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Chapter 13


A gentle hand pushed at her shoulder. Margaret pried open her reluctant eyelids to see Hettie standing over her with a small tray.

“It’s morning, mistress. Do you recall where we are?” The maidservant set the tray down on the small table that stood adjacent to the bed in which Margaret inexplicably found herself.

“Of course, I do!” Margaret said, sitting up. “I didn’t drink any wine.”

Hettie took the large book that was splayed out on the coverlet, page side down and snapped it shut. “You were drunk on words, mistress. Do you recall me helping you out of your day dress?”

Margaret looked at the sleeves of her cambric shift and shook her head. Drunk on words, indeed. She did have a headache like one from overindulgence, and her eyes burned with strain from hunching over the books beside the lamp. Her mind spun with wonder, completely overwhelmed by the vision of the future. Watermills driving spinning wheels, hundreds and thousands at a time! Horse-powered looms—no, water-powered looms, churning out cloth faster than anything that her father or any other textile owner ever dreamed of. If only such massive machines could appear in their sheds!

Oh, but what would the weavers say? Some of them still left milk on the doorstep for the fairies, not that any of them had failed to see the village cats drinking from them nightly. They couldn’t see the future as she did, right here, in these books.

She sighed. “It’s so frustrating! These marvels are right here in these photographs. Factories turning out the finest of weaves in minutes to clothe thousands without the backbreaking labor it takes now. It’s a dream, but I have no means of making these dreams come true. It all depends upon machines that don’t yet exist, nor will they for at least a hundred years.”

“Why not, mistress?” Hettie asked. “Who is to say that these Americans don’t have a way to help make looms move faster? Didn’t Mistress Rita say these are in their far past? We’ve the river so close to the weavers’ sheds. Giving them the power to run all night and day with perhaps a boy to mind them. They must have something that makes their clothes for them. You ought to ask.”

* * *

“There’s another party tonight,” Rita said, when Margaret came to meet her for lunch in the employee cafeteria. Hettie insisted that Margaret should go by herself, so her maidservant could get to know others of her station in the vast building. Rita and Margaret lifted trays from the long metal shelf that led along stations for meat, vegetables, bread, and beverages, as if each was a tidy little shop devoted to that item. “You should come. If you’re worried about looking proper, I can find someone who will lend you a gown, but I think you’ll be fine. Did you bring the dress you were wearing when I met you? I think that’ll impress people. It was so pretty.”

That, at least, was within her luggage. Despite her misgivings, Margaret pulled herself away from her books, and let Hettie fit her out in the woolen gown. It took some shaking out to rid the heavy dress of the inevitable wrinkles it had suffered in transit. She hadn’t worn it since before undertaking the journey to Liverpool to take ship, and the long sail around the southern coast of Great Britain.

Margaret had a thousand questions on her tongue when they went to attend the reception that evening, but they fled, leaving her speechless, as soon as she entered the grand ballroom at the center of the presidential palace. She had let Hettie adorn her hair with silken bows at the top of her fashionable curls and dress her in the handsome woolen gown that she had worn to court in London. It didn’t feel so dowdy as it had when surrounded by silks and velvets. Most of the people of Magdeburg didn’t seem to indulge in luxurious fabrics as the king’s courtiers did, or so she deduced from the crowd around her chatting in the wide corridor.

She approached the entrance to the great hall with Hettie at her ear like a conscience.

“You look fine, mistress. Straighten your spine! Think of Lady Pierce.”

Margaret took a deep breath and stepped forward.

“Mistress Margaret de Beauchamp!” a tall man bellowed to the milling crowd already present.

Margaret felt too insignificant for such a grand introduction. Part of her wanted to retreat and flee back to her quarters, but Hettie poked her in the back. She almost turned to protest, but the intense training she had received at Lady Pierce’s hands came back to her.

Shame the devil, the old woman had said. Keep your head high.

If she had been prepared to speak with an anointed king, what did she have to fear from ordinary mortals? But Mike Stearns was as good as a king. He ruled a principality as large as England itself, and had the wonders of the future at his fingertips. Still, he was Rita’s brother, and was kindly disposed toward her. She had rehearsed and rehearsed her greeting to him, both in English and Amideutsch.

Keeping her hips forward, she glided into the room, with Hettie scooting close behind her. As others glanced up from their conversations, Margaret smiled at them. They went back to talking, paying her no more mind. Now what should they do? She didn’t know the protocol.

“There you are! Hi, Margaret! Hi, Hettie!”

Thank heavens, here came Rita. This was the first time that Margaret had seen her in formal clothing, and was pleased and impressed. Rita wore a long green gown with a gem-edged neckline, which revealed a modest decolletage, and embroidered overskirts. It both shouted and whispered of wealth and power. One could be completely unaware of the wearer’s importance, but gradually realize the subtlety of how well-made and expensive the dress had to be, and know that they had almost certainly underestimated its wearer.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Margaret said.

“You’ve got an open invitation to any of the parties and soirees that are going on here,” Rita said. “Is there anyone that you want to meet?”

“I wanted to ask you, is it possible for me to have a word with the Prime Minister?” Margaret asked. She hesitated to say why in a room crowded with other people who would no doubt have their own requests for him.

Rita looped her arm through Margaret’s and squeezed it. “Mike is entertaining the duke of Saxe-Weimar right now, but I saw Becky talking to a couple of visitors from Amsterdam. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

Rita wove her way expertly through the crowd, nodding to some visitors, and giving effusive greetings to others.

“She’s fantastically intelligent, but she’s more in John Simpson’s point of view,” Rita said, whispering to Margaret as they passed an elderly woman in black velvet. “Mike’s been trying to bring her around to our way of thinking. I don’t know whether he will succeed, or that they’ll kill each other. I’m taking bets on her.”

They came to a large circle of people smiling and chuckling at whatever was going on in their midst. Rita drew Margaret with her through the first tier, only to encounter another ring of onlookers.

“Excuse us,” Rita said. “Entschuldigung.”

The other guests made way for them. Margaret hung back, but Rita hauled her into the inner circle. At its center stood a slim woman with dark, curly hair and laughing brown eyes so dark they were nearly black. She turned to look curiously at Margaret.

“Becky, let me introduce the honorable Margaret de Beauchamp, my friend. Margaret, this is Rebecca Abrabanel Stearns, my sister-in-law. Margaret came all the way from England to visit us.”

Margaret felt shy, knowing that this was a member of two important families. Not only was she the wife of the Prime Minister of the United States of Europe, but a daughter of a powerful family that had influence all over the continent.

“I am honored to meet you,” Margaret said.

“I have heard so much of you,” Becky said, taking her hands and squeezing them warmly. “Thank you for all you have done.” She had an accent that Margaret couldn’t quite place. It sounded Spanish, but with the flavor of something else. “We are in your debt. I hope we will be friends.”

“I…it would be my pleasure.”

Becky introduced her to the other guests nearby. Margaret barely absorbed a single name, but curtseyed to each with her skirts held wide, and vowed to ask Rita for a list later. Becky kept hold of her hand while she talked, so Margaret couldn’t withdraw. The group had been speaking in German when she arrived, but they politely switched to English.

“…And what do you think my very literal-minded daughter did? She climbed right up into the landgravine’s lap and took her spectacles from her face. Why? Because Mike commented in private that the woman was blind. Sephie thought that meant she wouldn’t see anyone steal her glasses.” She laughed. “We must not speak so freely in front of her.”

Margaret listened, smiling and laughing along with the others. Rita had said Becky charmed everyone she met. Her skills at hospitality and diplomacy were the equal of anyone she had met in the English court.

After a little while, Rita pulled Margaret away.

“She hasn’t had a chance to meet Mike yet,” she told the group. “I just saw him stand up. Let me catch him before someone else does.”

“Of course!” Becky said, squeezing her hand once more. “Welcome again.”

“Thank you.” Margaret felt quite dazed.

Once out of the crowd, Hettie caught up with them. She looked Margaret over with concern. “Are you all right, mistress? Do you need to sit down?”

“No, I’m all right.”

Mike Stearns didn’t look impressive when compared to an English lord, or even to his wife. A big man, he eschewed elegance in his dress, and had a hearty laugh that echoed off the high ceiling of the ballroom. He would not have been out of place in a common public house or a gathering of workers at the edge of a field, but that, Rita told her, was exactly who he was.

“What you see is what you get,” she said.

And Margaret had to agree. He might have been the most real person she had ever met. He immediately made her feel at home, asking her to sit with him in one of the small groups of upholstered chairs around the edge of the big chamber. Rita perched on the arm of Mike’s chair. One of the men in modest clothing stood at a slight remove from them to steer anyone away from interrupting. Margaret suspected that there were also guards of some kind to protect his person from assault, though he absolutely looked like a man who could defend himself well.

“It’s a pleasure, Your Excellency,” she said, keeping her back straight and her demeanor formal. Lady Pierce would have called her posture impeccable. Mike sat back at his leisure.

“You can call me Mike. I’ve been waiting to meet you a long time,” he said. “We owe you in a big way, and we consider you a friend for life. You helped get my sister back for me, but I’m not holding that against you.”

“Go to hell,” Rita said, but without rancor. Margaret was horrified at the casual blasphemy, and stared from one sibling to the other. They both laughed. “Sorry. What you see is what you get with me, too. You ought to know that by now.”

“Melissa Mailey said you’re here for information,” Mike went on. “All of us are happy to help you out in any way we can. I’m glad to have friends in England. It hasn’t worked out so well with your king. Not that he’s been in communication with anyone much. Just the Earl of Cork, and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”

Margaret was both titillated and horrified at the same time to hear him denigrate the king’s minister, but privately, she agreed, and he knew it. She understood that he was very much like his sister: blunt, friendly, very intelligent, and not afraid to speak his mind.

“So, your family manufactures wool cloth. How’s business going over there?”

She had no secrets to keep from Mike. Rita told him he knew the circumstances of her previous interaction with the prisoners in the Tower. His gaze was frank. She appreciated a listening ear.

“…The prices aren’t going up even though our expenses are,” Margaret said, warming up to her topic. “Although our product is very good, the circumstances do not favor us. The Churnet House weavers won’t be happy with what news I will be bringing back, and there will certainly be worse news to come. They will expect raises in pay, but after three bad years in a row, how can we ask them to sacrifice with us any longer?”

Mike drummed fingertips on the chair arm. “Maybe you need to include them in your successes, Margaret. Have you ever heard of collective bargaining or profit sharing?”

She was baffled. The conversation wasn’t going in the direction she thought that it would.

“No, I haven’t come across either of those…phrases in my reading.”

“They won’t be in the books Melissa set aside for you. They have to do with employee relations.” Mike smiled. He glanced toward a courtier dressed in dark blue, who shook his head. “Looks like I have a little while before the next wave of petitioners comes over to bend my ear. Margaret, I was a union steward in the miners’ union in the USA. Among other concessions it negotiated for us, our organization had a contracted agreement with the mine owners to give their employees a portion of the profits above their salaries according to their work, so everyone got something out of the business. When times were good, they earned a nice bonus. When there’s no profit, no one gets any extra, but they found that when employees have a stake in the success of a business, they’ll work harder to make sure it succeeds. They’ll be happier when things are hard, because they can look forward to when they get better. The carrot makes for better productivity, not the stick. It helps to incentivize your workforce. Make them feel ownership in what they are doing, and they will rise to the occasion. You would be amazed how well it lifts the spirits of the workers when they feel that they’re being heard.”

Margaret frowned. “I see what you mean, but I am not at all certain that I would be able to get anyone in Barlaston to agree to a bargain like that. Not a one, not my father, not the guild masters, not the dyers or spinners. It’s not the way it has been done.”

“Things change every day, you know.” Mike sat up and put his hands on his knees. “If you offer your workers a piece of the action before they learn about collective bargaining, it might go better for your dad if he begins to have trouble keeping your assets together. And, in my experience, offering a potential bonus in lieu of a raise in pay is something that the mining companies have also had some success with.” He smiled. “I won’t say that’s the most ethical way to go, but I’ve learned a lot about the management side of business dealings since I took this job.”

“It would mean a very small amount of money for each of them,” Margaret said, thinking hard. “A very small amount.”

“I think you’d find that even a minor stake makes people work harder when they realize their own labor produces those results. Might even make them come up with ways to increase productivity.”

“Thank you for the insight. I will have to think about that.”

“I know it’s a lot to absorb, Margaret. You’re not thinking as a worker right now, even if your heart is in the right place. Treating people like they matter works. They’ll give you their best effort when they believe that they’re being heard.”

Hettie grunted.

Margaret turned to her.

“What do you think?”

Hettie opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Mike Stearns let out a bellowing laugh. “You think you don’t agree with me, Margaret, but you’re already doing it. Hettie works for you, and you value and act upon her input. You don’t dismiss her like the German aristocrats do. Even some of them are changing to accept the humanity of their employees. You’re doing it out of instinct because it’s the right way. I’ll bet you learned that from your father.”

“I…I think I must have,” Margaret said. Memories of Sir Timothy conferring not only with his reeve and craftsmen, but with humbler folk, who felt that he was someone they could trust, as he trusted them. She felt proud of him all over again. “And my mother. But may I ask you—?”

A gentleman in elegant bronze-colored velvet moved nearby and spoke in Amideutsch to Mike’s aide. The aide tapped a strap tied to his wrist. Mike grimaced.

“I’m sorry to cut this short. That’s my next meeting. The resources of the USE are at your disposal, Margaret. Thank you again for…all you’ve done. Enjoy your time here.”

The flunky helped her from her chair. Her back twinged as she rose. She didn’t realize until then how stiffly she had been sitting, and her back protested. Rita gave her a pat on the arm and vanished into the crowd.

Men in elegant suits with hats adorned with astonishingly fluffy plumes eyed her when she edged past them, no doubt wondering who this ordinary young woman was who had monopolized the attention of the Prime Minister of the United States of Europe for such a long time. Hettie strutted in her wake. Margaret wondered how long she had been equalizing her situation out of instinct, as Prime Minister Stearns had said. It did feel natural.

That gave her important food for thought as she and Hettie made their way back to their quarters.

Once the door of their chamber closed behind them, Margaret realized that she had never brought up with Mike the matter that had brought her to Magdeburg. True, she wanted to visit with Rita and the others whom she had last seen in London, but she wanted to discharge the duty with which her father had entrusted her as soon as she could. Mike had been so friendly and easy to talk to that the dread that had been building up inside her about broaching the subject of trade had faded. Now, she began to feel impatient with herself.

The formal introduction had been made. Instead of imposing on Rita again or one of the other servants—no, employees—she went in search of Mike’s office the very next morning.

The palace was huge, as sprawling as Whitehall, albeit not as elegantly appointed. She supposed that was to be expected, as the American palace was new and had been erected very quickly. No ornate carvings decorated the walls or ceilings. The floors were plain but clean, always clean. Thought had been put into the construction so that the thing one needed at that time, a light, a step, a door handle, were exactly where one expected them to be.

Hettie had put her finger on part of the difference between the so-called up-timers and the people of her time—the ease in which people lived. They didn’t seem influenced by the omnipresence of royalty or religion. They made decisions for themselves, without having to worry whether they were exceeding the boundaries of their rank. In every decision, she could not help but think that she was under the authority of her father, to begin with, and thence to the will of His Majesty the king, who held the Duchy of Lancaster since the ducal seat itself had been abolished. Above all, or perhaps beside it, her duty to God kept her in fear that her actions might evoke displeasure and leave her in a state without grace.

She had attended worship services there in Magdeburg at a Baptist church beside Americans, who seemed less to fear what was above them than to rejoice and take comfort in His divine presence as a loving father, even a companion. Allowing the thought to be formed in her mind made her tremble, yet lightning didn’t strike her dead. And since Divine Providence had placed her in the path of these people, was she not meant to be with them? If her Heavenly Father approved of these Americans and their new thoughts and ideas, could she not begin to accept that comfort, even pass along the concept to her family?

They also extended the notion of family as much more elastic than did people of her time. Rita had made it clear that they saw her as a relative. She didn’t dare consider herself a sister or daughter to them, but perhaps a distant cousin? Once created, the bond persisted. Margaret was flattered and perhaps worried by how swiftly and how fast the connection was made. Americans lived at a speed far greater than that with which she was comfortable. New ways of living as well as new ways of thinking would take her time to absorb.

A plaque on the wall—again, exactly where she needed it to be—directed her to the executive offices. She made her way down a couple of broad staircases, collecting curious but friendly glances as she went, discovered yet another plaque with arrows, and entered a hallway that had doors to either side and a somewhat grander portal at the end. That, according to the plaque, was her destination: the office of the Prime Minister.

No guards stood at the closed door, but to her left was an open office. A man took his hands off a strange device and stood up from the wooden desk inside.

“May I help you, Mistress de Beauchamp?” he asked. At her surprise, he smiled. “We know who you are, Fräulein. I am David Zimmerman, Herr Prime Minister Stearns’ secretary.”

“If you please, Herr Zimmerman, I wish to speak with the Prime Minister. I have a matter to put before him. An important measure I hope he can address.” She didn’t know how much to tell him.

He pursed his lips. “Your forgiveness, Fräulein, but His Excellency is very busy today. Matters of state occupy him most pressingly. Is your matter urgent? Must I interrupt him for your query?”

“Oh, no!” Margaret said. Her appeal was such a small one by comparison with matters of state. “I do not mean to interfere.”

“You do not interfere.” He picked up a flat leatherbound folder and opened it. “He has room for appointments in…ten days’ time. Would you care to call upon him at ten in the morning? I can send a messenger to bring you here. If that is not soon enough, I will see what I may do.”

Margaret felt a rush of gratitude. “No, sir, that is time enough. I thank you most sincerely.”

He made a slight bow. “If that is all, Fräulein?”

“Yes, that is all. I…thank you.”

He smiled and returned to his work. It was a dismissal, but not a rude one. Margaret withdrew. She was content to exercise patience. After all, there was a town to explore, more receptions to attend, and books to read. In fact, she couldn’t wait to return to the latter.



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