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Chapter 36


With eyes watering from the stench of fresh paint, the Earl of Cork read the latest missive from Ben Sandown. Germans in Lancashire? And living on the same estate as the English girl who had traveled to Hamburg on her own, leading to the disappearance of two of his own agents?

He threw down the letter and clenched his fists on his desk, watching the flesh on his knuckles lose all color.

Richard Boyle did not believe in coincidence. For all that the Baronet of Churnet and Trent was paying lip service to the crown and sending in his taxes and levies on time, it was beginning to sound as though Sir Timothy de Beauchamp was at the center of some kind of empire building. Too much money! There was too much money circulating in the northern baronies and estates.

Boyle did not believe for a moment that the “magical boxes” running complicated patterns that Sandown spoke of had been created by anyone from Hamburg. No, in the absence of a Leonardo, a century dead, that would have required a jump of several decades, if not centuries of innovation. It seemed even more certain that Americans were behind them. The United States of Europe must be establishing a foothold in the Midlands. The presence of two men suggested scouts spying for their masters. If it was easy enough for them to infiltrate, more and more of them must be preparing to land and secrete themselves about the landscape. Any day, they would have enough allies and wealth accumulated to challenge London. Perhaps even under the command of Oliver Cromwell. Of whom there was still no sign! How could such a divisive figure have remained hidden all that time? What was he planning? Where? And with whom?

Boyle could bring the rumor to the king and ask for a force to take over that manor and the ones surrounding it. Fearful of any signs of insurrection, Charles would almost certainly allow him to send a small force to send a message. According to Sandown’s letter, craftsmen from several towns had been flocking to the de Beauchamp estate to make lucrative deals. He could not believe that they were interested only in futuristic looms. No, those aqualators had to be a cover for something.

Superior weaponry? No, from Sandown’s account, they actually did make cloth. He’d seen it on some of the most fashionable figures of the court. A trifle flashy, in his eyes. Frivolous, like nearly all fashion. It seemed to him, though, that these machines were an overly large mechanical advance just to make cloth. So, what other use could they have? Other than justifying the presence of the Americans in Lancashire, of course.

If only those two fools in Hamburg had carried on sending reports! Boyle had lain awake far too many nights wondering how much information they had given up before they died. And if they were not dead, he would kill them himself, slowly, for robbing him of sleep and peace of mind.

The smell of paint invading his office was giving him a headache. The artist Pieter Paul Rubens had come and gone as he pleased, adding to his “masterpiece” in the palace’s ceilings. The commission had come from the queen, rest her soul. Instead of ending it while Charles was grieving her passing, Rubens had talked him into continuing as a tribute to her memory. The king had agreed, approving all the decorations and flourishes that the artist had continued to add. That meant that the Dutchman had been underfoot all summer long. His skills as a diplomat had made him a favorite among the other courtiers, but Boyle could not escape the feeling that Rubens was watching everything too closely. Was no one what they seemed in this world?

Asking the king to commission mercenaries to send a suitable message was the proper approach. If Sir Timothy de Beauchamp had nothing to hide, then he had nothing to fear. Sandown had met with notable success in reminding dilatory lordlings that they were not their own masters.

Dashing away tears brought to his eyes by the smell of spoiled milk and spirits of pine, Boyle reached for his inkwell and penned a terse letter to Sandown. Let him find out the truth of the curious devices. He was to use his discretion—but if that didn’t serve, then brute force must.

* * *

A crate marked with the word FRAGILE on every side arrived at the gatehouse of the Churnet estate and was conveyed to the house by Jacob Damson’s son-in-law as though it might explode.

“Addressed to the German gentlemen,” the young man explained to Mrs. Ball, the housekeeper. She motioned him impatiently toward the side of the house. “Peddler that dropped it off said it’s lingonberry preserves. Whatever a lingonberry might be.”

“You know deliveries do not come in through the front, Andrew Catlow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Andrew said. He frowned. “What’s that odd noise?”

The housekeeper sighed and shook her head. “Master Nat. He’s come up with some new tunes, and they’re painful to the ears. I’ve no idea what “yeah, yeah, yeah,” means, but I suspect it has to do with Aaron Craig.”

“Some German country song, then, mistress?”

“If it is, then I hope the rest of them stay in their country! Now, to the rear door with you. I will inform the senior Master Craig that he has a delivery. Don’t do this again. I don’t want to inform the master of your infraction. It won’t end well.”

“Yes, mistress,” Andrew said. To give the German tune credit, it was actually pleasant to listen to, although of a fairly fast tempo for a country dance. It sounded as though Master Nat was also singing, though he couldn’t discern the lyrics. No matter. He’d hear it sooner or later. Master Nat liked to play his compositions to everyone.

* * *

The master of the estate, seated with the reeve in his study, looked up as Martin Craig tapped on the door lintel.

“Sir Timothy, I’ve had word from Grantville.” He held out a sheaf of white paper.

“That printing is superior to anything I have seen from a press,” Piers Losen said, admiring the typography. “No mistake as to what is written here.”

“That’s how pages look when they come off a printer,” Martin said.

“How can we obtain one of those?” the reeve asked, enviously.

“It could be a long while,” Martin admitted. “The technology is pretty primitive—for us, I mean—and you need a dedicated computer to run it. That all runs into some solid money. Even I couldn’t afford one. We have an electronic printer that we used in the house before the Ring of Fire, but it’s getting old.

“So, here is the contract for the aqualators for the other guilds. I put in orders for the Stafford guild, in spite of Master Denby complaining about the prices and delivery times. I figure he was going to come back looking for them anyhow, and thought I would head him off.”

“Well done, my friend,” said Sir Timothy. “And you are right. He came a few days ago, asking to buy the two unused aqualators. I turned him down, and he gave me a piece of his mind. He seemed sincerely distraught. I believe that the weavers in his city suffered as many downturns as we have had, and he was hoping to steal a march on his fellow guild masters. I’d help him if I could, but I do not like to be caught in the middle of a war between guilds. I watch Master Blackford walk a tightrope as neatly as any traveling acrobat, and I do not wish to emulate him. But what is this I hear about a delivery of lingonberry jam?”

Martin laughed. “It’s a way of disguising correspondence,” he said. “Especially long documents like this one. Thieves are looking for valuables, not food. They couldn’t give a possum’s hind end about a box of jelly. But it’s tasty stuff. I turned it over to your kitchen staff. I bet you’ll be getting it for breakfast.”

“What is the delivery on the new systems, and when do they require to be paid?” Master Piers asked, always the most practical of men.

“April at the earliest, more likely May or June. The engineers in St. Malo have a big back order for Gustav Adolf,” Martin said. “He gets priority for everything. The same goes for replacements for the trays Oliver is trying to work on. Sorry not to have better news. The deposit you sent will hold them until they’re ready to ship. They’ll take a letter of credit on a Hamburg bank. The Abrabanels will make it good for them.”

Sir Timothy was crestfallen. “I’d half a hope that we could placate my rivals with the possibility of delivery this year. Alas, I do not want to lie to them, or they will be asking me any time a wagon appears at my door if their brocade devices have arrived. Was there anything else hidden away in the crate?”

“A letter for Miz Margaret,” Martin said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take it down to the weavers’ shed. I want to check on Aaron.”

* * *

“Ready!” Daniel Taylor called through the hole in the wall at Loom Number Four. When the squeak of the dynamo submerged in the stream came through from the other side, Margaret waited impatiently for the trickle to come down the small pipe. Already an expert on the sounds made by the system, Daniel nodded, and twisted the stopcock.

Seated at the loom, Ivy waited with her hand on the beater bar. The shuttles had been wound and rewound several times in hopes that this time, the substitute trays would work. Oliver Mason had been backwards and forwards from his shop, trying this way and that with new moldings that all of them hoped would hold—and work. He hovered nearby until Daniel elbowed him in the ribs to make him move back.

Master Blackford sat on a bench near Margaret, who was keeping well out of the way. Everyone in the shed kept an eye on the proceedings. Like Sir Timothy, the weavers were aware of the press of orders coming in from all quarters. Merchants had even visited the de Beauchamp estate, keen to put their names in ahead of everyone else. Every order meant more money for all of them. There probably wasn’t a worker in the room who hadn’t begun to make a wish list of everything that they could buy with the upsurge in revenue. Samuel Wilkinson had begun to pay court to a girl from the estate’s dairy. Margaret thought the girl a bit dull-witted, but she was sweet-natured, and would make a good wife, once Samuel could support one.

The shuttles and the heddles began to move. Ivy pulled the beater close, then thrust it away, keeping her eye on the moving boats. Aaron came in to watch, wiping his hands on a towel.

Five rows. Six. Margaret held her breath in anticipation. The flow seemed to be right. The weavers, even the ones working the other looms, began a murmur of pleasure. Then—

“It’s happening again!” Ivy exclaimed. She pointed at the loom. “They’re not lifting the heddles in the right pattern, and it’s causing raised lines right across the cloth.”

Between the trays of the aqualator, water began to leak, first a drop, then a trickle, and finally an unmistakable overflow. The heddles began to dance uncontrollably.

“Cornflakes!” Aaron exclaimed.

Daniel leaped for the valve and shut it off.

“I’m sorry, Aaron,” Oliver said. “I thought we managed to close that gap.”

“To blame you are not,” Aaron said, regaining his senses. He went over to examine the stack.

“What is this, the fourteenth?” Daniel asked.

“Sixteenth,” Fred said, from behind his faithful old loom. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

Thankfully, he exhibited no sarcasm. It wasn’t the extra money coming in that had finally convinced him of the benefits of the altered looms, but the pleasure of stealing a march on the other weavers in the area. Also, he could no longer deny the beauty of what the aqualators produced. It was an honor to be connected with something so popular. Margaret felt that way herself. But, at that moment, she sympathized fully with Aaron. He felt so frustrated for not looking over the trays more carefully before they had departed from Grantville. He knew all this could have been avoided, and blamed himself.

“I’ll take them back and try again,” Oliver said, glumly.

“It is difficult,” Aaron said.

Daniel was already disconnecting the pipes from the stacks and lifting out the substitute trays.

“We’ll get it, my friend,” he said. “It’s a new thing, this, having to cast a mold so precisely.”

“Aye,” Oliver said. “I feel like I’m making clock parts, thinking in tolerances so small I can’t see them.”

“Picture that on your wall, a big clay monstrosity,” Fred said with a cackle. “Clanking the hour, isn’t it?” The others chuckled.

Ivy gave Aaron and Oliver a sympathetic smile.

“It went for a while,” she said.

“I know. It’s not enough. We will get it. At the worst, we will send for substitutes from St. Malo. They will be here in the spring.”

“Why didn’t you simply bring more of these with you?” Walter Twelvetrees asked, not for the first time. He was hard at work on Loom Number Three. Many of the others chimed in, talking over one another. Margaret, wishing for peace in the workroom, held up her hands.

“You know why he did not, Master Twelvetrees,” she said. “This enterprise was not guaranteed to succeed. We had to make an outlay we could afford in case it was a loss. And eight was the number that was within our budget.”

“You’re forgetting what it was like before, Master Walter,” Daniel added. “And you had a lot to say about the aqualators not being worthy of the trade.”

“You speak above your station, sir!” Walter said, miffed. “Don’t dare to contradict me.”

“Gentlemen,” Master Blackford said, stepping in between them. “Do not fight in front of the lady.” He bowed to Margaret. “We are all enriched by the additions. I look forward to more. Did I not hear you discussing the possibility of further patterns with young Herr Craig?”

“Yes,” Margaret said. “We have been making plans to expand.”

“What will it be?” Master Matthew asked, as eagerly as a boy. “More flowers? Or a heraldic shield?”

“No one wants to wear someone else’s coat of arms,” Fred said, dismissing the idea with a wave. “Especially the nobility. Can you imagine each demanding their own? We’ve not the time nor the tools to serve that. Something holy, then? Doves and olive branches?”

“How about the lion and unicorn?” Ivy suggested, coming over to hang on Aaron’s arm. “Or a unicorn and maiden?”

“Not that you’d get anywhere near a unicorn,” Sam growled, but she ignored him.

“What will it take to bring in more images?” Master Blackford said, pleased that the discussion had turned so readily away from the argument.

“I can probably do it in two trays per system,” Aaron told Margaret, and she conveyed it to the others. “You will have to write the pattern as you did before, and I will translate it into code.”

“Agh, that snippity language,” Cedric Hollings said. “Speak good English! You’ve learned enough from all of us!”

Was?” Aaron asked. “Slow talk, bitte?” Margaret bit her lip, refusing to let the laughter out.

“I shall consult with you, gentlemen, and make the design you think is best,” she said. “You know the business well. Master Wilkinson has been in service to my father since before I was born.”

Old Fred, pleased to have his expertise recognized, put out his lower lip in a thoughtful manner. “It’ll take some thought, aye.”

“Don’t forget the rest of us!” Matthew said. “I reckon I can come up with better ideas than this old gander.” Fred erupted in outrage.

“I will trust all of you to discuss it,” Margaret said, soothingly. “That is another part of collective bargaining. My father will be pleased to grant credit to those who originate any design that becomes popular with our buyers. It will be to your honor and the honor of our establishment.”

Martin came into the barn at that moment. By the pleased look on his face, he had heard the last thing that she had said. She smiled at him.

“Master Craig, welcome,” she said. “How may I help you?”

“I have a letter for you,” he said, extending a large white envelope to her. “It came today.”

“From…from Hamburg?” she asked, in excitement. It must be from Rita.

Ja.” The others eyed her curiously, but most carefully tried not to appear to be staring.

“Do you know what is in it?”

Nein. I had my own letter. The contract for aqualators for the other guilds has been accepted.”

“Oh, that is good news!” she exclaimed, and conveyed the news to Master Blackford.

“Well, thank the good saints,” the guild master said. “That will appease some of the weavers. Not all of them, I fear. With every order of brocade that leaves this place, their resentment grows.”

“I am afraid that they will have to be patient.” She turned the folded paper over and over in her hands. News from Rita! She couldn’t wait to read it. “Will you all excuse me?”

The letter was full of interesting gossip, all of it couched in terms that she and Rita had agreed upon. A case of two popes, one yet to succeed the other. And a marriage had been contracted between the Danish princess and an American naval officer. Many more pieces of news beside tickled Margaret’s imagination. She wished that she was closer to the center of intrigue, but was grateful not to have to guard and protect against becoming embroiled in it. Here in the Midlands, four days’ drive from London, she was as safe as she could be.

The most worrying thing, though, was a further warning about the men who had attempted to capture her on the docks in Hamburg, the spies for the Earl of Cork. That fact she had known from previous letters. Admiral Simpson had learned that they had mentioned her by name in at least one report to London. What she didn’t know was that they had been ordered to find out more about her. Rita assured her that no further word from them had ever or would ever reach their master. Margaret felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, knowing what that firm statement must mean.

It was her bad luck that the two spies had spotted her debarking the Meadowlark. Had she been even an hour ahead or behind in her arrival, her presence would never have been remarked upon, and none of this would have caused a moment’s worry.

The nightmares that she had contained since the year before came back in full force: disgrace, fear, even…death. She needed to discuss her concern with her father. What could they do? Nothing had happened in these many months since the escape, or in the few months since she had visited Magdeburg. Couldn’t the Earl of Cork simply have dismissed the report as of no importance? After all, she was there on business for her father. It could be construed as innocent, a contact with merchants who sold their wares on the continent. The trouble was that his lordship had received other correspondence about Churnet House, and he had shown some curiosity about them. Margaret wondered how Rita knew about that, and realized there were cogs revolving inside wheels spinning inside wheels that she would never know or understand.

Rita had had words with her brother, but they were agreed on one thing: they wouldn’t allow anything to happen to Margaret or her family. They still insisted that they owed her a debt of honor, and she was family now. She had referred the matter to the new prime minister, William Wettig. Rita swore that nothing would happen to her friends. She had set gears in motion, and to trust her. Margaret shook her head. She wished that they didn’t feel so obliged toward her. The conversation with Robert Bywell had been a simple introduction, nothing more. But she was grateful that the Americans wished to protect her. At that moment, she could see neither how, nor from where a threat would come. The fear preyed upon her.

They must be vigilant.



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