothing in the world. What would her mother say to such unchaperoned interaction? Lady Pierce would be scandalized. But…

“I wish that Lady Ann was here,” she found herself saying. The red-headed aristocrat would almost certainly have joined in the conversations without hesitation. Margaret tried to commit to memory every detail of the scene around her, so she could send off a letter to her friend. The world was changing, and Magdeburg was the center of the pond in which a stone had been dropped, setting rings of influence outward, for better or worse.

For better, she corrected herself. She wondered whether she and Hettie would have been allowed to go to the chocolate room alone, but decided, yes, they must. Someone like Rita or Lady Mailey or even Juliet Sutherland would refuse to be kept away from pleasant places just because of their sex. It was fact that, in her world, women of Hettie’s class were able to go about their business individually, yet she was expected to have a companion, a chaperone, or a male relative with her, overseeing every action. Oh, of course, the working classes had their constrictions, under the authority as they were of the gentry and the nobility, yet they seemed more free.

These were thoughts that might have wended their way through her mind from time to time in the past, but she would have dismissed them outright as being improper. Prime Minister Stearns’ words echoed in her ear: she had already begun to think of the way in which she and others lived, not considering the ramifications of those strata each class occupied. It was a dangerous notion. Had the code by which she lived been a good one or a bad one? Or could it be judged so easily? The prospect was terrifying as well as tempting.

A rich yet flowery aroma tantalized her nose even before Stefan spoke.

“The chocolate room is just here, Fräulein,” he said, guiding her over to what looked like yet another public house, but the tableware was different. There were no great ceramic steins with foam sloshing over the lip. Instead, small copper pitchers with long stick handles protruding from the side and white ceramic cups smaller than her fist were borne on trays by rosy-cheeked, white-aproned men to the waiting customers. Chocolate was a new craze among the well-to-do in some of the great cities. It had come to Europe from the New World, brought back by some of the American and Spanish explorers, and was much enjoyed in France in particular for many decades. But the public establishments in which it was consumed had been for men only. Outside, this building was much the same, but inside, yes, there were women customers.

Margaret gulped deep mouthfuls of air as though she was consuming a delicacy from the atmosphere.

“That smells marvelous!” she declared. Stefan chuckled.

“Shouldn’t we try it? As we’re here? Wouldn’t Lady Ann say we ought to accept new experiences?” Hettie asked, with eyes that gleamed with mischief. “Not to make decisions for you, mistress, nor to speak above my station.”

Margaret shook her head. “You’re like the conscience in my ear. Of course, Lady Ann would say to try it, and to send an account of it to her. You shall help me to remember every detail.”

“I shall, mistress,” Hettie said.

“Come, then,” Stefan said, laughing. He held open the door of the establishment for Margaret, who felt shy but walked in as though she had been specifically invited.

To her great relief, women were indeed patronizing this place, those of every walk of life. A cluster of girls about her age but wearing head scarves and voluminous aprons sat around a small round table near the door. The small pitcher in their midst suggested that these serving girls had pooled their wages for the treat. Further in, elegant men in tall, peaked hats and the soft ruffs that Margaret had admired in Hamburg poured the dark brown liquid from individual ewers. They sampled the contents of their cups with all evidence of satisfaction. Margaret could not get over the tantalizing aroma, and hoped sincerely that it would taste as good as it smelled.

A portly gentleman with a handsome curled mustache and clad in fine, russet-colored coat and trousers spotted them and came to bow before Margaret.

“Meine Damen und mein Herr, wilkommen! Darf ich dir zu einem Tisch führen?” he asked.

“I…I am afraid my German is not very fluent,” Margaret stammered.

“Ach, your pardon I beg!” he said, smiling broadly. “I the English speak. With me come and a table to you I will show!”

He edged his large frame expertly in between the customers. Instead of large, rectangular tables as in the taverns, the chocolate room had been furnished in small, round tables covered in white cloths. Three men rose near the back of the room, and a man in shirt sleeves and an apron rushed to whisk the dishes and cloth away onto a tray. He spread out a new cloth just as the host escorted Margaret, Hettie, and Stefan there. The porter helped both ladies into chairs, pushing Hettie’s close in with a playful “oof!” Hettie blushed, and they giggled.

“Drei schokolade?” the host enquired to Margaret.

“Ja, bitte,” Margaret replied. The host departed. Margaret looked around her. The women customers had given them a quick, curious glance and gone back to their conversations. The men hardly spared them any attention at all. It was as though she and Hettie belonged, and not just because Stefan was with them. Not a single expression of disapproval to be had. She leaned over and pitched her voice low. “This is delightful. I feel so improper.”

“Should I be at this table with you?” Hettie asked Stefan. “Perhaps I need to be with the servants near the door.”

“Nein!” Stefan declared. “The Americans do this as their ordinary practice. All may enjoy together.”

“I have been talking to the other servants—the employees,” Hettie said, shyly. “Those who work closely with them find them to be, not quite friends, but conscious that they are worthy of appreciation? I don’t have the words to describe it, and I don’t speak the new language like you do.”

“I don’t have words for all this either,” Margaret said. She gathered in all the impressions she could for later consideration. No wonder the king felt the Americans were dangerous. If workingmen could dine side by side with royalty, princes would be little higher than merchants or seamen. Or women, Margaret thought boldly.

No. She dismissed the notion. Or should she? She bantered with her brothers as equals in the confines of her home, yet outside the family, men listened to James and the other boys, even though all of her surviving brothers were younger than she and had less experience in matters of business. Margaret was respected by the guild masters because of her knowledge, she knew, but was openly considered to have less authority because of her sex. She read fiercely and absorbed what she read, yet the hidebound men who worked for and with her father respected her, but would not really listen to any innovation she offered. That was one of the reasons she preferred books. They didn’t know if the person reading them was a man or a woman.

Her late Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England had always held herself with the authority of one anointed by God, of course, but had refrained from marrying lest she lose her inheritance. What was the Latin term that her tutor had used to describe the way things were and ought to be? Oh, yes, status quo. Well, a pox on status quo.

She turned the new notions over on her tongue, much as she did the warm, bubbling chocolate that the server offered her. She would carry those memories and those thoughts home with her.

* * *

Ian Callaghan and his mates enjoyed the bustle of the city from their point of vantage at a table before the Yankee Clipper Inn. The ale was good, just adding to the pleasure of being at liberty for a few hours after the drills that had begun at dawn. Working for the USE was going to be hard work, that was for certain, but they’d been provided with uniforms that fit, for a miracle, and good, sound boots. The wool fabric of the uniform might be a little heavy for the season, as it was far warmer in Germany than it was in Ireland, but the quartermaster promised he’d be grateful for it later. He was learning to speak Amideutsch, though it sounded harsh to his ears. Wages were nothing to be sneezed at, either. He had coin in his pocket.

One of the barmaids had exchanged glances with him. She’d even gone to the length of coming within the curve of his arm when she came to refill their cups, and accepted a tip from him with a smile. Patrick Flynn and his other newmade friends teased him a bit when the girl had sidled up to Feldwebel Schmitt, their sergeant-major right afterwards. Ah, well, fortunes of war, so they said. He’d find a Fräulein. Or more than one. He was a good-looking man, in good shape, with a future. Magdeburg was a fine city.

Across the way was a building the likes of which he had never seen in his life. It looked like an ordinary inn, but either side of it was flanked by wooden arches painted yellow. People, mostly of his own class, came and went from it in a businesslike manner. To be sure, they were drinking, just like himself and his fellow troops, but it seemed there was more going on than just idle conversation.

“Should we join them for a glass?” he asked, pointing idly at the other inn.

“Nein,” Sergeant-Major Schmitt said, sternly. “Do not going there. They are the Committee of Correspondence. They have nothing to do with you.”

“Private establishment, then, Feldwebel?” asked Patrick.

“Of sorts.” That was as much as they ever got out of Schmitt. Ah, well, why move from the spot they were in? Ian could smell wurst frying inside the inn. That’d go well with the beer.

“Hey, there, Ian, isn’t that the lass from the ship?” Patrick asked, nudging him with a playful elbow. He nodded up the street.

The freckle-faced colleen? Indeed it was, walking this way! Ian immediately righted himself and brushed imaginary crumbs from the front of his uniform jacket. And the noblewoman with her, as well. As they approached, he stood up. Hettie, for it was she, recognized him and smiled.

“Good day to you, ladies,” he said, tipping his hat.

“Good day, Master Ian.” Hettie giggled, but Mistress de Beauchamp only inclined her head in a dignified manner. The gentleman with them eyed Ian. Ian eyed him right back. Looked like a man who knew his way around a sword. “And how are you this day?”

“All the better for greeting you,” Ian said. His friends laughed, but he ignored them. “And where have you been today? Do you care to join us?”

“Does this man trouble you?” the swordsman asked, his face turning fierce.

“No, no, he and some of these gentlemen were acquaintances on the ship,” Mistress Margaret explained. “He saved us all!”

The swordsman nodded. “I honor you, sir. We must return now.”

His tone brooked no disagreement. Ian thought about risking a peck on Hettie’s cheek, and decided against it. Instead, he took off his hat and bowed.

“It brightened the day to have seen you, Mistress Hettie. And you, my lady.”

Hettie reddened with pleasure at the courtesy. “Farewell, then,” she said, and followed her mistress away. The swordsman nodded and followed them. Ian sat down again.

“A charming Fräulein,” Schmitt admitted, as soon as the women were out of earshot.

“She is, that,” Ian said. “She bound up me wounds when we encountered pirates.”

“And how is that so?” the sergeant-major asked. “Pirates?”

Ian began to recount the story, continuing his glance after Hettie’s sashaying form. He stopped in mid-sentence as a handful of figures detached themselves from the shadow of a building half a block away as the women passed it. A glint of metal caught the sun.

“Wait, then,” he said. “Did you see that?”

“What?” Patrick asked.

“Footpads!” Ian said, springing to his feet. He signed to the barmaid to preserve his drink, and strode after them. Patrick and some of the other lads followed.

“Are ye certain o’ what ye saw?”

“I am,” Patrick said, grimly. “And they’ve only the one man with them.”

Magdeburg might be safer than almost any town he had ever visited, but petty crime was impossible to eradicate. Anyone abroad who looked like they might have money, even a bit, was a target for those who had none.

The ladies rounded a corner ahead, and turned into a street Ian knew to be on the narrow side. He opened up his pace.

The corner was just ahead. The street, a residential lane with tall houses leaning toward one another over cobbled pavement, seemed unusually vacant. Perhaps it was the time of day when hausfraus were preparing the evening meal, and the children had returned from their lessons. But he could see the ladies ahead, and their sinister shadows skulking behind them. He started to call out to them, when he heard a strangled noise from behind.

He turned, just as tight fingers clamped down upon his sword hand from behind, and another hand went around his mouth. Ian flexed, prepared to throw off his attackers, but cold steel touched his neck. Cold blue eyes, inches from him, bored into his.

“Nein,” a voice whispered. “Danke Schoen. Ve vill take it from here, meine Bruder.”

Ian, furious at being thwarted, tried to break away. The blue-eyed man, a muscular brute in his late twenties or early thirties, took the knife from his neck and pointed ahead.

Suddenly, the shadows behind Mistress Hettie had shadows. Ian gaped at them, then at the man holding him. Other men, in plain but good clothes, had surrounded the rest of the Irishmen and their sergeant. The blue-eyed man nodded. His counterpart, the one holding Ian’s sword hand let him go. Ian shrugged him off, and turned back toward Hettie and her mistress. They were at the end of the narrow street, and made a left turn into the next avenue, safe and sound with their sole escort.

The shadows were nowhere in sight. And when Ian looked around for answers, the blue-eyed man and his cohort were gone. The Irish soldiers stood in silence for a while.

“Didn’t know Magdeburg was haunted, did we?” Patrick asked, his eyes wide.

“Let’s go back,” Ian said, swallowing hard. He still felt that steel against his neck. “I need a drink.”

* * *

“So, did you like it?” Rita asked. She had invited Margaret to join her for a private dinner in her own apartments. The suite set aside for the sister of the Prime Minister and former ambassador to England was, naturally, far more elegant and well-appointed than guest rooms. It had an air of being lived in, for all that it was clean and tidy. A free-standing wooden bookshelf stood at a convenient spot beside the settee on which Rita plumped herself. The assortment of books reminded Margaret of a marketplace, where the gentry and clergy circulated among the common folk. She longed to thumb through them and see what lay between the colorful cardboard covers of the small, hand-sized books and in the larger, stern-looking volumes bound in ochre- or brick-colored cloth. “I love chocolate. I miss being able to buy my favorite bars in the convenience store. We took so much for granted. It’s the little things you miss.”

“We enjoyed the chocolate room immensely,” Margaret said. “I believe there is one in Stoke-on-Trent, but I wouldn’t be comfortable going there myself. Here feels different.” She hesitated to say why, but Rita understood.

“I thought you’d sense that,” Rita said. “Where we come from, men and women can mostly move freely among one another. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than it was here when we arrived. And, to be honest, it wasn’t perfect in the twentieth century, either. But think of all the talent we’d lose out on if half the population was ignored. Or more.” She grinned at her own words. “I’m not here to proselytize, though. I thought you’d like to know that I talked with Mike after you left. John Simpson really liked your fabric. That was genuine. Simpson doesn’t lie. He’s not thinking of buying from your dad just because of the debt we owe you. It’s high quality. Anyone can see it. Even I can, and I didn’t do that well in Home Ec. So, he’s prepared to do business with you. But I saw that look on your face when they were calculating the percentages. I’d be willing to bet that you don’t think the numbers add up.”

“I fear you are correct,” Margaret said, a rush of hopelessness overwhelming her as it had in her quarters. “Things have been so uncertain on our manor. I work closely with my father and with our reeve to manage the estates and the businesses. Ever since my elder brother Julian died, Father has relied upon me more and more. I do my best to learn what he had been taught since Julian was small. I am fortunate that I have a gift with numbers, and I can see sums in my mind’s eye.” A small but humorless laugh escaped her lips. “We try to keep efficiency, but I feel that so much is wasted. We lose sheep and lambs frequently, then find ourselves counting on those animals even though they are no longer there. And sometimes our workers do what they will, but not what they can. I wish that I could keep a closer eye on all of it.”

“Sounds like you need a computer,” Rita said with a chuckle.

“I don’t know that word.”

“Computers are machines that we put data into to analyze, depending on what you tell them you need. We have a few computers still running here and in Grantville, but we’re switching some of the basic functions and easy equations to aqualators. They’re using them here in the Treasury. They look pretty weird compared with electronic computers, and they run much, much slower, but they work. Or so I’m told. You want to see some in operation?”

“Oh, yes!” The thought of a device to calculate and keep track of all the bookkeeping of the manor for her sounded marvelous.

Rita glanced at a handsome wooden clock on the wall. “I can’t do it now. I’ve got to talk with a couple of people, and run some errands for my husband, Tom. Meet me tomorrow afternoon in the east wing, and I’ll take you to see them.”

Margaret could barely contain her excitement.

“Until tomorrow, then,” she said.



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