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Chapter 33


August 1635


Margaret, Rita’s latest letter in hand, marched resolutely up to her father’s study. It was time to request even more strongly that they fulfill the promise she had made. More than a month had gone by since the first bolts of the brocade had sold. Surely by now there would be enough to provide Lady Simpson with a dress length.

There was also the matter of a couple of obscure lines in the letter that she didn’t really understand, mentioning surveillance and unwelcome incursions. Their tone was concerning. Perhaps her father could help her puzzle them out. She tapped on the door.

“Come in!”

She entered, and nearly backed out again. In the midst of Sir Timothy’s usual clutter, Aaron and Martin perched on chairs, making themselves as comfortable as they could.

“Oh! I apologize. I will come back another time.”

Her father gestured her in. “No trouble, my dear. We are waiting for Oliver Mason.”

“Hettie’s Oliver? The potter? Why?”

“We might have a task for him.” Her father held up a sheaf of paper of an assortment of hues and shapes. “These are orders! Not only from Master Bywell in London, but directly from drapers and tailors all over England! They want more of our brocade, and they want it at once!”

“We’ve got a shipment ready to go,” Aaron said.

“And every inch of it spoken for,” Sir Timothy said, torn between pleasure and concern. “Two master drapers have been bidding against one another. Robert Bywell has been rather enjoying himself playing the two royal drapers against each other for the best price. I believe they’d parade themselves down the Strand in donkey’s ears if it would win them the trade. In fact, nearly every buyer here is prepared to take the entire shipment, even at the high prices that the brocade has been commanding. And more!” He brandished a handful of letters. “I’ve even had enquiries from Scotland, from the Duke of Argyll’s own secretary. These gentlemen are importuning me in an attempt to bypass our agent and buy directly from us. I am cudgeling my brain to express to them in the politest terms that I am grateful for their interest, but Bywell is my agent, and all my affairs must go through him.”

“He is enjoying his moment of notoriety,” Margaret said. “It’s gratifying to see how well the fabric is being accepted. Lady Pierce has had letters from a number of her friends who are still in London about the fashions. Even though it is still quite warm in the City, the ones whose tailors have been able to obtain some of the fabric are already wearing them.” She smiled. “It feels very odd to be at the heart of a fad.”

“It is indeed an odd feeling,” her father said. “But no matter how courteous our would-be buyers are, all that means is that we cannot satisfy even a fraction of the demand. And so, I have perhaps overpersuaded our young friend here to speak to the best man I know who makes pots and dishes to see if he can expand our ability to produce the brocade.”

“I still don’t know, sir,” Aaron said, uneasily. “I’m really not a hardware engineer. I don’t know all the tolerances that have to be maintained to get the results we want. I wish I could contact Herr Trelli, or the engineers in St. Malo on the radio and get them to explain the specifics to the people who make ceramics.” He lifted his arms and let them drop. “I feel pretty isolated here, not having access to any communication devices. Letters are so slow!”

“I am sorry,” Margaret said. “Are there perhaps any of your radios here in Great Britain? Perhaps we can get a message to those people some way. It will be faster than waiting for messengers.”

Martin shook his head. “There’s no way we can do it without blowing our cover, Miz Margaret, or the cover of the people who are carrying them. We’re still not exactly welcome guests here.”

Margaret felt a shiver go down her spine, thinking of the former “guests” in the Tower. The nightmares she had had after returning from London cropped up again in her imagination. For a moment, she regretted having ever opened this Pandora’s box, but only for a moment.

“The aqualators are only pottery,” Sir Timothy said. “Our craftsmen have been making clay goods since before the Romans. I feel sure that you should be able to express to Master Mason what it is we need.”

“I’ll try, but that’s not where my skills are. I wouldn’t be able to tell you how to cast them so they do everything right. I can design them, but I never made them. We send our orders to St. Malo and a couple of other places, where they have the right clay. Like I said, I’m a software guy.”

Martin agreed. “I don’t have the skill, either. I’m just a janitor.”

“You’re far more than that, my friend,” Sir Timothy said. “Your calming presence has allowed my weavers, not an explosive bunch by any means, to accept the new process, and to admit to the idea of a master craftsman who is still a boy. You set a fine example, sir.”

Martin looked abashed. “It’s nothing. I know how good Aaron is. I’m proud of my boy.”

“Aw, Dad.”

“Still, I am willing to pay Mason to try to see if he can make replacements for the broken trays,” Sir Timothy said. “Even if he has to recast them again and again, it will be worth it if he succeeds. We have the funds coming in, and can afford it.” He chuckled. “Bless my soul, I haven’t thought for years that we had enough leeway to make mistakes. But it would increase our output by a third, and that means something.”

“The clay here feels very similar to the aqualators that you brought us,” Margaret said. “It’s quite smooth, and has a similar gleam when cast, although it appears to be lighter in color. I don’t know whether that would make any difference.”

“The texture is why I think it’s a possibility,” Aaron said. “But it’s a long shot.”

“I am willing to take that shot,” Sir Timothy said. “Master Blackford has been hinting more insistently that we open our bounty to benefit other weavers, and sooner rather than later. Hence the urgency to find a way to manufacture more and not wait until spring.”

A tap at the door, and Hettie leaned in.

“Oh, mistress,” she said. Her cheeks were red and her eyes bright. “Master Oliver Mason is waiting downstairs. He said the squire sent for him?”

“Thank you, Hettie,” Sir Timothy said. He beckoned. “Pray bring him up, will you?”

“Of course, sir.”

When the door closed behind her maidservant, Margaret let out a little laugh. “Is Oliver your choice among the potters because he has been courting Hettie?”

“I’ve a number of reasons for calling him, my dear. He is the best in the area, without a doubt. His pots never break, and they’re always as sound as can be. We need work that will last a long time. If I am to share our good fortune with another craftsman, it may as well be one that will make someone in our household happy—that is, if you can bear to see her leave your service to marry.”

Margaret felt a wrench in her heart—twofold. Her own chances at a happy match had not proven lucky, for one reason or another, and who knew when her father would have time to devote to helping her find a husband? But she was loath to lose her very good friend, for Hettie was every bit of that, and more…? She was Margaret’s rock to cling to in storms, but Margaret vowed to be as good a friend in return. “I would never stand in the way of her contentment, Father.”

“That’s my Margery,” Sir Timothy said. “Thirdly, I find him trustworthy, and trust is more scarce than I hoped it would be. Ah, here he is. Master Mason, please come in!”

Oliver Mason was a very good-looking man. He had large, liquid brown eyes that one of the servants had compared with deep peat pools, a long, poet’s face framed by wavy, dark brown hair, and beautiful, long hands that attracted the eye. They moved and flowed through the air when he spoke, as if they were dancing. Margaret completely understood how he had caught Hettie’s attention. And, as her father had said, his skill seemed to be unmatched in the area, for all that he was still under twenty-five years of age. He’d inherited his pottery when his father had passed away of fever a year ago.

Even when the others stood to greet him, he still towered over all of them. He gave Hettie one more glance as she backed out of the room. She blushed and closed the door behind her. Margaret couldn’t help but smile.

“Afternoon, Squire, gentlemen, Mistress Margaret,” Oliver said. Margaret had to admit she felt a warm flush when that deep brown gaze met hers. “Hoping to find you all well.”

“Sit down, sir,” Sir Timothy invited him, hastily clearing a small bench beside his writing desk. A heap of spun fleece, a leatherbound book, and a saucer from her mother’s best crockery were shifted to the floor. Oliver sat down, still obviously ill at ease. His long hands dangled between his knees, clutching his hat.

“Is there anything amiss, sir?” Oliver asked. Sir Timothy shook his head.

“No, not at all. In fact, this might be a good thing for both of us. I hope to be able to offer you a commission. Do you know anything of what we have been about here? The weavers?”

Oliver’s long face brightened. “Oh, aye, is this something to do with what Master Cedric has been talking about? He went on and on in the tavern the last number of nights, spouting nonsense about gears and water and whatnot.”

Margaret saw her father’s face stiffen, and the Craigs looked uneasy. Yet another reminder of how precarious their situation remained. Alarmed, Oliver stopped talking. Sir Timothy waved a dismissive hand.

“Do not concern yourself, Master Mason,” he said. “You’re not at fault for mentioning it to me. I cannot control what anyone speaks of when under the influence of drink.” His tone was light, but Margaret knew him too well to think this was going to end well for Cedric. “I hope you are better able to hold your tongue than my unfortunate weaver.”

“I hope I am!” Oliver said, and made the sign of the cross. “Whatever you ask of me, I will keep it close, except for my apprentices. I can’t keep secrets from them, if they are to do the work.”

“And I wouldn’t ask you to hold a secret that tightly,” Sir Timothy said. “This would be a very important commission for us, and I expect that you will do your best for us. We have always enjoyed the produce from your father’s pottery, but this is something different.”

“I’m eager to try, sir,” Oliver said, his hands dancing in the air. “It sounded like a true marvel. What is it you want me to do?”

“Come down with us all to the weaving barn,” Sir Timothy said. “We will show you.”

The mood in the weavers’ room was professional to the extreme. All eight looms, six brocade and two working on plain woolens, were in operation, with Fred Wilkinson plying his old loom, repaired so well that the damage was invisible, and Ned Bywater beside him, waiting as one of the boys replaced the thin black thread in his shuttle. With approval, Margaret noticed that the two of them were working on fabric for the uniforms in Admiral Simpson’s navy. The rest concentrated on overseeing the brocade looms.

She was accustomed to seeing them in operation, but she enjoyed the look on Oliver Mason’s face as he took in the new mechanical devices and the steady drip of water passing through the aqualators.

“By heaven!” he said, going to look over Matthew Dale’s shoulder at the roses on the growing cloth. He glanced past the loom at the boxes hanging from the wall, watching the water drip into the trays and the gears turning. He gestured at them in excitement. “Is that what’s making it happen?”

“Aye,” Matthew said, pulling the beater bar back and forth with vigor. “A marvel, isn’t it?”

“By heaven,” Oliver said again, his eyes full of wonder. The other weavers smiled indulgently, keeping their eyes on their work. Cedric, in his corner, worked on brocade at Loom Number Six with a sour look on his face, as if Oliver’s reverence was an affront to him. Margaret shook her head. He needed to get past his resentment. He was in enough trouble as it stood.

“These are a cornerstone to the mechanism,” Aaron explained, and Margaret translated for him. “They work in stacks of six, and the stacks are paired side by side.” He retrieved the damaged tiles from the unused aqualators lying in the corner. “Do you see the break along the ridge?”

“Aye, looks a bit like underfiring.”

“Can you make a pair just like these, but without the flaw?” Margaret asked. The American teen was almost dancing with frustration at not being able to explain better. She patted him on the arm, understanding completely what it felt like. “It must be exact, or it will not fit into the others, and the loom will not work. We trust your expert knowledge.”

Oliver turned the pieces of the square tray in his long hands. “I will try, mistress. It’s not like anything I’ve done before. But I swear to you I will try.”

“That is all we can ask,” she said, smiling at him. “Take it, and let us know when you have succeeded. Now, why don’t you go up to the house. Hettie will find you something to eat.”

Oliver’s long face turned red. “That I will do. Thank you, mistress, Squire. I’ll do for you what I can.”

He cradled the two trays in his elbow and strode out of the weaving shed. Everyone lifted their heads to watch him leave.

“Our hopes go with him,” her father said. Aaron nodded.

Margaret glanced at the pile of bolts growing on the shelves against the long wall, in blue, green, and rose, as well as the undyed ecru. It looked like a lot, though she knew well that it wasn’t. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Father, I have a letter from my…friend,” she began. Sir Timothy turned to her. She knew he understood exactly what she was about to say, even as she knew what he would reply.

“My dear, I cannot countenance it yet.”

“Father, it’s a debt of honor,” Margaret reminded him. “Two dress lengths would satisfy it!”

“Not yet, daughter,” Sir Timothy said, his voice still gentle but firm. Margaret felt her temper rising.

“How long must I put her off?” she asked. “If not for Rita, we may well be living in one of the small houses with our tenants, auctioning off our sheep!”

“Margery, you must trust that I know what I am doing!” Sir Timothy said. His face had turned red. He drew her outside so their argument would not be overheard by the weavers. “Mistress Rita will know how pressed we have been. I thought you understood that I want to gain as much interest as possible among the nobility before we must share our technology with others. Public acclaim is fickle! We can only produce so much, even with the six intact aqualators attached to looms creating embossed cloth. Happily every yard is spoken for before it’s made, I cannot in conscience send even a single bolt abroad. Not yet. We must exhaust our resources as far as possible and gain every copper. Tomorrow, someone will begin to make hats out of cloth of gold, and we’ll be hard pressed to interest anyone in our goods.”

“Would that we had all eight looms able to make the cloth,” Margaret said, with a sigh. She caught the doleful look on Aaron’s face. “I know, Father, I know. I am sorry, Aaron. This is not your fault. Damage happens in shipping all of the time. Our woolens are often subject to water and weather when we send them abroad.”

“We are all frustrated,” her father said. “Not only among us, but further afield.”

Cedric. She glanced through the barn door at the weaver. His hunched back spoke of discontent, although it did not seem to have impacted the quality of his work.

“Has there been any repercussions from Cedric’s loose tongue?” she asked.

“I am so disappointed in him,” Sir Timothy said, shaking his head. “He came to us at eight years of age, and now look at him, a genuine master of his craft! I can’t know yet if we have anything to fear, but I am taking precautions. From tonight, Master Piers is setting a rota with the stouter apprentices, some of the farmhands, gardeners and shepherds to take watch overnight. The shed will be locked tight when no one is working in here. The further word of our devices spreads, the more precious the six we have become. And should Master Mason succeed in creating working duplicates of the broken trays, what will stop anyone from taking the ones we have and casting more?”

Margaret felt shocked. “Do you think that can happen?”

He dropped his voice so that only Margaret and Aaron could hear him. “My dear, people are paying absurd sums for tulip bulbs. I’ve heard from Captain Forest that the Meadowlark has had thieves attempt to board, thinking that he is hiding a cache of tulips somewhere just because we trade with the Netherlands. I fear that the scarcity of our brocade could potentially excite the same madness. Master Bywell has said that a nobleman whom he will not name in a letter for fear that it will be intercepted vowed to cut his own throat in the middle of the warehouse should he not be permitted to buy a length of the bronze-colored fabric we sent down last month. But with that in mind, I do not want you, your mother, or either of your sisters to go about without an escort. Nor you, Master Aaron. The looms are worthless without your knowledge.”

“Father, no!”

Sir Timothy sighed. “Yes, my dear daughter. We’ve knocked over the beehive, and the bees are swarming. They want nectar, and they do not want to wait for it. That’s the only reason why I have not dismissed Cedric. He and his apprentices are sound workers, and if he hates working on the brocade looms, well, then, he can resign from my service and seek another master, but he cannot take the machines with him. In the meanwhile, I see no problem with the cloth he produces. I’ve made him take turns with his journeymen on turning out the serge for the USE uniforms instead of the brocade. He sees it as a demotion of sorts, and I understand that. Perhaps I can speak with Lord Cantwell about taking him on. I think Daniel Taylor is coming close to testing for his mastership, and would be a sound replacement, so we would not be shorthanded.”

“I doubt Cedric will go,” Margaret said, thoughtfully. “Can you speak to Master Blackford about stopping him talking to our rivals? The bees are indeed buzzing here as well, and they are getting their nectar.”

“Ah, yes, I owe your Mike Stearns a debt of gratitude,” Sir Timothy said, slapping his belly with both hands. “The profit sharing has done good by all of us. I’ve never seen our weavers set to work so fervently. Yes, I have spoken with Blackford. He’s prepared to withdraw Cedric’s certificate of mastership if he causes trouble. I think he’s merely a fool who dislikes change. I hate to think he actually means harm to us.”

“It does not mean that he won’t cause any,” Margaret said, sadly.

She realized much later that evening that she had never brought up Rita’s concerns for their well-being. When the moment presented itself, she meant to let Sir Timothy read that part of her letter, and see if she was only imagining a threat, or if there really had been one.



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