by Sonia Velton
John Barnstaple banged his fist upon the table, making me jump and the froth slop over the top of his ale pot. “By God, they will be the death of us. We cannot afford for them to put down even one more loom.”
The other journeymen nodded and murmured.
The man who had let me in had been leaning against the wall. At Barnstaple’s words he stood upright and said: “We have already had four of our six looms put down. With no income, the weavers cannot eat. Their families are starving.”
Barnstaple held up his hands as if to stem the strength of the man’s feeling. “You are right, Duff. They cannot be allowed to get away with what they are doing. Look what happened to young Ives.” He gestured to the boy sitting next to him. He seemed barely more than a child, with high cheekbones and luminous skin, still smooth as a girl’s. Barnstaple hung an arm over Ives’ shoulders. “Tell them what happened, Ives.”
Barnstaple’s attention made Ives puff with pride. “I started work at five years old. Worked for the same master, I did, for nearly eight years. I picked his silk clean, filled his quills and drew up the figures. I thought I was going to be a proper journeyman, really make something of myself. Didn’t know that he had taken on ten other boys just the same. He never was goin’ to give me an apprenticeship. We was all just cheap labor to him.”
The journeymen started murmuring again. One of them tipped some ale into a spare pot and pushed it across the table toward the boy. Barnstaple gave Ives’ shoulders a quick shake, then took back his arm and rubbed his hands together. “So we are agreed, then? We will demand sixpence per loom from each master.”
My eyes became drawn to Lambert. He sat straight in his chair, holding his head still, while all about him the other men dipped theirs in assent.
Barnstaple noticed it too. “And what of you, Lambert? Are you not with us?”
“I am with you,” he replied, his voice even, “but I have no quarrel with my master. Thorel has not put down any of his looms. Even Ives has a job now, as my drawboy, working Thorel’s figured silk.”
“Of course, the great master piece. How is that coming along?” Some of the men chuckled. “Thorel will not put down his best drawloom, I grant you,” continued Barnstaple. “It’s not the weavers of the flowered brocades who are in trouble, it’s the plain silk weavers. Men like all of us!”
“We are all in trouble,” said Lambert. “The mercers are buying figured silks smuggled in from France. Silk is Thorel’s livelihood too.” He shifted slightly to address the rest of the weavers. “What if he refuses to pay? What if all the master weavers refuse to pay? If the mercers are not buying their silk because they can get the same thing from France, they have no money themselves to pay you. Have you thought of that?”
Duff leaned forward and set his thick jaw into a determined jut. “Then we will damn well make them.”
Lambert stared at Barnstaple from across the table. The other men quietened. I found it remarkable how these men looked to Barnstaple to know what to do.
Barnstaple said, “If they do not pay, they will find out how powerful we are. We are just one combination, but there are many more in Spitalfields, and all are as angry as we are. Who can say what a poor and hungry man might do?”
“I want no violence,” said Lambert.
“Nor I,” said Barnstaple, “but if it comes to that, then so be it.” Their exchange muted the atmosphere in the room. Duff raised his eyes to mine as if challenging me to speak out. Did he worry that my loyalties would be split between the journeymen and the household I worked for?
“What are you still doing here, anyway?” Duff said. “I thought you had a message from Thorel.”
“I have.”
“Well, what is it?”
I handed the paper to Barnstaple, who ripped it open and read it quickly. “He says that the mercer has canceled his order for the watered tabby and I’m to return the thread to Spital Square tomorrow.”
“See?” said Duff, his eyes becoming bright and round as pennies. “This is just the start.”
After a while the weavers dispersed to their own lodgings until only Lambert, Barnstaple, and Ives were left.
“You shouldn’t have involved the child,” said Lambert.
“What?” Barnstaple sounded tired and annoyed.
“Ives, he has no place in this.”
“I’m not a child,” said Ives, indignant.
Lambert ignored him. “You used him to stir up the feeling of the men,” he said to Barnstaple. “Leave him out of it from now on.”
“I’ll do, or not do, whatever I damn well please.”
“He’s my nephew and I am telling you to leave him out of it.”
“Indeed he is your nephew,” said Barnstaple, “but he seems to do what I say.” Then he turned to Ives. “Who can blame you, eh, boy? You just need a man to look up to, don’t you?”
“Who would that be?” said Lambert. “You? Sitting upstairs weaving ribbons like a girl?”
Barnstaple stood up with such force his chair toppled over. Lambert rose too, and, for a moment, I feared they would come to blows.
“It’s late,” I said quickly. “We should all get some rest.” They stared at each other until Barnstaple picked up his chair and set it upright so hard I thought it might break apart.
Lambert glared at him, then said, “I’m taking Ives home,” and left without bidding us good-night.
Barnstaple glowered at me across the table. “Isn’t it time you got back to the Thorels?” he said, picking up a piece of bread from the table and chewing it.
I held his gaze. His hair, black as a bat, hung over his eyes, wayward and disobedient, suggesting the temperament of the man. I shook my head slowly. His eyes were jet in the candlelight, unfathomable. “I would rather stay here,” I said.
Barnstaple swallowed the bread, then picked up his ale and swilled another mouthful, his eyes never leaving me. “Would you indeed?” he said. “You didn’t feel that way the last time you came here.”
“I want to know you,” I said. “I find you interesting. The men, they listen to everything you say. It’s like you’re fearless.”
“Fearless or reckless?”
I smiled. “Why don’t you tell me?”
Barnstaple reached across the table for the jug of ale and filled his pot. “Do you know what my father was?” he asked.
I didn’t answer. Something about his openness and the quiet night surrounding us created a fragile intimacy that might shatter if I spoke.
“He was a night-soil man. He spent his life shoveling other people’s filth until one night he was so exhausted he fell into the cesspit he was emptying. No one came to help him. Can you imagine that? Your own father lying in a cesspit because no one cared enough to get their hands dirty.” Barnstaple took a swig of his ale. “He was dead by morning.”
There was the tiniest crack in his bravado. When he looked at me he seemed almost boyish. I would have reached out to touch his face if I hadn’t known that my hand would be batted away.
“I learned something then,” he said. “No one’s going to listen to a night-soil man or a journeyman. We have no voice alone. That’s why I bring all the men here and tell them what I do. When we stand together they will have to listen to us.” It felt heady indeed to look upon a man with real desire.
At Mrs. Swann’s I had learned to see men through different eyes, as the cook views the giblets pulled from a turkey, or the tanner turns his face from the stench of lime on leather.
I walked over and leaned against the table in front of him. When he went to lift the ale to his mouth again, I closed my hand over his and gently took the pot from him.
Esther
Clutching my long roll of point paper to my chest, as if I were going into battle, I climbed the stairs to the trapdoor. They were just finishing as I stepped inside the garret. Ives’ boyi
sh shoulders sagged when he saw me and he dropped his bag to the floor, unable to hide his scowl.
“Ives,” said Lambert, “you can still go home.”
The boy didn’t wait for anyone to change their mind and disappeared through the trapdoor, his bag bouncing down the steps behind him.
“He’s just tired,” said Lambert.
“It’s a long day for him. I don’t want to keep you. I came only to show you this.” I held up the point paper to him. “If you don’t mind?”
“Of course,” he said. “Why don’t you put it here?” He indicated the stretch of flat threads across the loom. I laid the roll of paper on top and smoothed out the mise-en-carte for Blackberry and Wild Rose. I felt nervous, somehow, showing it to him. It seemed as personal as if he had brushed aside the lace at my neckline and was gazing on my skin.
He nodded, studying the curve of flower and fruit across the little squares, reduced to shades of gray for the loom. “You haven’t chosen the colors yet?” he asked.
“I thought that I could see what thread you have here.”
“Shall we do that now?”
I felt such relief and gratitude for his kindness. He hadn’t mocked my work, or dismissed my attempts to draw up a pattern. I nodded and we walked over to the shelf of silk spools. He contemplated them for a moment, then reached up and took down three.
He had chosen a dusky pink, a mid-green, and a purple so dark you might think it black, until you twisted it in the light and saw its mulberry tones. “What about these?” he asked, his eyes searching my face to gauge my reaction. Then he walked over to the empty loom and placed the spools on the heddles, as I had myself weeks before. I joined him at the loom and contemplated the colors for a moment. The pink was too brash for a dog rose, so I took the spool back to the shelf. There were so many colors … How could I choose one that worked in the silk but remained true to the subtle beauty of the wild rose? Then I saw it, a yellow as pale as buttermilk. I brought it back to the loom and placed it next to the others. It contrasted with the intense plum and made the green look sharp and bright.
Lambert nodded his approval. “I would keep the ground pale,” he commented, “almost white.” He was as straightforward as if he were talking to a mercer, or my husband. He did not talk to me as if I were a foolish girl.
“Will you weave it for me?” My voice came out almost as a whisper.
“Madam?”
“Mr. Lambert, it is my dearest wish to weave this silk. I should be so grateful if you would weave it for me. I will pay you, of course.” I spoke fast, the words chasing each other out of my mouth.
He looked quite taken aback. All our talk of colors and threads, the small cakes and linnet seeds, all reduced to nothing in the face of the baffled stare he gave me.
“I cannot weave this silk, ma’am. I already work for the master all day and in my spare time I am here, weaving my master piece. How could I weave this as well?”
“I understand.” His response was painfully obvious, and my hope had been foolish.
“I’m sure the master will find someone to weave it for you,” he said, his face wrinkled with concern.
“No, he will not.” I turned abruptly, walking away from the small intimacy I had revealed. When I reached the other loom, I rolled up the mise-en-carte roughly, not caring if the paper creased. It would never be used after all.
“Please,” he was beside me then, his voice gentle but insistent, “you cannot give up.”
I turned toward him, blinking away frustrated tears. “This,” I tightened my hands around the point paper, denting the hollow tube, “is all I have ever wanted to do. You will understand that, Mr. Lambert. There is nothing wrong with being a journeyman, but you want to be a master weaver. That is why you are here. There is nothing wrong with being mistress of this household, but I want to design silk. And that is why I am here.”
He pulled at his lower lip with his teeth, sighing through the small gap. “I wish I could help you.” He sounded genuinely regretful.
“I know, and you have been so kind already. It was wrong of me to ask.” I turned to leave, ready to walk away from everything I had thought I might do.
“He would see it anyway.”
Something about his voice made me stop. The tone, the slight acknowledgment. It marked a shift into a different place, the very beginning of an understanding.
I nodded, not turning.
“He might come here to check on my progress.”
Elias had even followed me up here. Just his mastery over the house was enough to stop me weaving my pattern. I turned back toward Lambert. “How often does he come up here?”
He shrugged. “He’s very busy so not often. But if he did he would see the silk on the other loom. We could not hide it from him.”
“I could bring something,” I said, “to cover it.”
Lambert let out a slow breath. “I will mount the loom for you,” he said. “I will set up the treads and the pattern mechanism. What you do with it after that is up to you.”
16
Sara
My mother made almond cakes when I was a child, sweet and sticky inside, crisp and sugar-dusted on top. In the summer she would leave them to cool on the sill with the window ajar. I would catch the smell as I played in the garden. When I thought she wasn’t looking, I would reach inside to snatch one and run off with it, passing it from one hand to the other until it was cool enough to eat. I should have left them alone, but I couldn’t help myself.
And that was how I felt about him.
Barnstaple rolled over with a sigh and reached behind his head, wedging the pillow under his neck. The coverlet was twisted and crumpled around our legs and his chest was bare. I moved onto my side so that I could lie closer to him. His skin was damp under my fingers as I played with the tight curls of black hair on his chest. He shifted slightly on his straw pallet, moving away from me, breaking the sticky seal of our skin.
“It’s so hot in here,” I said, looking around the garret. The muggy summer night pressed in on the lattice windows, sealed shut, offering the promise of light but no air. Barnstaple grunted, his breathing still quick. I knew better than to try to talk to him, so I let him rest until I began to see the dawn nudge up over the rooftops of the weavers’ cottages.
“I should get back soon,” I said. I could already hear Lambert downstairs, clanking a pot onto the hearth, whistling to himself. Making as much noise as possible, I supposed, to rouse us before he came up to the garret to start work.
Barnstaple opened his eyes and squinted at the window as if faintly surprised by the intrusion of day into his little attic. He pushed himself up to sitting, his head almost touching the sloping roof, and ran his hands through his hair, scraping it away from his face. “You should,” he said. “The Thorels will be wanting their money’s worth out of us both.”
“They’re not that bad,” I chided.
He gave me a look that said otherwise. “You’ve not heard Thorel’s canceled another order then?” I stayed silent. I could see the muscles of his jaw work under his skin. “Of course,” he went on, “it’s not Lambert who suffers. He’s still there all hours. It’s me who’s had my work cut by half.”
“Why do you not get the same work?”
“Because Lambert’s a golden boy and he can do no wrong. He puts up with whatever they dish out and they love him for it. Me, I don’t take that nonsense from them, so it’s my hours that are cut. Makes me spit, it does.”
“Hush.” I sat up, too, and reached out to stroke the side of his face as if he was a child. A bluish vein stood proud of his forehead and I felt his rage twitch beneath my fingers. “Why don’t you work for other masters?”
He clicked his tongue and batted my hand away. “It’s the same all over Spitalfields! Greedy masters stopping honest men earning their living to protect their profits. Either
that or they have reduced the piece rate for the silk so much that only an Irishman would weave it.”
I circled my arms round his neck, pressing my face into his hair and my lips against his ear. I could almost taste his anger in the salty tang of his sweat. “Then let’s not rush back to them,” I murmured, but he shrugged me from him and stood up, as uncompromising as the relentless creep of dawn.
* * *
Madam’s face pinched. “Only half a crown?”
I had returned to the house with fresh bread, butter, eggs, and cheese so that if anyone had noticed I was gone I could say that I had been to the market for breakfast provisions. The change from the housekeeping money Madam gave me every week was next to the basket of food. Madam poked at it with her finger as if it were a beetle with the audacity to be walking across her kitchen table.
“That’s the change he gave me, madam.” I tried to keep the exasperation from my voice, but I felt leaden with tiredness and the dull ache of separation from a lover.
“Well, it seems expensive for what you’ve bought,” she said, lifting out the loaf and peering underneath it as if there must be more in the basket than I had said there was. “Next time go to the baker on Quaker Street. It’s at least tuppence cheaper there and he puts no alum in it.”
Then she picked up her half-crown and dropped it into the pocket of her silk dressing gown before she turned to go back upstairs to change for breakfast. I took the eggs out of the basket and set them on the table so hard that one cracked. How could she talk of saving pennies when Barnstaple barely had enough work to put food on his table?
“Careful, Sara!” came her shrill voice from the doorway. “You can put that egg in a bowl and use it in a cake later. Frugality is a virtue, you know.”
Esther
“Will this do?”
We were alone in the garret again, Ives already sent on his way, standing by the second loom, now threaded with the pale warp threads and hung with shuttles attached to the buttermilk yellow weft. I had not waited long before I went back up there. I told myself that it was because I couldn’t risk Elias seeing the loom before it was covered, but really it was because I couldn’t stay away.