Chapter 44
September 1635
Margaret sat in the family pew of the Church of St. John the Baptist, feeling exhausted. It was taking weeks for the ruin of the house and the weaving barn to be cleaned up. The repairs to the roof of the weaving shed and to the front door would take far longer. James, as he begged the family to call him, no title, had mustered his men to help Sir Timothy. They drove the surviving invaders toward the town gaol like sheep. Margaret didn’t want to ask about their fate.
So many of the defenders had been injured, and four killed, including Jacob Damson’s son-in-law, Andrew. Sir Timothy arranged with Mr. Olney to pay for the funerals. He included enough for a mass of thanksgiving, with gratitude offered for the timely intervention of the Scotsmen on Saturday, the eighth of September, the feast of the Birth of the Blessed Virgin. That day had come at last, and Margaret accepted it as a time to rest and reflect.
The church resounded with music from the huge pipe organ, operated by Mistress Tamsin with many flourishes and grace notes. The air was filled with scent from the enormous clusters of lilies, roses, and all the flowers of late summer that had been donated from the manor’s gardens. Margaret breathed in the odor, trying to dismiss the feelings of loss. So much had changed in a single afternoon!
Several rows behind her, Martin Craig sat on the aisle, ignoring his son and Ivy Wilkinson. The two young people sat huddled together, Aaron’s arm over her shoulders. Sometimes, the girl shed tears that the lad wiped away with the hem of his sleeve. It might be years before they saw one another again, if ever.
From Martin and Aaron, Margaret heard the account of the attack on the weavers’ shed and the fire. While she and her father were grateful that the weavers had stepped in and no one had been grievously injured, the knowledge that their livelihood had been destroyed, or nearly so, weighed heavily on them. It had been hard to go visit the ruined building. The room stank of ash. Part of the roof was gone. The empty sky mocked her as she had surveyed the wreckage left by the raiders. All the looms had been damaged somewhat, and every single one of the aqualator trays was smashed to fragments. The pipes had been pulled from the walls, which now bulged from the water running into the wattle-and-daub between the ancient oak beams. Bolts of fabric were scattered like cards, and the invaders had somehow unwound hundreds or thousands of yards of thread all over the room like a mad spider’s web. Fred Wilkinson moped around like a lost soul. The loom that had been passed down to him from several previous generations had been pulled apart and used for kindling by the mercenaries. He was on the verge of quitting the trade, until Margaret and the other weavers had talked him out of it.
Margaret felt deep affection for the men and women who worked for her and her father. They’d seen her through the worst thing that could have befallen them and were willing to work to bring all back to normal. She worried that the future dream was gone forever. With no aqualators, the brocade could not be produced, or not as quickly as it had been all that summer. They would have to write to numerous clients to tell them that their orders would be delayed, if not cancelled outright.
Her insistence that it was time for the Craigs to go home was now a vital requirement. With nothing to repair or teach anyone else to tend, there was no real need for them to remain in England. Though the people of Barlaston had entirely embraced them and kept their secret safe from anyone outside the community, their presence presented a danger to the de Beauchamps and to themselves.
With heavy hearts, Aaron and Martin had agreed to take ship as soon as possible. When the service of thanksgiving and the feast to be provided by Sir Timothy and Lady de Beauchamp ended, Ranulf Bracey stood ready to convey them all the way to Liverpool. The Meadowlark was scheduled to arrive on Monday, the tides being with them, and would convey them safely to Hamburg. Margaret could not thank them enough for all that they had done. Aaron had promised fervently to goad the factory at St. Malo to make new aqualators ahead of the de Beauchamps’ competitors so the weavers could fulfill those remaining orders. He and Margaret had reluctantly agreed that Master Matthew and Daniel Taylor, soon to receive his mastership, could teach anyone the basics of maintenance. At least, she could rely upon the orders still outstanding from Admiral Simpson and the new Prime Minister, William Wettig, for standard, ordinary woolen fabric.
She gave a sigh for the loss of the brocade looms. What fabric they had completed was largely still intact, but for the overwhelming odor of smoke imbuing the wool. Master Blackford assured her that cleansing and fulling it all over again would take out the smell. The fabric would still command premium prices, and its scarcity might cause yet another bidding war. Her father’s eyes, dulled from the disaster of the invasion and its aftermath, brightened at that. Margaret had argued fervently that of the remaining fabric, at least one bolt, probably two, must be sent with the Craigs back to Magdeburg to be given to Rita Simpson and her goodmother. They had waited long enough, in their kindness, and who knew how long it would be until more could be made? Very reluctantly, Sir Timothy had agreed. Margaret knew he saw gold slipping through his fingers with every yard he could not sell.
There were also moments that were both happy and sad. Hettie had taken her aside a few days ago to tell her, privately, but with shining eyes, that Oliver Mason had finally made his feelings known. If Margaret would allow her, she wanted to say yes to his proposal of marriage. Margaret felt a wrench, knowing that things would never quite be the same between her and her friend—yes, her friend—but she couldn’t say no. She wanted Hettie to be happy. Hettie and Oliver were to have the banns read for the first time during that day’s service. Hettie wore a crown of flowers and looked like she was already a bride. Margaret was glad for Oliver. He would never be cared for so well as when Hettie moved into his cottage and took over his life. She hoped one day that she could be as happy as her friend.
With a shy glance, she peered at the man seated next to her. Since his arrival, Lord James Douglas had never been far away from her. Her mother, on James’s other side, engaged him in quiet conversation, awaiting the beginning of the service. He seemed fascinated by her, following the butterfly movements of her hands as she spoke. Lady Pierce, her dear friend and neighbor, sat between her and Sir Timothy, who occupied the aisle seat. The elegant old lady beamed upon them, as though she had arranged for the arrival of the noble Scotsman and his warriors. Through careful questioning of their new guest, Lady Pierce had elicited that the Douglases were kin and friends to the powerful Duke of Argyll, who had befriended some of the strange visitors from overseas. They had prevailed upon that gentleman to send aid and assistance to the woman to whom the Americans wished to protect. Master Blackford, with his wife, children, and beadle in the pew behind, added a few compliments to Lord James, mentioning what he had seen of his skillful leadership during the raid on the house and barn. Next to the Scot, Nat nodded as the guild master spoke.
Margaret smiled to herself. Alex’s timely arrival was yet another debt that she owed to Rita Simpson and the ineffable Harry Lefferts. Who knew when she would be able to pay back any of it at all? She was so far away from the Americans, yet kept them close in her heart.
And James? Well, James was all too easy to get used to. He was handsome, charming, self-deprecating, and had a warm burr in his voice that felt like a cat’s purr. It took very little time for Margaret to become accustomed to having him there, eager to be of service, happy to learn all about her and her family’s fortunes and misfortunes. He took interest in everything she did. The best that she could tell, it was genuine. He told her all about his own life, how his elder brother had assumed their father’s responsibilities and office, and how little room there was for a second son underfoot. Nat sympathized with that sentiment. James and Margaret’s brother had swiftly become fast friends. She looked forward also to introducing him to her brother James the next time he returned from sea.
Ah, but James Douglas was an unlikely match for her. The ruin of the aqualators brought the baronetcy of Churnet and Trent right back down to the uncertain vagaries of income that they had enjoyed for the two years preceding their arrival, with the same possible inability to satisfy their tax obligations to the crown. She absolutely refused to be sold into marriage for the sake of financial security. It was unfair to James to only consider him for his purse, when he was such a marvelous man in his own right. If the day came when the looms were restored and they could fight their way back to supremacy in English weaving once again, perhaps she could hope for him to approach her father for her hand. She sighed. In any other way, he seemed so compatible with her.
Nat kept leaning across her to chat with James. He could hardly contain his excitement. For the last many days, he’d spent all his free time with Mistress Tamsin, teaching her the notes he had taken down from Aaron’s collection of music from the future. At first, she’d been skeptical, but was at last won over by Mr. Olney’s enthusiasm and the beauty of the music itself. During the service for the Blessed Mother, Mistress Tamsin would perform some of Nat’s notations. Nat was to play a solo on his guitar. James, who played guitar as well as fife, had taken to the modern music like a duck to water.
Mr. Olney took his place and began reading the preparation before the service, and called down God’s blessings on the congregation. Margaret settled herself and tried not to allow herself to be distracted. The banns were read. Hettie and Oliver beamed as their names were given. A few cheers came from the back of the church, and Mr. Olney sent an indulgent shake of his head their way.
His sermon stirred Margaret’s heart. Mr. Olney referred to those who had come to the aid of the community in months past, and those who had arrived more recently. Both were appreciated deeply in the hearts of the people of Barlaston. Margaret could not agree more. She sent a grateful glance back toward Aaron and Martin. Aaron’s father offered her a smile. Margaret turned to James and looked into his eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He took her hand and squeezed it. Margaret felt her heart leap in her chest. Propriety demanded that she not maintain contact with a gentleman with whom she was not related, but she couldn’t have moved her hand again if a winch had been attached to her wrist. Nor, she admitted, did she want to. His skin was warm, and smoother than she would have thought for so active a man. Her attention was torn thereafter between James and God.
“…And though the devices upon which we have come to rely are no more, the fortunes of the community will be rebuilt because the Lord will provide,” Mr. Olney said, raising his hands. “Let us pray and prepare to accept the Lord into our hearts.”
During the Liturgy of the Sacrament, Nat slid quietly off to the side and retrieved his guitar. He reappeared in the organ loft. Mistress Tamsin applied her fingers to the keys, and Margaret recognized the opening chords of her favorite Beatles song. The soloist, Mistress Priscilla Stanley, opened her mouth, and the lyrics emerged in her deep, warm voice. Nat’s guitar joined in, adding a beautiful counterpoint to the song. Margaret was delighted. It was the perfect tribute to the gentle Mother of Heaven.
At first, there was definitely uncomfortable stirring in the congregation at the unfamiliar hymn, but within a few lines, everyone had relaxed and was absorbing the beautiful music. Margaret sent up a thought—not a prayer, for that would be blasphemy, but a blessing to the young men of the future who had given her family and her people that gift of comfort. She wondered if they would like the rendition of their song. She hoped so.
“So, what will ye do now?” James asked in an undertone, as the song ended, and Mistress Tamsin swept into a familiar hymn.
She knew exactly what he meant. She shook her head. “We’ll rebuild, as Mr. Olney said. The delay will cost us, not only in time, but in exclusivity, now that it’s no secret that the aqualators were involved in our success. The chances are that everyone will have them soon, even if we get more a little before them.” She let out a rueful chuckle. “It’s a shame that we could not make them here. Oliver Mason certainly tried.”
“So, the materials are at hand?” James asked.
“Yes,” Margaret said. “Aaron said that the clay is as smooth as that in use on the continent. If we knew what we were doing, we would have had substitutes for the faulty pieces weeks ago.”
The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning. Why not make the aqualators right there in Barlaston? The clay was here. The potters were here. The only thing missing was the knowledge to make them correctly. Surely Aaron’s counterpart, in equipment manufacture rather than programming, existed in the USE. She would ask Aaron to find her just such a person and send him—or her—to England to help.
Aaron had shown her that aqualators had more applications than just telling a loom what to do. The Treasury in Magdeburg ran on them. What if…what if they could make trays with numerous functions? They could supply the local weavers as well as their own. And supply them with calculating machines as well. And what about going further afield? Never mind the duchy; they could branch out across the entirety of Great Britain! She had long known that the wool trade in the nation was failing. Why should the computer trade not rise in its place? There were weavers in plenty, but there was absolutely nothing like aqualators being made anywhere closer than the continent. They would be unique, and soon be in demand everywhere.
She knew she could persuade her father to back her notion, as he had trusted her with the brocades. The de Beauchamp fortunes would rise again, and nothing could stop them. She sat up straighter, seeing her idea as if it already existed.
James grinned. “I see an idea blooming in your mind, my girl,” he said. “Nothing will dampen your spirit for long, will it?”
Boldly, she squeezed his hand back.
“Never,” she said.
She let the grand music lift her heart, and her dreams filled her mind with possibilities.