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Chapter 19


Margaret settled into a chair in the damp room with the paper in her hand, staring at it without seeing it. Their business, her father’s business, the one she would inherit and hoped to hand on to future generations, was going to become bankrupt.

What could they change? Most of the parts of the equation could not be altered or omitted. In fact, they would grow, quarter upon quarter, year upon year. Lambs were born, true, but sheep died, so the number of their flock would not increase swiftly enough to provide a surplus that would put the books into the black.

But…but could she do something else with the wool itself? Churnet House woolens were stable, handsome, had a goodly drape and consistent color. Impeccable. Irreproachable. Worn by the gentry and clergy, if not the nobility, and the crown had often taken some of their tax requirements in goods instead of coin. The cloth was the only real variable.

Once, His Majesty the king had worn their goods, but that was a long time ago. Was there a way she could interest the current court in their goods? What could she change that was within their capabilities? New dye lots? Her father had a long coat that came from the weavers in the northern islands of Scotland. Clò-mòr, made by the crofters of dyed new wool during the long winters, was as sturdy as wood, and impenetrable to the harsh island winds that blew straight in off the oceans. Father always wore it when he went out to help with the lambing. On his return, his nose and ears were almost blue with the cold, but his body remained warm. Margaret had a mental picture of the weave, called tartan. Within the main colors, she noticed smaller twists of hue blended in, giving it a depth that a simple two-by-two warp and weft ought not to have been capable of. The weave was unmistakable, as false fabrics always lacked the tiny colored threads. His Majesty might see it as a compliment to his family heritage.

But, then again, he might not. The cloth was as rough as the tongue of a cat, and smelled like the backs of the sheep from which it had come, no matter how often it had been fulled and washed. His Majesty was known to like ornamentation and ostentation. His late queen adored French and Spanish fashion. She had never been fond of English design. Without a royal warrant, they would not stand out among their peers.

Styles changed so fast. What had been worn by the upper classes when she left England might look dowdy and backward when she returned. Ribbons in the hair might be replaced by Florentine chaplets, and the curls into which Hettie had been so careful to shape Margaret’s hair might have become laughable.

How could she adapt the woolens? By use of colors? Mr. Tom Stone’s company produced such marvelous and intense colors. Wool took dye so very well. But, no. Any novel hues she brought back from the dye shops there in Magdeburg could be duplicated in a week or two by their rivals in the Midlands.

Could they do something even more different? She despaired as she remembered the fine, bright silks in court as she awaited the Earl of Cork’s pleasure. Margaret could almost feel the gorgeous texture of the velvets. The brocades and damasks intrigued the eye. She could not compete with silk.

The more that she considered it, the harder the truth of her realization struck her again. No matter what kind of magic these water-filled boxes could do, they couldn’t grow more fleece or raise the price in the market for the goods. If only they could do something fancy, that would stand out and make Churnet House woolens more attractive. If only…

An idea floated up out of her imagination. It must have been there for a good while, because it seemed fully-fledged and complete. Was such a dream possible?

“Hettie,” Margaret said, feeling as though she was standing on the edge of a cliff. If she would fly or if she would fall depended on what the young man from the future would say. “Would you be so kind as to fetch the gift I bought for my mother from our rooms?”

Hettie tilted her head, as if trying to read Margaret’s mind. “Yes, mistress.” She departed on the run, her shoes slapping on the tiles.

“What’s going on?” Rita asked. Margaret met her eyes.

“I realized when I spoke to Prime Minister Stearns that no matter what we did, no matter how much of our produce he was kind enough to buy, that I would be coming back here again and again, cap in hand. And to create a computer system for us will only eat up more resources than we can lay our hands on.”

“We know you’re good for it! You’d make it up when you can.”

“With all the will in the world,” Margaret assured her, “we would pay you back in coin or goods, but I fear that the debt will mount to the point where a century wouldn’t suffice to cover it. Your machine only confirmed it.” She turned to Aaron. “You say that you can twist numbers with these devices. Can you make them twist thread as well?”

“What do you mean?” Rita asked. Margaret turned to her. The idea was still bright in her mind.

“My brother and I visited one of our clients in Hamburg. The merchants were kind enough to praise our goods, but told us a hard truth. Our woolens cannot compete on the continent. They are very good indeed, but too ordinary, too similar to what is being produced in the Netherlands and Saxony, but for which we must charge more because of transport. But what if we were able to create something that has never been seen before?”

“Something new?” Rita’s eyes were dancing. “Like what?”

The sound of shoes slapping on the floor grew louder, and Hettie hurried in, breathless. She thrust the soft parcel into Margaret’s hands. She unwrapped it and held out the length of precious brocade to Rita.

“Like this.” The ruby-colored fabric glowed in the lamplight. The gold and red embossing stood out upon it like clouds floating on air. “But made of wool instead of silk. Weaving is weaving. It astonishes me that no one has ever tried to do this before. It’s a skill that is currently outside the range of our workers, but they may be able to work with it if there is guidance. Could your water machines tell our looms how to make this?”

“How gorgeous,” Rita said, stroking the raised threads with a gentle fingertip.

“Let me take a look at it,” Aaron said.

Rita and Aaron bent over the square of cloth, turning it over and over to examine both sides. Margaret was nervous for the remnant’s safety, but had to trust her new friends to take care of it as well as she would.

“It looks really complicated to me,” Rita said, straightening up. “Even looking at it up close, I can’t figure out how you do something like that.”

But Aaron’s cheeks went red with excitement. “It’s a repeating pattern, Mrs. Simpson,” he said. “It only goes from here to here.” He pointed to two places only a few inches apart. “Then it starts over.”

“How do you even see that?” Rita asked. Aaron blushed even more.

“I see repeating numbers, ma’am,” he said. “It’s just something I do.” He glanced at Margaret. “I only ever wove a potholder in Rainbow Scouts, though, ma’am. You’re gonna have to tell me how you get the three-dimensional effect where the fancy part comes out on top of the plain part.”

“It works like this,” Margaret said. She took another piece of paper and inhaled deeply. She set the pencil to paper, and found that the point glided over the sheet, leaving behind a trail of ink. Even the Americans’ writing implements were beyond her imagination. She sketched the frame of a loom and began to add the pieces.

“The base is made with a warp and weft,” she explained. “The warp is made up of threads that run the length of the cloth, and the weft adds detail. The weaver shoots the shuttle or shuttles from side to side, and the heddles move up and down as the weaver steps on pedals or raises them with cords that hang from the ceiling. To make this, a second layer and possibly a third layer of weft is added, and more shuttles, which cross and link in pattern with the first layer. That is why it’s possible to make the damasks in more than one color. Our master weavers in Barlaston can make patterned woolens, but nothing as complicated as this. Could your aqualators instruct them a step at a time to send the shuttles at the right intervals so they need not memorize the patterns?”

“Oh, it could do better than that, Ma’am,” Aaron said. “If we hook it up with the right mechanism, it even could send the shuttles back and forth by themselves.”

“Like in the Industrial Revolution?” Margaret asked, recalling a photograph in one of the hard-sided books.

“Like what?” Aaron asked.

Rita groaned. “Our educational system is good,” she explained to Margaret, “but history has kind of fallen off the radar since we got here and began changing it. It’s when people stopped making all goods by hand and started using mass machinery, in the middle 1800s, Aaron.”

Aaron shrugged. He seemed disinterested in the past. All he cared about was the novel task at hand. He took the pencil back from Margaret.

“Okay. We’ll have to work out commands to express the pattern in a code,” Aaron said. He started drawing on her picture, adding little lines that led off to the sides, with unfamiliar symbols. “So, every stitch is set in the right place with the right shuttle movements. It isn’t as simple as accounting, because you’re including a second level of input from the weft, you called it. It’ll use a lot of If, Then, and If, Not gates. At least, I think that’s right. It’s hard to picture right away, though.” He peered at the thread. “And the looms are gonna be a lot bigger than whatever made this, like ten times as big. If you can help me work out the pattern, I am pretty sure I can figure out how to program it. I’d have to have aqualators and the mechanisms made custom for you and bring them over to you. I can get it set up and rolling, and you’ll have the best cloth in the world! It might take a while, though, to make the array. But I can’t wait to see it all work. I bet I can enter that in my 4-H competition. It’ll knock people’s eyes out!”

He was all but dancing with excitement, making notes on his paper.

“Hold on a minute!” Rita said. “You’re jumping too far ahead. I’m sure it’s not all Miss Margaret’s decision.”

“Aww, Miz Simpson!”

“He’s right,” Margaret said, with regret. “My father empowered me to conduct business on his behalf, and I would not betray his trust. Even though the rewards could be great, I can see a cost here that we must be able to recoup swiftly. Our finances, as you have seen, are fragile. We could lose everything—our trade, our employees, even our home, if I make the wrong decision. The de Beauchamps have been weaving cloth for the crown for over three hundred years!”

“That’s pretty impressive,” Rita said. “And what’s changed in that time?”

Margaret made a face. “Not very much, as far as I know. My father employs forty-three souls in the weaving shop, and as many who card the wool and spin the thread from the backs of the sheep. He also acts as agent for dozens of other weavers who belong to the Guild outside of our manor. And then, there are the shepherds, the shearers, the dyers…” She rubbed her eyes, knowing that her mother would have swatted her wrist for such a gesture. “Nothing truly new has been added to the process for decades, if not centuries. I can tell that so much can come out of what you have shown me today. I can picture the cloth here in my mind, and it is beautiful. It would revolutionize our trade!”

“Not just yours,” Rita said. “Weaving everywhere would benefit from computerization.”

Margaret tilted her head, and gave a shamed little smile. “You must forgive me if I wouldn’t want to share the secret for a while, just until we can get on our feet again. We have been running near to red ink in the ledger for so very long that I feel a little greedy that such a solution is possible.”

“They wouldn’t have me,” Aaron said, stoutly, “and from what you tell me, they couldn’t figure it out on their own.”

“They’d seek to hire you,” Margaret said, frank despite her desperation to hold the possibility of this wonder for herself and her family. “And I would not blame you for wanting to enrich yourself with your skills. Every workman should earn wages for his labor. Still…If such a mechanism can work, then it will bring our product into the nineteenth century, if not your twentieth or twenty-first. I must think.”

She tried to see into her father’s mind. This was an enormous chance to take with the family fortunes, as well as its safety. Not only would she have to introduce a concept that had never before been applied to wool-weaving, she would need equipment entirely new to the manor. Ah, but the beauty of the wool brocade would catch eyes and attract a premium that would race far ahead of the kinds of cloth that they now produced. The disappointment in the eyes of Herren Christiansen and Schwartz had been a true blow. Her father almost certainly suspected that the time of de Beauchamp woolens might be nearing an end, but what did he see for the future? Did he see any?

Likely not. Sir Timothy wasn’t a risk-taker. No one could be, with all the responsibilities he had in hand. A wife, five children, so many servants and estate employees, part ownership of a trading vessel, agreements with warehouses in three port cities in England, carters and hauliers who relied on them, and on and on out to the edge of the manor for which he had responsibility. He was the squire, the man to whom everyone in Barlaston took their troubles, asked to adjudicate in disputes, lend money and a listening ear when required. All he had was the income from the wool trade, their faithful bounty for three centuries. He was known to be a steady hand, steering the craft he had inherited, with the full intention of making it last three more centuries at the very least. The manor had traditional customers, who relied on the de Beauchamp mills to produce cloth of a certain quality at a certain price.

The fact that she had been inspired to come up with this innovation did not necessarily make it one he would accept. She was only twenty, after all, and a woman. Whatever new ideas were coming out of the USE, she still lived in a place that had no such inherent social advancements. It wasn’t as though they did not employ websters and spinsters alongside their male counterparts, but membership in the influential guild was out of all women’s reach. And Sir Timothy had not seen what she had. He knew about brocade, to be sure; everyone in their profession knew of the varieties of cloth made from other fibers. Why no one had ever thought of incorporating the techniques of one in another puzzled her. It took meeting the Americans to make her step outside her realm of experience and dream otherwise. She wished he was there with her, to make the decision himself.

Still, Father listened to her advice. He had sent her to do business on his behalf in the USE. It couldn’t only be because she was the one who had met the Americans in the Tower and aided them in their escape. He believed in her. He had always said so. She could convince him. She must.

But this was an investment the manor must outlay money for. There was the fee for Aaron’s time and trouble, not to mention the cost of the creation of devices to add to the weavers’ shed. What did he call it, an array? Would an array be needed for every loom, or could one drive many, as in the photographs in Lady Mailey’s books? Could Father picture the new way of doing things, to make wool damask become a reality?

Oh, but he had to! She wanted to make this fabric. It would be so beautiful! In one color or two, just like Herr Oberdorn’s brocades. Perhaps…perhaps she could commission Aaron to make aqualators for one or two looms, and try out the brocade in a small way. If the investment paid off, then they would make a great deal of money, first for the novelty, then for the scarcity of the fabric, since they could only produce so many bolts in a season. Over time, they could expand to meet demand. She already knew it would take time for Aaron to study the way to make the aqualators work with looms, then to design ones to patterns she had to design before she departed for home. Was there time to make the changes to produce this marvelous cloth in order to catch the fleeting interest of the customers?

But shouldn’t she consider committing all of the weavers in her father’s employ to weave the new brocade, and make as much as possible, before the attraction grew stale? Margaret hated to waste the opportunity to be first to market, to overwhelm the customers and be the only genuine source for this wonderful new cloth, because the moment their rivals saw what they were offering, they would try to do their own version of it.

She couldn’t miss this chance!

“We have to do it,” she said at last. She felt an optimism that she hadn’t enjoyed for a long time. “I don’t know what investment we must make in order to bring this enterprise about, but we cannot go on doing what we have been doing.”

“Whoopee!” Aaron shouted. “I’ll ask my mama tonight!”

“Hold on there,” Rita said. “We’re not too popular in England right now. I’m not sure Effie will let you go there. And you can’t go alone. We’ll have to figure out some other way to help Miz Margaret, whether it’s installing aqualators, or some other means.”

“Oh, I gotta! I have gotta do this, Mrs. Simpson,” Aaron said, plaintively. “Nobody has ever wanted me to do something this interesting. Ever. I mean, what’s going to make the Industrial Revolution happen, if we don’t start now?”

“I’m willing to try,” Margaret said. “I do have to convince my father, but with all the marvels I have beheld here, and the difficult truths before us if nothing changes, I feel that sooner or later he must agree.”

Rita laughed. “Introducing computers before the spinning jenny,” she said. “We are standing history on its head more than ever.”

“We could bring the other machines into our sheds much more easily once we are making brocades,” Margaret said. “I think we need something…spectacular to shake the weavers from their comfortable perches and allow them to accept broader changes. And we need that impressive fabric if we are ever to afford spinning jennies and other devices.”

“You’ve got a point,” Rita said, thoughtfully. “If Aaron can make your idea work.”

“I’m sure I can! Do I have to travel all the way to England to see this silk loom?” Aaron asked. He looked eager at the prospect.

“No, indeed. I met a silk weaver in Hamburg, Herr Oberdorn,” Margaret said. “This brocade is his work. I will write you a letter of introduction to his sister, and I hope that they will allow you to study their machines. Do you think you can create a…a program to allow our weavers to produce fabric like this?”

“Oh, sure,” Aaron said, grinning. “It’ll be a snap…No, I’m joking. It’s gonna be hard as stink, but I want to do it. Once I get the whole rundown, I can code something that will do what you want.”

Margaret stopped herself from exclaiming her enthusiasm. There was yet one more obstacle in the path to success. She took a deep breath. “Naturally, I must pay you. What is fair for a…computer programmer to earn for such a task?”

Rita cleared her throat meaningfully. Aaron might want to ask for the moon, but she was going to make sure he kept his request in check.

Aaron dropped his gaze and studied his shoes. “I dunno, ma’am. I gotta talk it over with my mom and dad. Miz Simpson is right. I have to ask them first before I can go anywhere. Then I need to travel to Hamburg and stay there while I’m studying the weaver. And I need to ask my computer sciences teacher what’s fair. And there’s all that other stuff, too.”

He gave her a hopeful gaze. Margaret knew exactly what he was thinking.

“My family will defray that cost, Aaron,” she said, although she knew full well that the coins in her purse wouldn’t be sufficient for that.

“Great! You design the fabric you want them to make. And once I know how to make the program, I’ll have aqualators made to order, and me and my dad will bring them to you in England. It could take a while,” he warned.

And raise the initial investment still further, Margaret didn’t say aloud, although Rita must have known exactly what she was thinking. “In the meanwhile, my father’s weavers will begin to make the cloth for the navy. We will fulfill our obligation to the USE.”

“In that case, we’ll have to write you another advance against the purchase,” Rita said. “Whichever cloth you end up making, we’ll buy it. If nothing else, you’ll be supplying Admiral Simpson’s troops. If your plan works, and you can make brocade woolens, I want to be the first person in Europe to wear them. I am pretty sure my mother-in-law will be the second. No,” she paused thoughtfully. “I’d better let her be first. She’s a lot more conscious of public appearance than I will ever be.”

“Is she like my neighbor, Lady Pierce?” Margaret asked, with a smile. “She was once a lady-in-waiting to His Majesty’s late mother, and has taught me so much about comportment and manners, and what is expected in court.”

Rita laughed. “I bet the two of them would get along like a house on fire. In the meanwhile, I’ll ask Mike’s secretary, David Zimmerman, to make up documents to make it all official between us.” At Margaret’s alarmed expression, she smiled. “This time I can read your mind. Nobody has to know that you’re dealing directly with the USE. I’ll set it up to all be through intermediaries, probably through Becky’s family, the Abrabanels.”

Margaret nodded. No one who dealt with money anywhere in Europe could be unaware of the influential Jewish businessmen who seemed to be at the back of any great negotiation that occurred. So far, her father had not had to go to them, but without the help of Rita and the USE, the business would almost certainly have fallen into their hands.

Those who were familiar with the de Beauchamp holdings and their issues with the crown would assume that they had to ask the Abrabanels for financial assistance. Sir Timothy might burn in shame, but if her plan was possible, they would no longer have to struggle to be seen among the flock of wool weavers in the Midlands. Churnet House could become world-famous, and their money troubles would at last be at an end.

“Can you diagram out this pattern, or do you have something else in mind?” Aaron asked.

“Roses,” Margaret said, after a moment’s thought. “Our home lies in Lancashire, and the red rose is our symbol.” She turned over the ledger sheet with its bad news and began to sketch on it with the smooth-running pencil. “I’d love to create a lion and unicorn pattern, which is the coat of arms of the crown, or a rose and thistle, but I saw many a silk brocade in London that depicted flowers. I believe that would be the most popular.” The truth was that she had already made up her mind. In her imagination, she saw rippling red cloth with roses and leaves picked out on it.

After some not-so-subtle hints from the Treasury staff that they had work to do, Rita herded the three of them toward the employee cafeteria. Aaron picked up a huge tray of food and dove into it, still talking all the while about his ideas.

The other two boys joined them at a table in the corner. Margaret caviled at adding them to the discussion, worrying that her project was reaching too many ears. Aaron promised her that the others could keep a secret. Trent and Zachary swore that they wouldn’t let anything cross their lips except between the three of them. In fact, they put forward a few ideas to improve the project. They seemed to know almost as much about computers as Aaron did, but he was clearly the most knowledgeable. The growing cloud of unfamiliar jargon threw Margaret into confusion, but Aaron saw her dismay. He slowed everything down and explained what the three boys were putting on paper.

Margaret had to caution them that it might not even move forward, depending upon her father’s approval. Her heart sank even as she said it, because she had become devoted to the idea by then. She couldn’t rid herself of the vision in her mind of court ladies dressed in her dream fabric. Even gentlemen might choose a sturdier brocade for their own tunics and coats. Who knew how far it could go?

Zachary brought out paper that was divided by lines that ran not only from side to side, but top to bottom as well. Aaron began to lay Margaret’s pattern into the grid, outlining the sections that would be woven from the second weft.

“It’ll just repeat over and over again most of the way to the margin…”

“The selvedge,” Margaret corrected him. “You know computers, but I know woolwork.”

“Right,” Aaron said, with a cheeky smile. “We’ll both know all about each other’s pet topics when we’re done with this project.”

In the end, they repaired to Margaret’s quarters to look over the books Lady Mailey had lent to her.

“I’ll read those after you leave,” Aaron promised. “Between that and what your silk weaver can show me, I’m sure I can come up with a program that will work on your looms and make this fabric for you.” He shook the piece of brocade at them. “Maybe even work out a way you can add in variations without me having to come back. That is, if my folks let me do it.” His open face turned glum.

“They will,” Trent assured him. “The programming’s gonna be the fun part.”

“That’s beyond anything I learned about computers,” Rita said. “It’ll be a hard job.”

“No, I have one ahead that is harder by far,” Margaret said, in resignation, closing the History of Weaving book with a snap.

“What?”

“I have to convince the weavers to let him do it.”

* * *

If Margaret thought her trunks and boxes were heavy on the inward journey, they were now strained to capacity with presents from Rita, Mike, and so many others in Magdeburg. She had to take care to place the square of brocade where she could work on it during the coming sea voyage. Rita let her borrow two of Lady Mailey’s precious books and she wrapped them tightly in sheets of borrowed plastic and oilcloth to protect them against waves and weather. One of the precious books showed the use of water mills for weaving, and the other was a primer on computer design. The volumes had been written nearly a hundred and fifty years apart, yet both were far beyond anything known to Margaret or her compatriots. If she brought nothing else home to Barlaston, those were the most valuable.

A goods wagon with the symbol of the USE on each side had pulled up in the foreyard of the palace, and a couple of men began to load the boxes into it. Other people, from the building and the street, hung about to watch.

“I hate to let you go,” Rita said, hugging Margaret. “The way you think, you should be here, helping to make the future.”

Margaret embraced her with a fierce hug. “I need to go home and make the future begin there, too. Never sow all your seeds in one field, is what my grandmother always said.” She sighed. “That’s how we ran into the bog in which we are now. I hope to be able to pull us out of it. I can’t thank you enough for all the kindness that you’ve shown to me and my family. The first gift—”

“You earned that,” Rita said, holding up a hand. “Don’t mention that again. We didn’t have a chance without you.”

“Having met Harry Lefferts, I cannot believe that,” Margaret said, with a self-deprecating laugh. “I only saved him time. He admitted that himself.”

“Harry,” Rita said, with a kind of sisterly exasperation, “always acts as if he’s under control, even when he’s drowning in a marsh with a one-ton lead weight around his neck. We didn’t really have that time. If you’ve read the history that would have happened without our arrival, the Earl of Cork found excuses to execute some of our friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had not been coming up with reasons to make us disappear, as well, diplomatic immunity be damned.”

“In that case,” Margaret said, “the purchase order, and the letter of credit. That will save us again, perhaps for another year.”

“Again, you’ve earned that—or you will. We expect high quality woolens from you folks, hot off the looms.” Rita gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Whatever kind of fabric comes. I’m looking forward to it.”

Once Margaret’s parcels and cases were packed high, she measured the stacks with an expert eye.

“There isn’t room for us,” Margaret said, concerned.

“Oh, you’re not going in this cart,” Rita said. She signed to one of the men waiting with them. He put his fingers into his mouth and emitted an ear-splitting whistle.

From behind the ornamental plantings in front of the presidential palace, a bright red enclosed horseless carriage emerged. It screeched to a halt before them so abruptly Margaret jumped back. The vehicle shone like glass. Its gleaming metal rims and wheel edging were matched by the small figure of a horse that was embossed on the forepart of the car. Trent Haygood jumped out and ran around to open the opposite door.

Rita sighed theatrically. “Trent must have carjacked one of our VIP clients’ cars. Again.”

The teen gave her a cheeky grin. “This is my dad’s Mustang,” he said, helping Margaret into the rear seat. “Jump in! I’ll get you to the train station before you know it.”

“Wheeeeeeeee!” Hettie caroled, as the red car hurtled through the streets of Magdeburg. Margaret, in the cramped rear seat, held onto the edges of the leather seats, worrying that it would crash into an obstruction and catapult them across Magdeburg. Until it did, however, she was going to enjoy it to the fullest.



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