A Web of Dreams

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘This is very unwomanly, Jenny.’

  ‘Oh, don’t prate at me! If you were perfect yourself I might listen, but we both know, brother, that you have faults. Don’t desert me now because you were frightened by the machines.’

  ‘I wasn’t!’

  ‘Yes you were, don’t deny it. You hadn’t thought beyond the idea of being “the son of a mill owner”. When you saw those engines in action you suddenly understood what it meant. But no one is asking you to deal with the mill, Ned. You know that full well. I will handle all that.’

  ‘But you’ve never dealt with the making of cloth by power.’

  ‘I’m not going to do it myself, you idiot! I’m going to hire others. After all, Mr Begg’s mill is managed for him. I shall have a foreman and a master dyer and Father shall be the master webster to check the cloth when it comes out at the end. It can be done, Ned, and I’ve already contacted London merchants who want to market our wares, and I’ve got orders from customers in Edinburgh and Glasgow, and I’ll write to the palace to tell Their Majesties we can supply tartans in any quantity ‒’

  ‘Jenny, Jenny!’ Her enthusiasm frightened him. He wasn’t sure it wasn’t all some wild dream.

  The maid came in after a tap at the door, bringing the lamps. She drew the curtains. When she had gone, Ned pulled up the worn but comfortable sofa to the fire and brought his sister to sit there beside him.

  One of the things that Jenny loved about Ned was that he was tolerant, open-minded. It was also one of his weaknesses. He could always see all sides of every argument. This morning he had suddenly seen how his conservative father would react to the bustle and clatter of the mill. Now he saw how important the project was to his sister.

  ‘Is it just to get away from marrying Walter or James?’ he asked gently. ‘If it is, it’s too big a counter-attack. All you have to do is say no to them.’

  She understood that the time had come to give him her side of the matter. She wasn’t a girl who confided for the sake of giving confidences; she’d never been one to exchange little secrets with other girls. But now she must make Ned understand how she felt about moving from Edinburgh.

  ‘I want us to make the best cloth in Scotland,’ she began. ‘And the best cloth is being made here, in Galashiels. That gives us an added cachet. We have a good reputation already, and moreover we have royal patronage ‒ I believe if we work at it we might even get a royal patent in time. Ned, we could have one of the finest cloth-making firms in the world ‒ but we can never do it on a small scale with ten or twelve handlooms.’

  It was breathtaking, almost like Alexander planning to conquer a continent. ‘But it would cost a fortune in investment, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It wouldn’t happen all at once. I’ve put my target at five years. In five years, you’ll be able to go into a shop in the United States and ask for cloth by Corvill and Son ‒ and get it.’

  ‘It’s … I don’t know what to say …’

  ‘Just think, Ned. Your name will be known throughout the country, throughout the world, in time. You’ll have money, you can travel, study …’

  She knew how to entrap him. The vista she spread before him was irresistible. The genuine concern he’d felt for his father faded in the glow of the future splendours Jenny conjured up. He went to bed a firm ally of his sister.

  Next morning Jenny had early interviews with three or four men who came by appointment to ask for a job with the new mill owners. She was relatively pleased with Robert Ritchie, whose references described him as being competent, honest and fully trained in the use of power-driven wool-carding machinery. Mr Kennet arrived at eleven to show them living accommodation. For the first time they had a chance to make a closer acquaintance with Galashiels, which proved to be a workaday little town. Cloth-making had brought change, not entirely approved of by Dorothy, sister of the poet Wordsworth. She had lamented the ‘ugly stone houses’ that were replacing the romantic dark-thatched cottages, but the weavers probably preferred slate roofs and dry floors to the damp huts of former years.

  There was little of architectural interest. The finest residence was Gala House, the property of John Scott, Laird of Gala. The Hall, home of Mr Haldane the brewer, was prosperous-looking and the town cross stood across the green from it. There were two or three good inns, and a carriage bridge across the Gala Water leading to the High Street. Further upstream there was a narrow bridge at Wildhaugh.

  The river itself was pretty enough, with rushes and kingcups at the edge of the ale-coloured water. It flowed smoothly on to join the Tweed, where stood Abbotsford, home of Sir Walter Scott, almost a place of pilgrimage now for admirers of his novels.

  ‘You yourself may feel like paying homage,’ Mr Kennet said with playful jocularity. ‘He seems to have invented the tartan industry single-handed.’

  ‘You mean because of popularising the shepherd’s plaid for trousers.’

  ‘Certainly we noticed a great increase in orders for that cloth when he began to wear it.’

  ‘But the vogue for tartan comes from the pleasure shown by Their Majesties in wearing it,’ Jenny said.

  ‘And greatly appreciated, of course. But you know,’ Kennet went on, determined to show his erudition, ‘Sir Walter once remarked of tartan that “most of the designs owed their origins to the mercantile ingenuity of the Edinburgh merchants”.’

  ‘Wherever the designs come from,’ Jenny replied, ‘I’m sure we agree that what is important is that they should be beautiful and well made.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Kennet, thinking that it was very difficult indeed to impress this young lady.

  They had inspected the apartment in Simes Place and a house on the north side of the river badly in need of repair. They now drew up on a corner of the old road from Peebles, where several houses had been recently erected in clearings on the estate of the Laird of Gala.

  ‘This house was brought to my attention,’ said Kennet, meaning that he had spent all yesterday evening visiting his colleagues to see what they had on their books.

  ‘Isn’t it rather far out of the town?’ Ned objected.

  ‘Far? Why, sir, it’s only a quarter of an hour’s walk to the High Street and another ten from there to the mill. Say half an hour at most, excellent exercise for a man on a fine morning.’

  ‘And if it rains or snows?’

  ‘You’ll have your carriage, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ The idea of owning a carriage delighted Ned so much that he had no further objections to make.

  Mr Kennet led them on foot up a rather steep drive. He did this on purpose because the most successful surprise was obtained this way. The house came into view round the curve.

  ‘Good gracious!’ said Jenny.

  ‘Delightful, is it not?’ said Kennet.

  It looked like a miniature abbey, built in a warm reddish stone. Designed, no doubt, under the influence of the novels of Sir Walter Scott, it had a romantic, gothic appearance and yet wasn’t sombre. The windows were all mullioned. There was a hexagonal turret on the roof between the main wing and the gabled north end. The entrance was in a little bay with castellations and arched church-like windows.

  The garden bloomed with the last of the spring tulips, and roses coming into bud. A lawn ran down the slope to mature trees left untouched to give shelter from wind and weather. There was a coach house at the entrance gates, behind which could be glimpsed the kitchen gardens.

  ‘This way,’ said Mr Kennet, smiling to himself. He produced a large key to unlock the nail-studded entrance door. He paused. ‘The house is called Gatesmuir,’ he announced. ‘Because, as you can see, it is at the edge of the moor on what used to be the only road across it.’

  They walked into a hall floored with the coloured granite of Scotland, dark red and dark grey, highly polished. The arched window shed a bright, clear light.

  Most of the furniture was draped in dust sheets which Kennet twitched back. The drawing-room on one side, the dining-room on the o
ther, had rather heavy chairs and tables of oak, well in keeping with the architecture. Upstairs a very pretty sitting-room was flooded with noon sunshine, then beyond that bedrooms with white wainscoting and tester beds without hangings. There was even a bathroom, with a bath edged with mahogany and two taps which ran water into the tub.

  ‘Hot water comes from the boiler in the kitchen,’ said Mr Kennet. ‘This way.’

  The kitchen was as big as the ground floor of the cottage at home. Though other parts of the house were attractive, it was here that Jenny could picture her mother, bustling around, supervising the cooking ‒ for of course they must have a cook, and a maid. At home they had only a woman who came in daily, but in this house they would need permanent staff. ‘There’s a woman comes in once a week to keep things tidy,’ Kennet said in answer to her query, ‘and to light fires against the damp in winter. She’d be glad to be kept on, I imagine. An honest woman, Annie Dacre.’

  ‘How long has the place stood empty?’

  ‘Ah. Ten months. Colonel Anderson married about three years ago, built this house for his retirement, but his wife proved to have a delicate constitution so they’ve gone to live in Portugal. He’s willing to sell or let, furnished or unfurnished, I gather.’

  ‘Is he likely to return to Galashiels?’

  ‘To live, you mean?’ Kennet shook his head. ‘If they come back to Britain it will be to one of the softer regions ‒ the West country, perhaps.’

  ‘That is reassuring,’ Jenny said, in cool tone. ‘One wouldn’t wish to settle in and then find the owner wanting his property back at the end of a year’s lease.’

  Her coolness hid a deep excitement. The moment she’d seen the house, she knew it was for her. Its charm, its warmth, its capaciousness ‒ they drew her as if she had found what she’d been looking for all her life. But she took good care not to let Kennet see it. If he did, the rent would go up.

  They went on to look at other properties. Ned, bored, cried off at midday, saying he would look round the town. Jenny tried to keep him with her, knowing full well he would head for the nearest tavern, but he shook off her hand.

  She and Mr Kennet parted in mid-afternoon. She went back to the hotel, tired enough to want to take off her elegant boots and put her feet up. As she entered the lobby, a man came forward.

  ‘Miss Corvill?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I hear you’re hiring for your new mill.’

  ‘Do you, indeed? How did you come to hear that?’

  ‘Och, in a small place like this, we only have one topic of conversation ‒ cloth-making. News gets round.’

  ‘I see. Well, what do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to offer for a position.’

  She took a look at him, unhurried. He was tall, angular, well dressed enough to advertise the fact that he was a superior workman. He had reddish hair which hinted at an inheritance from the Danish raiders of long ago. His age, she thought, would be about thirty.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Ronald Armstrong.’

  ‘Well, Mr Armstrong, I’m very tired and I’ve had nothing to eat since six in the morning. I want to rest and eat. Perhaps you could come back ‒’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he said.

  She was both taken aback and interested. Good workers were at a premium in the cloth trade. He had no need to cool his heels in a hotel lobby for a job. She hesitated. ‘Perhaps … I’ll order a snack and while I wait for it, we could converse?’

  ‘That’d suit me.’

  She nodded, and turned to the hotel manager at his desk. ‘I should like hot tea and cold meat sandwiches in my parlour as soon as possible.’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am. For two?’

  ‘For one.’

  She saw out of the corner of her eye that Ronald Armstrong hid a smile at this demonstration of their relative positions. And she thought to herself, After all, I’m not a mill owner yet. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Unless you’d like a cup, Mr Armstrong?’

  ‘I’d like it fine, Miss Corvill.’

  She led the way to her parlour. He took her key from her, unlocked the door, then stood back to allow her to go first. He stood gazing out of the window while she went into her bedroom to take off her bonnet and gloves. For the moment she kept on her walking boots ‒ she felt it would be beneath her dignity to appear in house shoes.

  ‘Well, Mr Armstrong,’ she said as she re-entered the parlour. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a master dyer.’

  ‘Are you employed at present?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did you come to leave your last post? Did you give notice or were you dismissed?’

  ‘I was dismissed.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Impertinence.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, trying to remain impassive. Impertinence … She studied him. He was standing looking rather demure, as if secretly amused. ‘What does that mean, impertinence?’

  ‘I told the mill owner that he was a fool if he thought his cheap mid-magenta would prove fast. He gave me the sack on the spot. He asked me to come back when I was proved right, but I can’t be doing with fools.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I take it you have no reference from him.’

  ‘But I have. Do you want to see it?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  He brought from his pocket a manila envelope. Inside there were others of various kinds. He held it out. ‘Mr Cairns’s is the one on top. The others are previous employers.’

  She went to a chair, gesturing to another at the opposite side of the parlour table. ‘Sit down.’ He obeyed. She opened the reference from Mr Cairns.

  ‘Ronald Armstrong has worked for me for fourteen months,’ she read. ‘His work as a dyer is excellent but he has a high opinion of himself. Signed, yours faithfully, Herbert Cairns.’

  She looked up. ‘Is that true, Mr Armstrong? Do you have a high opinion of yourself?’

  ‘It’s been said.’

  ‘But is it true?’

  ‘I have a high opinion of my abilities. I know how to produce good colour.’

  ‘Very well.’ She read the other references of which there were three. He had worked in Galashiels, in Glasgow, and in Perth at the premises of Mr Pullar, the dye expert. ‘This is quite impressive. You could get a job anywhere. Why are you hanging about asking for a job with a mill that hasn’t even started?’

  ‘I have enough to live on for a while, I’m not desperate for a wage-tin. I’ve seen the cloth your father makes, Miss Corvill. I’d like to work for him.’

  ‘You’ve seen our cloth?’

  ‘Of course. Anyone who takes an interest in cloth-making has taken the trouble to see it. I went to Renfrew on purpose to see a piece you’d made for a merchant there.’

  ‘The green plaid?’

  ‘That one.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘Too much Helindone-yellow. The dyer was Swintons of Edinburgh, I take it.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘He’s heavy-handed on yarn. He can dye and finish whole cloth but he never calculates lightly enough for yarn.’

  Jenny was impressed, too impressed to hide the fact. And she was filled with a sudden exultation.

  She had found the one man, the lynchpin without which the wheel would never have turned smoothly. Here was the master of dyes who would translate her designs from dream to reality. Here was the man who would bring colour to life in the wool.

  The maid knocked on the door before entering with a laden tray.

  ‘Have some tea, Mr Armstrong,’ Jenny said, thinking she should have offered him nectar and gold.

  Chapter Six

  William Corvill always kept as far away from the thundering machinery as he could. He set up a handloom in a disused office on the first floor of the mill, where he would weave sample pieces of new designs to see if they were attractive when translated from water-colour on graph paper to liv
ing cloth. To him from time to time samples of the newly-spun yarn were brought, for his approval as to weight and regularity. He took a keen interest in the dye samples.

  To the workforce he was a figure of mystery and awe, seldom seen. The moving spirit in the section of the mill run by the Corvills was the young Miss Corvill. Section foremen reported directly to her, the manager of the carding department and the dye master were often in conference in her comfortable office.

  The mill girls couldn’t come to terms with the idea of a boss who was a ‘miss’. In addressing her they used the old Scottish term, ‘mistress’, the equivalent of the English Mrs when attached to a name, but also the equivalent of ‘madam’. In the course of the first winter in their new premises the question would be, ‘Have you asked the mistress about it?’ or ‘We’d better leave it for the mistress to see.’

  Jenny was more relieved than she could say to watch her father settle down to life in Galashiels. Her brother’s accusations had disturbed her more than she let him see. Was she uprooting a plant that would die out of its usual setting?

  If a term could have been invented to suit the role William played, he would perhaps have been called Artistic Director. It was due to him that the cloth made by William Corvill and Son continued to own its good name for beauty and quality.

  No one knew that it was Jenny who designed most of the new checks and tartans that came from their looms. They thought of her as the business head, that strange prodigy of the Corvill family, a ‘businesswoman’.

  Most of William’s time was taken up by religion or, more properly, theology. He brought all his books with him to Galashiels and with the money that began to flow in he bought more. He joined and became a leading member of the United Secession Church, which had its being on the road opposite Gala House and prided itself on its upright Protestantism. Mrs Corvill also attended, was embraced with open arms, and devoted herself to good works carried out by the ladies of the congregation in Galashiels and surrounding villages.