by Eric Flint
"I will have a better chance of getting married quickly if I have money rather than goods." She held out her arms, fingering the hems of her sleeves. "With this American lace, I will look wealthy. By selling your patterns and making my own, I will be wealthy." She looked at her brother then picked up a pamphlet. "I read your Rights of Man and Common Sense. It's starting to make sense." She dared him with a glare of her own. "Will you deny me the same chances because I am a woman?"
Johann closed his mouth and swallowed. "No." He looked at her then began to grin. He grabbed her in a hug. "We will change Hamburg!"
Annabet snorted. "We'll try."
***
"Annabet, where are we going?" Bertha asked the next evening.
"To check on Johann's shop while he is traveling." Annabet met a drunkard's leer with a glower. "He managed to buy supplies, despite the council's orders that the paper and ink sellers were not to do business with him."
"That's to be expected." Bertha watched the street while Annabet wrestled with the key. "They like money, too. So why are you checking on his shop?"
"Johann is like a new mother with her first baby. He is afraid something will happen to his press while he is gone. He had to go to Grantville to buy more lace patterns." She shoved the door open. "He is hoping to bring back double what he did last time."
Once inside, Bertha looked around. "I expected more mess."
Annabet lifted the canvas sheet covering her brother's machine. "No one has broken the press. Yet."
"Give them time."
Annabet settled on a stool by the window and pulled out her latest crochet project.
"What are you doing?"
"You've seen me crochet."
Bertha tapped her toe. "Why are you doing it here?"
"I promised Johann I would watch his shop." She looked up and saw her friend's expression. "No, I am not getting soft headed. If the city council's thugs come with hammers and pry bars, I won't get in their way. I'll just offer to sell their wives and sweethearts my lace." She tipped her basket to show off the tidy bundles of crocheted edgings.
Bertha regarded Annabet for several minutes then dragged a bench into the light and pulled out her spinning. "I didn't know foolishness was contagious."
***
Three days later, Annabet looked up to see a very large man with a crowbar and ink-stained hands blocking the door. Two men with cudgels stood behind him.
"Is the printer here?"
Annabet realized that talking bravado was different from facing down thugs. She lowered her work to her lap wishing Bertha, anyone, was with her. "No."
The crowbar-wielding man looked at the sheet-covered press before examining her. "Where is he?"
"Halfway to Grantville."
"When is he coming back?"
"I don't know," Annabet said.
The city council's enforcers muttered back and forth between themselves, then left. The remaining man stepped in and closed the door. "When did he leave?"
Annabet looked him in the eye and lied. "Two weeks ago."
The man frowned at her. The door swung open and hit the stranger in the back. He spun to face his attacker.
"Annabet! Annabet, you must help me." Wilhelmina dodged around the man. "How do I fix this?" She thrust a knitted object at Annabet. "It's all matted." The maid that followed her looked frightened. She skittered her way past him.
Annabet glanced at the scarf. "You scrubbed it in hot water, didn't you?"
"My little sister smeared jam on the end. How else…" Wilhelmina broke off and bit her lip.
Annabet sighed. "Once wool is fullered into felt, you can't undo it. Scrub the whole thing until it's even. Then when it's…"
"Quiet," the man bellowed. "Is this a print shop or a sewing circle?"
"Neither. It's a crocheting circle," Annabet told him. "And a lace shop." She shook out her work before folding it and tucking it into her basket. "You may as well sit. I won't have time to speak with you until I help these girls with their problems." Ignoring him and his dumbfounded expression, she turned back to back to Wilhelmina. "Fuller the whole length. Dry it, then bring it back. Close your mouth, child. You look like a fish."
Wilhelmina, glancing from the man, who was still standing, to Annabet and back, did as she was told, then babbled and shoved her friend forward. Tongue-tied, the girl just thrust a wad of string at Annabet.
Annabet rolled her eyes. She untangled the project and found a misshapen lace collar. She smoothed it out on her lap, examining the design. "You are decreasing here and here." She pointed at the mistakes. "Do not do that. When you get to the end of each row, chain three, turn it around, then continue the pattern. You must always chain up to the next row." She handed it back. "Rip it out and start over." She scowled at the girl's moan. "Don't argue. You'll never get wed with that in your dower chest."
"But I followed the instructions!" The maid dug in her bag and pulled out a battered piece of paper. "Here."
Annabet read the paper and sighed. She pulled another one out of her basket and checked her notes. "You must have bought an early pattern. Johann fixed that mistake when he printed it the second time." Annabet exchanged the bad pattern for a good one then shooed the girls off. She turned back to the stranger and made a point of straightening her elaborate lace cuffs and smoothing her apron which was edged with wide bands of more lace.
"Is there something you want?"
"That printing press."
Annabet gave the man a second, closer look. He had ink-stained clothes and looked old enough to be a master. If so, he was one of the young ones.
"It belongs to my brother," Annabet said. "I'm not allowed to sell it."
"Are you allowed to talk about the Committees of Correspondence?"
Annabet considered the man a third time. From the age and amount of stains on his clothes, she thought he was married to a lazy wife-if he was married at all. She started toying with her crochet hook.
"Who is your master?"
"Herr Groenenbach."
"Friend to the mayor and uncle to Gottfried?"
The journeyman printer sneered, but nodded. "My name is Paul Klaussen. Herr
Groenenbach is too lazy to want to train a new apprentice and too cheap to let me do it for him." His sneer turned into a snarl. "But he's more than willing to buy his friends on the council round after round of beer." He bit off the rest of what he was going to say.
Annabet stared at the crumpled, nearly illegible pattern in her basket while she twirled the hook in her fingers. Then she considered Klaussen one last time. She read his sullen expression easily. Her dead fiance wore that same look often before he ran off to be a mercenary.
"My brother, Johann, left for Grantville four days ago. I don't know how long it will take him to walk there, buy patterns, and walk back. I don't even know that I trust the Americans when they say they want equality for all.
"I do know this. The Committee of Correspondence has given me work when no one else would."
"Then we will speak of work." He sat down next to her and shoved the pry bar under the bench. "Show me the pattern your brother messed up."
***
Five days later, Karl entered the shop. He trailed Bertha and carried a short bench over his shoulder with one hand and held a tall, narrow table with the other. Two youngish maids took them with a glad cry. The small cluster of women rearranged themselves and reapportioned the lamps, each one trying for the best light.
"Klaussen is not lying to you," Karl told Annabet. He took a seat close to Bertha and accepted a batch of narrow wooden rods from her. He began whittling them into hooks.
"So we have a printer who knows how to print." Annabet waited for the excited whispers to die down. "We still have to deal with the Groenenbachs and the city council. If they suspect anything, we will still lose the press."
Bertha, searching through her bag for her misplaced hook, said, "So hide it."
***
Two weeks later, the door
to the shop slammed open again. Gottfried Groenenbach swaggered in backed by five bravos. "Where's the printer?"
Twelve women scrambled to keep their lights from being blown out by the wind gusting in. Annabet ordered him to shut the door. "Were you raised in a barn?"
She had the pleasure of seeing him gape at the freshly painted walls. Racks of spindles, knitting needles, crochet hooks and sewing scissors were on the wall opposite the door. There were bundles of prepared fiber waiting to be spun. Stiff paper bobbins that held various kinds of crocheted lace filled in any gaps. It was a craft woman's dream and a bully boy's ultimate confusion.
"Well, were you?" Annabet demanded.
"This is a print shop!"
The women tittered. The bravos shifted uneasily.
"Does this look like a print shop?" Annabet asked.
Gottfried looked around and tromped through the assembled maids.
The women drew their feet back and pulled their skirts out of his path, much like they would do for a filthy, snarling mongrel.
"You're up to something," he said.
"Yes," Annabet agreed. "I am up to teaching crochet. Would you like to learn? I charge by the hour."
Gottfried snarled at the sniggerer by the door. He gave the shop one last glare then stomped out.
Bertha, who sat by the window, watched the council's enforcers leave. "They're gone."
Paul opened the hidden door to the back room. "You were right, Annabet. Fresh paint does cover up the smell of ink." He sat in the space cleared for him and continued to read aloud the latest news from the Committees of Correspondence.
***
Johann returned a week later. Tired and dirty, he looked from Bertha to Annabet with the biggest smile he could muster. "I have more patterns." He started to say more, but the door opened. Two girls walked in, followed moments later by two more. He looked around, confused at the changes. "Annabet, what's going on?"
The girls ignored him. They moved a bench into the light then sat out tapers in simple clay holders on one of a handful of tall stools. The women opened their work baskets and made themselves at home. One sent him a quick glance. The other frowned at a lacy circle.
"I'm giving crochet lessons. Not everyone can make sense of the instructions." Annabet shooed him off.
"In my shop!?" he asked in a near-bellow.
"Don't yell," Bertha said. "You weren't here. And it's her shop as much as yours now."
Annabet sighed. "It kept your precious printing press together. We hid it in the back. And watching for an attack is not that different from waiting for someone to return from war. Hand work makes the time pass." She turned to her students then had to rap one of them on her head to get her attention back on the lesson. "A double crochet stitch there, not a treble, Wilhelmina."
Bertha made a rude sound. "Who is going to suspect a lace shop, Johann? We're just girls, after all. No Committee here." She put on a dumb look, then laughed at his expression. "Don't worry. Everyone here is a member of the Committee. Annabet makes Karl and Paul check to make sure no new members are spies for the city council"
"Who is Paul?" Johann asked.
"Paul Klaussen. Who happens to be a real printer," Annabet said. "He's as excitable about the Committees as you are."
Johann made a face at her, then went to check the printing press for damage. Not finding any, he collected his pack and crouched beside Annabet. "I found something else while I was gone."
She looked at him with suspicion. "What is it this time?"
He handed her a hank of fine wool thread. "A peddler was selling this. I thought you might like the color. It's a thank you gift for helping me. Not that I expected this much help."
Bertha leaned closer. "What an odd shade of pink."
Annabet squinted at the label wrapped around the yarn. "'Brillo's Best,'" she read aloud. "'Common Wool for the Common Man. Color: Mauve . Product of Lothlorien Farbenwerks.'" She fingered the wool. "What kind of name is 'Lothlorien'?"
Bertha took it from her. "What kind word is mauve?" she grimaced. "Scratchy. I've seen better wool." She passed it on.
"But the color!" one girl cooed. "So pretty."
"How much will you pay me for it?" Annabet asked.
Johann squawked, outraged.
She glanced over at him. "I agree with Bertha. If I am going to work with wool, it has to be softer than that."
The girl named a price and dug for coins. Johann blinked and held his tongue when the other two young maids also offered to buy the yarn at the same price. By the time the women were ready to leave, he was left with an empty pack and a bemused expression.
As he and Annabet walked home, he finally spoke. "They paid more than I did."
"So when you go for more patterns, buy more Brillo's Best."
***
The next evening, Annabet watched Johann and Paul circle each other like strange dogs, ruffs raised and ready to snarl.
"This shop is not a bone," she said. "One of you can't print and the other can't draw. My lace patterns need both. So does the Committee."
When they didn't leave off the posturing she stepped between them and shoved Johann toward the door to the printing room. "Show Paul your letters from the Committee. Tell him about Grantville, too, while you're at it. I want you out of my hair until the women come. Three or four of them said they will be bringing their sweethearts."
They turned to her in unison. "How do you know?" Johann asked.
"Women talk in the market place as much as men gossip in the tavern." When they just stood there, she assigned sweeping and dusting.
Both men balked and headed for the press room. All three kept busy getting ready for that evening's Committee meeting. Sixteen women and girls, not counting Bertha, showed up. Half of them brought their sweethearts. Some brought hampers in addition to work bags. Others brought flasks and before long it was share and share alike.
People were reduced to sitting on the floor, and Karl eyed the walls and muttered about benches. Bertha told him to save his carpentry work for a shop in a better part of town.
Annabet stood by the door, brow wrinkled as she listened to Karl describe his experiences with the Americans to the newest Committee members. Crochet hooks flew while women grilled Johann about Grantville ladies. She glanced over when Paul joined her.
"Bertha is right. We should move the shop. We would get more business."
Annabet shook her head. "We don't have enough money saved to rent a better place. Plus, looking too prosperous will get us more attention from the city's councilmen than is safe right now. If Groenenbach comes by with his bully boys, we can say this is a gathering of friends and get away with it.
Paul thought about it then grunted an assent. He called the meeting to order.
***
A week and a half later, Paul hauled Johann into the family parlor and laid him on the floor in front of the hearth.
"Where did you find him?" Annabet asked. She reached for the medicines and cloths she had arranged and rearranged while she waited. Her mother came in and helped Annabet tend Johann, stitching him up where necessary.
"In an alley," Paul said. "On the way back from the shop. Groenenbach and his henchmen had just finished the beating and were getting ready to use knives. I bribed some drunks to go down the alley so Groenenbach wouldn't linger. Karl and your father went to the taverns Johann visits. I paid an urchin to find them with the news."
Annabet and her mother worked while Paul kept checking doors and windows.
"He can't stay here," Annabet said. "They'll kill him." She looked at Paul. "They'll kill you, too."
Paul crouched next to her. "So send him to Grantville for more lace patterns. He's a journeyman. Let him journey. I'll just pretend to court you."
Annabet glared at him.
"My master has no daughters and his wife is dead. His sons are apprenticed to other trades. I've been looking for my own wife. I don't see why it can't be you as well as another." He met her frown with
a calm look. "It makes a good story and keeps you safe as well. Or do you think Gottfried Groenenbach won't beat women? Or worse."
"Listen to the man, Annabet," her mother said.
***
Two weeks later Karl and Bertha slipped into the shop. For once, Bertha carried everything, leaving Karl unhindered. He peered into the dark before closing the door. Annabet sent them a questioning look from across the crowded room.
"Gottfried Groenenbach has been asking questions about me and Paul," Karl said. "Someone saw Paul help Johann and reported it to the city council."
Paul swore. "Did they follow you?"
"I think so," Karl said.
"A strange man has been lurking in the neighborhood, too," Bertha added. "I thought I saw him on our way here."
Annabet grabbed spindles off the wall and bundles of unspun fibers from bins. She pulled the Committee of Correspondence's pamphlets from the hands of the women and filled them with supplies.
"Spin," she ordered. "Don't gape. Work."
Next, Annabet pointed at the new members and the males with nothing in their hands. "You, you and you, go to the press room. Karl, stay put. We know they saw you walk in. You will spend the evening telling war stories to Paul and the other men who are making something. We women will talk of spinning and lace."
Everyone stared at her. She grabbed the ear of a young apprentice and hauled him to his feet.
"Move!"
Everyone obeyed. The room rearranged and formed a scene like a cross between a family's gathering room and a well-lit tavern. The conversation was stilted. People kept looking at the windows. When the door didn't slam open right away, the Committee relaxed and conversation became more general. The apprentice cracked open the hidden door and begged a couple more lamps for the back room so they could read easier.
Paul grabbed Annabet as she paced among the benches and made her sit beside him. He shoved her work basket in her hands. Annabet muttered under her breath, but took out her latest project-a curtain, like the one her brother told her about.
