But one invoice clerk’s writing wasn’t copper-plate enough, as it happened. The merchant read ‘tweel’ as ‘tweed’, took it to mean the cloth was specific to the area where the river ran, and the name of the fabric was invented. Tweed: the handsome, hard-wearing, exclusive all-wool cloth made in Scotland.
Jenny knew the story. It had happened a few years before she was born and had been part of her upbringing. Her father had made tweed for customers who ‘bespoke’ it, but what he loved most was to make the plaid, the tartan of the clans, which called out all his artistry as a weaver.
In finding premises for their new venture, Jenny had to bear in mind that they would need a master dyer. He would be given charge of a dye-room capable of producing subtle colours. It was almost more important to find this man than to find the building.
The agent met her at the railway station of Galashiels. ‘Good morning, Miss Corvill,’ he said, politeness demanding that he greet the lady first. But he imagined that the head of the firm would be the gentleman of the party, and to him he turned with his hand outstretched. ‘Good morning and welcome to Galashiels, Mr Corvill.’
He was surprised by the youth of the pair. He knew something of the firm of Corvill and Son, for there had been reports in the newspapers about their success with the Stewart tartan and others of their own design. The inhabitants of Galashiels took an avid interest in anything to do with the promotion of the sale of cloth. He had supposed that William Corvill was a middle-aged man. A moment’s thought suggested that this was ‘and Son’.
‘Your father?’ Mr Kennet said, glancing at the train as the porters slammed doors in preparation for departure.
‘My father has given us full powers,’ said the young lady, moving towards the exit. ‘You’ve taken rooms for us at the hotel?’
‘Certainly, Miss Corvill … er … The Abbotsford Inn, directly across from the station. If you’ll walk this way.’
It was a fine morning in the first week of June. The cobblestones of the station yard glistened from an earlier shower. At the goods entrance a wagon was drawn up, the tarpaulin frame cover painted neatly with the name ‘Buckie’s Mills’. The heavy horses had their noses in feedbags, the wagoner and his mate were lounging against the wheels, awaiting a goods train that would bring in bales of wool from the stapler’s warehouse.
A station porter came behind Jenny and Ned carrying their portmanteaux. A vast difference, thought Jenny to herself, from the trip to Balmoral, when she and Ned had been under instructions to save money at every turn. On that occasion ‒ only ten months ago ‒ they had had a few articles in a small carpet bag. They had slept in the train to save on hotel bills.
The Abbotsford Inn was more used to commercial travellers than the pair who now presented themselves under the escort of the lawyer. The young lady knew she was being inspected by the manager’s wife, but felt no qualms. Black and blue checked silk carriage dress, matching cape, straw bonnet with pink and blue flowers, fine kid gloves, tiny leather boots peeping from beneath the flounces of the skirt ‒ she had chosen her outfit to impress two facts: that she had money and that she wasn’t a flibbertigibbet.
She had supervised Ned’s clothes also. He was always rather careless, but his jacket was of a very fine cloth woven by the family, and his trousers were the very latest navy and brown plaid. His black silk top hat sat rather far back on his untidy brown hair, but that apart, he looked tolerably like a man of business.
Jenny’s father had declined to come. He hated travel, was afraid of steam trains, and had no wish to be involved in financial chat with Mr Kennet. ‘I’ll rely on your views,’ he said, as he waved them off at Edinburgh station. ‘You’ve the business head, Jenny, and Ned has the training.’
If both Ned and Jenny thought privately that the study of philosophy was poor training for renting a woollen mill, they kept the thought to themselves. Both were eager to succeed in their enterprise.
After a short pause while they tidied themselves and were offered refreshments, they set off in Mr Kennet’s carriage to inspect the mill premises on offer. There were two, both on what was known as the Mill Lead. The river, the Gala Water, had been diverted to provide power to turn the machinery of the mills, each of which was named by Kennet as they drove by.
‘Leitch’s, Brown’s, William Fairgrieve … Fairgrieve has the main part of the building, William Gray has the northern extension, but Fairgrieve’s brother has the mill against the Cuddie Green, that’s yon open space. Beyond that ‒ do you see the chimneys, sir? ‒ that’s Stirling’s, but they’ve a problem with the water supply there, it’s a wee bit far from the Lead.’
Jenny had no objections to the lawyer’s addressing his remarks to her brother. He probably took it for granted that she acted as amanuensis or note-taker to the menfolk. She knew that Ned would acquit himself well enough because he was interested, for his own reasons, in seeing the family translate itself to a more important sphere. So long as he asked the right questions and got reasonable answers, she was content to remain in the background.
The mill Mr Kennet wished them to lease was a dark, rather dreary place, built like a house only taller, three storeys high with small, inadequate windows. Ned exchanged a glance with his sister. ‘This looks very inefficient, Mr Kennet.’
‘Not at all, sir. I assure you it’s been a successful mill, the owner’s product simply went out of fashion.’
‘Shawls, I suppose,’ said Jenny.
‘Why, yes. Ah, the ladies,’ Mr Kennet said with arch approval. ‘They know all about such things. Yes, the vogue for shawls began to go out some seven or eight years ago, although Ballantyne’s continued to do quite well with them until, I believe, the last two or three.’ He smiled at Jenny. ‘You young ladies like a shaped coat or jacket these days. I remember my mother … the dear soul had four or five shawls, and one heavy cloak, not a single coat.’
They had got out of the carriage and were being ushered towards the mill. Jenny put a restraining hand under Ned’s elbow. He paused. ‘I think we needn’t go in, sir,’ he said.
‘But, I assure you, it’s a fine sturdy building ‒ some looms still in place which you could purchase at a bargain ‒’
‘It’s badly designed for the flow of work,’ said Ned. ‘And it’s too dark.’
‘Oh, as to the dark, you’ll find employees have more sense than to complain of that ‒’
Jenny said, ‘My brother and I are websters, our father too. Good light is needed not only for good work but for good humour.’
‘Good humour? But, my dear Miss Corvill, the humour of employees is surely not to be considered?’
Jenny thought otherwise. She contented herself with turning back to the carriage and waiting to be helped up. Mr Kennet followed, shaking his head to himself. Foolish girl! Why had Mr Corvill brought her with him?
The next site was much better. It was a large mill of four storeys with a separate stair tower peaked by a bell and a clock. The bell was to summon the workers and to ring the hour of going home. The clock was to note their lateness and ensure money was docked.
The water from the Mill Lead was pouring through the channels. From the building came the unmistakeable sound of the power loom at work. A cart was pulling away from the loading yard.
Ned was taken aback. He was about to say, ‘You’re offering us a going concern?’ but Jenny spoke first to prevent the blunder which would have revealed not only his inexperience but his naivete.
‘How much of this is to let?’
‘At present you can have four carding sets if you wish, ma’am, with ancillary processes, and more should you need to expand.’
‘With whom should we be sharing?’
‘The other sets are in operation under the firm of Begg & Hailes, a very respectable and reliable company, but not in any way in competition with your father’s goods. They make plain cloth, a very good cloth, for covert coats and carriage capes, outdoor cloth, you understand me.’
Mr Kennet fo
und himself addressing Miss Corvill without even being aware he had sensed her importance. He watched her as they were welcomed at the door of the entrance hall by the manager.
‘Miss Corvill and Mr Corvill, may I present Mr Gaines.’
Greetings were exchanged. They had all to speak a little louder because the sound of the looms was already growing although they had not entered the main works. Here in the hall was the desk of the chief clerk, who took and booked orders and received prospective customers. His domain was as far as possible from the wool-shed and the smelly scouring and drying department.
‘We’ll go straight to the carding engines, if that will suit you,’ Gaines said. He was an elderly man, sober-suited. ‘Mind these steps, ma’am.’ He was looking at Jenny from under bushy brows. What did Kennet think he was up to, bringing a lady in all her finery into the dust and noise of a weaving shed?
They bypassed sets in action. Each set consisted of four machines, the scribbler, the second carder, the piecing machine and the slubbing billy. Jenny had seen them at work before, in mills she had visited in the Edinburgh area, but she was still overawed by the speed and dexterity with which the endless apron of raw wool was turned into a rope that became in the end a spread of fine filaments to be spun into yarn.
The far side of the big room had four carding sets standing silent. ‘Mr Begg thinks of bringing in the new “condensers”,’ Gaines explained. ‘They’ll replace the piecing and the billy. It’s faster and, if you’ve seen it, sir, you’ll agree it gives a more even thread.’
‘Yes,’ said Ned, who had never seen a condenser and would not have recognised one if he had.
The tour of the premises took two hours. The amount of walking was tiring, since it involved mounting to upper floors for the actual making of the cloth, the fulling, the cropping, and the pressing. The noise was a fatigue in itself.
The girls tending the machines eyed them as they walked by or paused. Ned smiled at one or two, but they kept themselves from acknowledging him. He was a stranger, a gentleman, he spoke with a strange accent quite unlike their Border dialect. As for ‘the young leddy’, she was the subject of envy. Her dress alone must have cost the equivalent of six months’ wages. They weren’t to know that it had been made and paid for, with great trepidation on Jenny’s part, purposely to impress the Borders mill owners.
They adjourned for lunch at two. Mr Kennet was in something of a quandary. He’d expected the female secretary to be left at the hotel for a ladylike collation, while he took the gentleman off for a dram and a substantial meal of Border mutton with potatoes.
But this young lady seemed to be the brains of the pair, so he sent a message by the office boy to his wife, to say that he’d be bringing home two guests for a luncheon. Mrs Kennet nearly sent the boy back with a message that her husband must be out of his mind to expect her to provide a meal at half-past-two when all decent respectable households ate at noon. But instead, suspecting these were important clients, she had her cook send to the dining-room hot soup and potato scones, cold pork pie and salad greens, and the trifle intended for the evening meal.
With it Mr Kennet provided an excellent Chablis, which Miss Corvill scarcely touched but which proved much to the taste of her brother. Afterwards there was coffee and port, which Mr Corvill seemed to enjoy. The result was that he became rather somnolent during the discussion that followed. That was all to the good, because it was about money, which he understood scarcely at all.
About four o’clock they went to the office to look at a map of the town of Galashiels and consider where, supposing Jenny leased part of the mill of Begg & Hailes, they might rent a house.
‘You’d be bringing your own furniture?’
She shook her head. When she thought of the solid, cottage furniture of her home, she knew it would suit badly with any house they might take as ‘mill owners’. ‘It would be convenient to take something furnished for the time being.’
‘I have clients who have an upper floor to let, capacious, on the corner of Simes Place near the Gala Bridge.’
A moment’s thought told her that her mother would hate having to share a house with anyone else. She was too set in her ways, too insecure. ‘I should prefer a furnished house. It need not be very large.’
‘But, Miss Corvill, the Corvill family can scarcely live in a webster’s cottage.’
That was true. They would have a position to keep up. ‘We had better leave this point for the moment. Perhaps you could make enquiries.’ What she meant was that he wasn’t the only solicitor in Galashiels, that other firms might have clients with houses to rent. He took the point perfectly.
They parted at six, when Mr Kennet habitually went home to the meal the English might call either supper or dinner, but which he called high tea. He debated whether to invite the Corvills again but Jenny prevented it by saying she and her brother were very tired, would eat at the hotel and have an early night. The truth was that Ned needed a nap to sleep off the port.
They had their meal served privately and rather late in the parlour that separated their two bedrooms. Ned had woken up enough to take an interest. ‘What was all that you and Kennet were chatting about?’
‘Somewhere to live.’
‘You’ve decided to take the mill, then?’
‘Oh, yes, though I haven’t told Kennet yet. It’s a great opportunity.’
‘It is?’
‘Of course. We can make a good start and then we have the chance to buy the new carding machines with condensers at a reasonable price.’
Her brother looked baffled. ‘How do you make that out, Jenny?’
‘Weren’t you listening? Mr Kennet said we could lease premises with four carding sets with the possibility of expansion ‒ that can only mean that Begg & Hailes think of going soon. Then their manager remarked that Mr Begg was bringing in the new condensers ‒ he’ll be trying them out there. When they eventually move, to some more modern place, perhaps, with new machines installed, they’ll leave the carding sets that are in place and we’ll be able to buy them second hand.’
There was a long pause. ‘My word!’ sighed Ned. ‘What a head you have, Jenny.’
She laughed. ‘You ought to argue, point out the flaws. For all I know, Mr Begg may intend to take his new condensers with him. But even if he does, I’ll have had a close look at them and I’ll know whether we should invest in them.’
The maid came in to mend the fire and to clear away the remains of their meal. Ned stretched out his legs to the warmth, for it was cool now that night was drawing on. He had taken off his jacket and unbuttoned his check waistcoat.
Jenny, too, had replaced her fine carriage gown with a house dress of poplin.
‘You’re planning a long way ahead,’ he murmured. ‘Buying new machinery ‒ and we aren’t even in the place yet.’
‘If you want to make the best cloth you have to have the best machinery.’
‘Jenny …’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you think … are we right in making the change?’
She sat up in surprise. ‘What d’you mean? Why else are we here?’
‘It was when I spent the morning in the mill … Those machines … Father will never come to terms with them.’
‘I don’t understand you. Father doesn’t have to do anything with the carding engines or the power looms. He only has to oversee them.’
‘I don’t know whether he wants to do that, Jenny. All he really wants is to make good cloth. Himself, with his own hands.’
‘But good heavens, Ned! The days of the handloom are over.’
‘Not for him.’ Ned pulled at his chin, then said, ‘I wonder if we wouldn’t be better just to go on as we are? Father’s happy, after all ‒’
‘You agreed! You said it yourself! You have to go either forward or backward, you can’t stand still.’
‘I know, I know. I still think that. But Father would be happier just working at the loom and supervising the work he puts out to
the other handlooms.’
‘But we’re turning away orders, Ned! We could have sold nearly four times our present output ‒’
‘Money isn’t everything, after all.’
She leapt to her feet in irritation. ‘It’s money that keeps you at the university, brother! It’s money that made it possible to bring in a man to use your loom so that you could listen to lectures on Plato and Aristotle.’
‘Yes, well, you see, that proves my point. We made enough for that without uprooting Father and Mother ‒’
‘And so that makes it perfect! You’re catered for, Father and Mother are content.’
‘It isn’t a bad situation.’
‘It is for me!’ she interrupted. ‘Have you ever thought about me?’
He stared up at her. The parlour was dimly lit by the long summer twilight. He couldn’t quite distinguish her expression. ‘You, Jenny? But you’ll marry soon and ‒’
‘No, I won’t. If you really imagine I’m going to let Father marry me off to some straitlaced Huguenot ‒’
‘But what else can happen, sister? That’s always been the plan.’
‘I’m not going to stay in the Dean Village and be married off to Walter Chambron! Even if he wasn’t such a hypocrite I’d still refuse.’
Ned got up. He took her hands. To his surprise he discovered she was trembling. So all this was deeply felt, long suppressed.
‘I didn’t know you disliked Walter?’
‘He knows full well that gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins yet he eats like a pig. He’ll be as fat as a feather bed by the time he’s thirty.’
‘Well, you don’t have to take Walter. James Leclare is interested in you.’
‘Stop it.’ She snatched her hands away. ‘I’m not going to stay at home in the Dean Village and be a Huguenot wife. I’m going to run a mill in Galashiels and be a somebody.’
It was the first time he had even thought that she had ambitions for herself. Until now it had always been taken for granted that she was working and planning only for the family, for the good of Corvill and Son and thus, for Ned and his future. It shocked him to think she had ambitions of her own.
A Web of Dreams Page 8