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Chapter 10


James escorted them to the front of a hotel where a horse and carriage were waiting. The blond, bearded driver tipped him a salute with the end of his whip.

“I’d best be getting back,” James said, leaning down to kiss Margaret on the cheek. “The captain wants me to oversee the rest of the unloading, and we’ve more bargains to make among the merchants. This is our first journey abroad of the spring, so he wants to bring goods back to sell in London and Liverpool. Wilhelm will take you into the heart of the city and drop you before a hotel where you can dine. Hamburg is a fine place, safe enough for women to walk around on their own. Enjoy the sights!”

He handed them up into the open vehicle, and smacked the horse on the rump. Wilhelm chuckled at him as the carriage lurched forward.

Margaret stared like a child as the warehouses and modest business premises gave way to humble cottages, then rows of houses, and finally grand town houses, all of red brick with tiled roofs. The farther in they rode, the finer the garments of the people walking on the streets. Here and there, she saw women attired as she was, with sausage curls bouncing on the shoulders of dagged sleeves and tight bodices. But most of Hamburg fashion was different. The clothing seemed softer and more relaxed. At first, she thought it wasn’t as flattering to the figure, but the silhouettes were becoming in a different way. Collars, too, were not starched or tight to the neck, although lace was still present on most people. Even men’s fashion had changed. Breeches fit more slimly. She realized that hardly anyone had padding in their clothing, allowing the true lines of the body to be more revealed. Was it unseemly? She broke off when she found herself staring at a very fashionable man in black silk breeches and hose with a doublet of many colors that didn’t seem to have been woven but was perhaps knitted? He caught her eye and raised his brows at her. She blushed and turned away as the carriage drove her past him.

“I wish I could turn around,” she said. “How do you think that coat was made?”

Hettie glimpsed back over her shoulder. “I couldn’t say, mistress. It’s…different.”

The center of Hamburg bustled just as much as London. If it was not for the shapes of the buildings, which indeed were quite different, and the clothing, one city could have passed for the other. Wilhelm brought the carriage to a halt before the doors of a large town house.

“The Town Hall,” he said, in clipped English. He pointed to the left to a building that looked as though it had been enameled with blue paint. “The great houses.” This was accompanied by a gesture to the right. “I return of the clock four.” He swept his hand up so they could see the soaring clock tower of a church that stood in the next street. “Guten tag, meine frauen.”

He helped them down from his vehicle. Margaret put a coin into his hand, which he received with a salute. He leaped lightly back into the driver’s seat, and clicked his tongue to urge the horse away.

A porter near the door of the hotel bowed slightly and made as if to open the portal. Margaret shook her head, and he resumed his stance.

“Let us take a walk first,” Margaret told Hettie. “I’m not hungry yet. James advised us to see the city. I’m eager to take that opportunity.”

The town hall bustled with black-coated clerks and serious-looking gentlemen carrying reams of paper. Instead, Margaret turned toward the “great houses.”

Margaret kept her eyes open for thieves or people watching them too closely. She had left most of her money in the care of Frau Engelmann, but she could ill afford to lose the sum she carried on her person. Hettie stubbornly insisted on securing her own few coins in the lining of her hat. They were careful to walk in sunlight, keeping away from darkened doorways or narrow alleyways. She caught a glimpse of two men walking several yards behind them and glanced back to look. No one was there. She told Hettie of her uneasiness. Regardless of James’ insistence that they were relatively safe, they were in a strange city, where they knew no one.

With caution in mind, the two women strolled cautiously, avoiding boys delivering parcels to the lower doors of the domiciles and servants shaking out rugs or dumping cans into the gutter. The houses were indeed lovely, with soaring, painted facades that reminded Margaret of Christmas gingerbread. Men and women took the soft spring air walked up and down the clean-swept pavements, nodding to one another. A young man walking a brace of handsome, slim brown sight-hounds tipped his hat to them. Margaret returned his salute with a courteous nod of her head. She and Hettie wound their way through the passersby, none of whom seemed the least bit interested in them. The strangest of buildings was a free-standing shop that had ornamental arches of brilliant yellow to either side. It seemed to be very busy, mostly with people her own age coming and going. Margaret smelled cooking meat and onions as they went past.

They followed the winding thoroughfares, past small shops, coming onto open-air markets only a street or two past the grand houses. Chickens squawked from wicker cages, and baskets of early peas and bunched carrots and radishes exuded their fresh, earthy smell from trestle tabletops. Daffodils stood in tin tubs up to their leafy knees in water. The sellers offered bouquets of the bright yellow blossoms to Margaret. She waved them away with a smile.

“They’re still yet to bloom at home,” Hettie said.

“I fancy they’ll be full on fields of sunshine when we return,” Margaret said. “Oh, look!”

As they passed the produce market, hanging banners of fabric fluttered in the morning breeze. Much of it was ordinary linsey-woolsey cloth in browns, ochres, and greens. In between the displays lay tables of stacked bolts in brighter colors, and a red-cheeked woman wielding a pair of shears stood ready to measure and cut for her customers. Margaret made her way through the crowd to take a look at the offerings. Professional curiosity, she thought.

She rubbed the fabric between her hands, examined the weave and the dye. The cloth had been fulled smooth, and would be suitable for ladies’ garments. The colors were more intense than the ones her family’s dyers used. She wondered how they had achieved the brilliant purple, or that acid green shade. And that blue! But how nice the woolen fabric felt. She smiled, admiring the cloth’s drape.

“You know!” the woman said, coming to her side. She emitted a spate of German. Out of it, Margaret could only pick up a word or two.

“Yes, my family sells cloth like this.”

The woman shook her head. “Nein Englische, bitte.” She held up the end of a hank of cloth and brought a length of a finer weave over to compare. “Gut. Besser. Ja?” One was good, and the other clearly better.

Ja,” Margaret agreed. “Fine weaving. I mean, Fein webart. How many…gewinde per zoll?”

“Ach!” the woman exclaimed, pleased at Margaret’s clumsy German. “Zwei hundert.”

“Two hundred threads per cale,” Margaret translated for Hettie. “Very fine, indeed. This is as nice as anything we sell.” The thought struck her suddenly, and she felt a pang of regret, if not shame. That was precisely what Herr Schwartz had been trying to inform her. And the price was indeed smaller than what the de Beauchamp fabrics would sell for. “Danke. Guten tag, lieb frau.” That didn’t sound quite right, but the woman seemed to understand her.

Margaret was thoughtful as they came away from the market stalls. Hettie tried to cheer her up.

“Look there, mistress,” she said. Near the end of the street stood another cloth merchant, but within a storefront, no goods displayed outside. The name over the door, Hans Oberdorn, had been painted in gold in the fantastic, ornate script that the Germans used.

Even through the glass, Margaret could see the shimmer of the fabric. “Silks,” she breathed.

If woolens and linens were the workhorses of her trade, silk was the nobility. Not quite feeling her feet on the pavement, she went to stare in the window.

The shop had two broad storefronts, taking up the breadth of a fairly good-sized building. Behind the paned glass of the first one, glimmering bolts in jewel colors were set upright upon wooden stands. They framed what could only be a court dress of brilliant red, with gold and bronze insets in the skirt and sleeves, and round jewels set into nests of embroidery. Margaret admired not only the handsome cut of the gown, but the astonishing beauty of the fabric of which it was made. If the fine purple, blue, and green of the merchant in the market were flowers, this display was a rainbow garden, more vivid than mere wool could hope to achieve. She shook her head in wonder.

“Look at that,” Hettie said, pointing to the ruby skirts of the gown, framed by a split overskirt of gold-spangled velvet. “It’s like they were able to paint a picture in the cloth.”

Margaret leaned closer to see the repeated pattern, like a fairy’s dance set in tiny, gleaming threads. “Brocade silks,” she said. “It’s an intricate weave that is only made by master craftsmen. Father took me to see a silk weaver in London once. The threads are so fine that a breath might take them away. Lady Pierce has one rather precious apparel of brocade that a London trader brought from the Far East. She wore it on her best court gown’s bodice when she went to formal dinners in the palace. That is…so lovely.”

She studied the beautiful expanse of red fabric, wishing that she could take it in her fingers and examine it. Lady Pierce’s silk piece was softer than a baby’s skin. She looked at the other fabrics on display. Some of them were plain satins, but a few were intricately patterned. She couldn’t imagine how costly an ell of those were.

Margaret became aware of a familiar sound, that of looms in motion. It was coming from the other storefront. She drew Hettie with her to look.

Indeed, behind the glass, a weaver was hard at work at a broad wooden loom. Margaret scarcely made note of his slim figure or swiftly moving hands, only that the heddles of the loom were tiny by comparison to even the finest in her father’s parlors. Under the master weaver’s hands, the shuttles went this way and that at a rate of speed that was hard to follow. Three young people, apprentices by their humble shirts and tunics, turned the warp wheel and made adjustments to the machine. The device stopped for a moment, while one of the apprentices came forward with a shuttle filled with brilliant, shiny blue thread to replace a depleted one on the loom.

“I wonder if they will let me take a closer look at their work,” Margaret said. She looked around for a bell-pull, but to her surprise, there was not even a door. The broad glass front admitted no access at all.

“Here, mistress,” Hettie said, guiding her back to the other window. Margaret had not even noticed the handsome carved door beside it. On the wall, she spotted a flower made of bronze with a knob worn shiny with use in the center. “Try that.”

Margaret tugged the knob. From within, a musical cascade of bells sounded. She peered through the window and saw movement. A pale-haired man came into the display room, then disappeared behind a partial wall. She heard latches lifting, and the door swung open. Margaret almost expected to smell the familiar odor of lanolin, but was met by a dry, spicy waft of air.

“Ja, fräulein?” He seemed to be a broader-built copy of the man in the next room, with the same silver-gilt hair. She realized from the drape and subtle shimmer that his clothing had been woven from silk as well, but as a broadcloth. How wonderful to be able to use such precious fabrics in one’s day-to-day wardrobe! She cleared her throat.

“Er, bitte, Ich bin Margaret de Beauchamp. Meine vater ist weber in England…” The man pursed his lips in amusement as she tried to explain in her poor German and Amideutsch who she was and what she represented.

“Ich spreche Englische,” he said, graciously. “Fräulein Beauchamp, wilkommen. I am Franz Oberdorn. My many grandfather founder of this shop was. I have not heard of your business, as I not know many in England. Do you also the silks make?”

“No, but we weave fine woolens,” Margaret said. “Churnet House.”

Herr Oberdorn emitted a dismissive sniff. She saw immediately that her standing fell several levels in his eyes.

“He’s high and mighty because he thinks you only make cloth for everyday wear,” Hettie said.

“Hettie!” Margaret exclaimed, with a look that meant, “we will discuss this later.” Hettie looked abashed, though unrepentant. She made as if to withdraw from the doorway. “I beg your pardon, Herr Oberdorn. We will not trouble you further.”

“Nein, nein,” came a voice from within. A woman with the same silver-gilt hair came in. Margaret estimated her to be the same age as her mother. The corners of the lady’s flower-blue eyes were creased with merriment. “We welcome all from the trade. I am Madchen Oberdorn. Forgive my brother. He does not deal with the English speakers so often. Don’t let him get you down, as my Amerikaner Freund, Herr Stone, would say. How may we help fellows of the loom? To purchase, are you here?”

“Curiosity only, I’m afraid,” Margaret admitted. “I was watching the gentleman next door plying the loom. I wondered…if it was not an imposition, whether you would allow me to see him work more closely?”

“Nein!” Hans protested, just as Madchen said, “Yes! Of course.”

Her brother glared at her, and reeled off a spate of angry German. Although, to be fair, most German language sounded harsh and judgmental to Margaret. Madchen laughed at him and shooed him away.

“We must learn from one another to advance in our craft,” she said, taking Margaret by the hand. “I learned the weave when I was very small, but to join the guild I was not permitted. Yet, when our father ascended to der Himmel, it was I he chose to steer the horse? Is that the term?”

“To take the reins?” Margaret ventured. Madchen smiled.

“Yes, that is it, what Herr Stone says.” She gestured toward the back of the shop. “Come with me, bitte? We will see what our Bruder Walter is making.”

She brought them up a flight of steep, narrow stairs to a landing. At the top, she gestured to a bench with a basket of cloth items beside it. In a niche beside the bench, a basin and pitcher with a linen towel awaited.

“Over your shoes will you wear these?” she asked. “To avoid dirt on the silk, you understand? And to wash your hands before touching?”

Margaret sat down and slipped the muslin bags over her shoes. Each had a drawstring to fasten it around her ankles. Hettie knelt to see to her mistress’ shoes, then covered her own. Both of them washed their hands thoroughly. The cleansing made Margaret feel as though she was going into a sacred place, like a church.

Madchen waited patiently, then guided them through a solid wooden door to another set of steps, just as steep, that led downward. Another door at the bottom opened up into the workroom. Beside the loom in the window, three smaller looms stood against the walls deeper into the room. A trio of men, younger than the siblings yet older than the apprentices, concentrated on their work. Margaret guessed them to be journeymen studying under Walter, getting ready for their examinations in mastery and to perhaps open up their own businesses one day. The nearest of them was working on a piece of brilliant gold. She realized that the weft ran over several warp threads at a time, creating satin, a skill she had never dreamed of seeing.

At their arrival, Walter only glanced up for a moment from his work, never breaking his rhythm. He clipped out a command to a brown-haired boy standing beside the loom to advance the warp, cranking the finished cloth onto the beam. Walter’s foot moved from treadle to treadle, causing the shed to change as the shuttles ran back and forth. Unlike the satin, the brocade was made with multiple weft threads over the warp. Margaret moved as close as she dared, her eyes fixed on the moving threads. The making of it was as beautiful as the finished product. The cloth shimmered blue like the heavens. In between, the raised patterns floated like islands on a lake. The intricate designs delighted her, but the loom advanced very slowly, making only a fraction of an inch at a time. No wonder it was a luxury fabric. So many hours were devoted to its production.

“That thread’s as fine as a fairy’s eyelashes,” Hettie said. She had whispered, but her voice was loud enough to carry in the workroom. The nearest apprentice smiled, but kept his eyes on his task.

“It is an ancient art,” Madchen said. “Comes to us as many hundreds of years, the patterning of the silk.”

As familiar as Margaret was with the skill of weaving, having set her hand to it often over her life, she was able to follow only imperfectly how Walter Oberdorn plied his loom. He had a marvelous hand at keeping the tension exactly right. The wefts were not too loose, not too tight, so each pass lay smoothly between the selvedges. It looked as though it would need neither fulling nor pressing before it was sold. Any lady or gentleman would be proud to have such beautiful fabric on her or his back. While she was proud of her family’s business, she felt envy for the Oberdorns.

She glanced up at the sound of heavy footsteps. Hans stumped down the steps with a varnished wooden tray in his hands. He looked a little ashamed, but presented the tray with a smile. It bore a bottle and four glasses. Madchen took it from him and placed it on a table well away from the loom. She beckoned the two women to join her, and served them small glasses of rich red wine. Hans lifted his glass to Margaret.

“Wil—welcome,” he said. “I did not mean disrespect when you arrived.”

“None taken,” Margaret said, graciously, offering a return toast to Hans and Madchen. “Thank you so much for allowing us to see your shop. I hope that you will allow us to become friends with you. I see we have much to learn.”

“Of course!” Madchen said. “We would be delighted to exchange correspondence with you.”

“Would you like to see finished goods we have made?” Hans asked, when they had drained their glasses. “Many fine bolts we have.”

Margaret happily followed them into the shop itself. Madchen invited her to sit down on chairs that had been upholstered in brocade. Hans, now enthusiastic about their visitor, brought one piece after another to lay in her lap.

“For the Elector of Saxony!” he exclaimed, spreading out a pure white piece with gold thread depicting a hunting scene. “Many months to weave this took!”

Margaret looked at all of them, turning over each piece to inspect the other side. Even the floating threads underlying the raised designs looked beautiful. She couldn’t keep her eyes off one piece in particular. It was blood red and woven with a pattern of roses and leaves. The fabric flowed over her hands like water, as if it couldn’t keep its shape.

“So beautiful it is, yes?” Madchen asked, with a smile.

“How…how much does it cost?”

“Enough for a dress for your size…” Madchen named the price per bolt, which caused Hettie to gasp aloud. Margaret almost emitted a similar noise, but swallowed it. Such a sum would feed a flock of sheep for a week in winter.

“I’m afraid I cannot,” she said. “We are on a buying trip for goods to return home, my brother and I.” Hans’ lips pursed again. He was dismissing her again. Margaret’s pride was stung. “May I purchase a small piece? I would like to bring a gift to my mother.”

“Of course! And, as you are fellow weavers, you must have the discount of courtesy.” Madchen clapped her hands, and a young woman in a pale blue dress with a white head wrap and broad white apron appeared. She gathered up the scarlet fabric and carried it to a smooth beechwood table. She placed a measuring rod on the fabric and brandished a pair of gleaming shears.

Margaret came over to survey the piece. She didn’t want to look poor, but she didn’t want to use up all of her money on one extravagance. There was no way to guess her expenses in Magdeburg. With trepidation and regret, she pointed to the marker for one foot on the measuring rod.

The girl smiled, showing no disapproval for her modest purchase. With an expert’s skill, she swept the shears down the width of the red silk and folded it up, embossed side in. She brought a sheet of white foolscap out from underneath the table and wrapped the fabric into a neat envelope, tucking in the edges of the paper so it stayed closed. With both hands, she extended it to Margaret.

“To your good health, madame,” she said.

* * *

“I shouldn’t have bought that,” Margaret said, as they walked away from the market. The sun was beginning to sink past the high roofs on the west side of the street, taking Margaret’s spirits with it.

“Yes, you should have, mistress,” Hettie said.

“Think what I could have bought with the money! It’s half of what a horse costs!”

“Well, you don’t need half a horse, mistress,” Hettie said. “Think of how pleased your mother will be with the gift. What shall you make with it?

“A small purse?” Margaret mused, mollified for the moment. She began to picture ideas in her mind, and hoped her skill would pay tribute to the fabulous material. “A cover for her Bible? A cap for formal occasions? But it’s so pretty, I know she will want to look at it, not wear it on the back of her head. And a locket or a pomander for Lady Pierce. She has been so generous to me.”

“There, you see? Two gifts out of it. Money well spent.”

Despite her shame at buying the expensive fabric on a whim, Margaret couldn’t stop thinking about it. She couldn’t believe she actually owned a piece of silk brocade.

They returned to the hotel and took a late luncheon at a table with a white linen cloth near a front window. A man in a greasy apron brought out two platters and left them before the women with hardly a glance back. Margaret sawed through the grayish rondel of meat and picked at the mound of strange little bits of dough covered in sauce beside it.

“Truth to tell, madam,” Hettie whispered, “Mistress Engelmann’s food is better.”

Margaret gave her a sly smile and a nod.



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