“The weaver.”
“Of course. The operator monitors the heddles and makes sure there’s no irregularities. You see weavers are still important to the process.”
“I do. I assume you chose Steepridge because of the sheep.”
“That’s correct. The sheep of Barony Steepridge produce a quarter again what their lowland counterparts do, and it’s the finest wool in Tremontane. Longbourne’s wool fabric is renowned for its quality and softness—but you probably already know that.”
“Yes.” It was one of the reasons she’d leapt at Sabrina’s offer; the reputation alone would be enough to make her wealthy, if she cared about wealth. “What about the demand for homespun?”
“I don’t see why we, all of us working together, can’t teach the world that Device-woven wool is just as good as homespun. After all, there’s no reason it should be of lower quality, right?”
Zara watched him closely. He seemed sincere, but that was no guarantee of honesty. “You make good points,” she said, and stood, prompting him to rise as well. “I’ll consider them.”
“Please do,” he said, taking her hand even though she hadn’t offered it. “I’d love to work with such a forthright and, dare I say, attractive young woman.”
Zara smiled at him, though once again she itched to slap him. “We’ll see.”
She strode rapidly back to Sabrina’s house and accidentally let the back door slam shut. Maybe it wasn’t so accidental. The more she thought on the meeting, the angrier she became.
Sabrina was still sitting in the drawing room, though her knitting lay in a basket beside her. She looked as if she were in pain. “Do you need to lie down?” Zara asked, alarmed.
Sabrina shook her head. “It’s worse when I lie down,” she said. “Did you speak to him?”
Zara sat in the uncomfortable chair and leaned forward. “He’s either stupid or a liar,” she said. “There’s no way a factory can do anything but put all the weavers of Longbourne out of business. He can’t increase the wool production—I’m guessing as much land as possible is given over to raising sheep?”
“Yes.”
“Then he’ll have to take hold of the supply, which means reducing the supply available to the weavers and forcing them either to go out of business or work for him. Based on what he told me, he wants people to believe his machines are more efficient, which they aren’t—”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen them work before.” They were a good idea for large cities, places where the supply of raw materials was elastic, but Longbourne couldn’t afford to import wool, particularly wool of a lower quality than their own. “The only thing they are is faster, and he’s right that they automate certain processes, but at a cost to the quality of the final product.”
“But can he sell it cheaply?”
“Possibly.” Zara tapped her finger on her lips. “How many weavers are there in Longbourne?”
“Thirty, maybe thirty-five. And then there are all those men and women living elsewhere in Barony Steepridge.”
“How hard would it be to bring them all together for a meeting?”
Sabrina smiled. “Happen you’re planning to stay?”
Zara smiled back. Hers was a good deal nastier than Sabrina’s. “I’ve put everything I have into buying this business,” she said, “and I’m not about to let it be taken away from me before I have the chance to see what I can make of it. And men like Pierpont remind me of…someone I used to know.” She hadn’t thought of Roger Lestrange in years, but he’d been just like Pierpont: smiling, self-righteous, convinced his way was best and condescending to anyone who disagreed with him. Crushing him had been one of the most satisfying things she’d done as Queen. She had no doubt she could crush Pierpont as readily.
“I can send messages. It sounds like they need to know what you’ve learned.” Sabrina pushed herself out of her chair, shaking a little, but waved off Zara’s offer of help. “I’ve taken a room at the hostel. I don’t want to be in your way in your house.”
“Actually, I…think you should stay here,” Zara said. “I’m going to need your help convincing the weavers that they should listen to me.” In truth, she felt guilty at turning the woman out of what was still, emotionally, her home—a sick, elderly woman who shouldn’t be left alone in a rented room. She’ll die here, she told herself, and to her surprise it didn’t bother her.
“I don’t want to interfere,” Sabrina said.
“You won’t. And I’m going to insist on it. You should know now that I always get my way.”
Sabrina eyed her with a mischievous twinkle, a surprisingly youthful expression. “I hope for Longbourne’s sake that’s true,” she said.
***
“So that’s the truth,” Zara said to the assembled men and women. “Pierpont’s plan will either put you out of business or turn you into his employees. Is that what you want?”
“Devices make life easier,” said one woman, a heavyset lady in her mid-twenties. “What’s wrong with that?”
“It depends on what you’re willing to give up for that life of ease,” Zara said. “If you want to weave for someone else’s gain—someone who’s going to do nothing but rake in the profits—then happen you’ll be satisfied with his plan. But I think you’ve all spent too many years mastering your craft to be swayed by that.”
“But there’s always been enough wool for all of us,” a man said. His querulous voice put her already frayed nerves on edge. “Shouldn’t there be enough for the factory as well?”
Zara swallowed her annoyance and the words I’ve explained this twice already. “Longbourne’s wool production was optimized years ago,” she said. “Its location in the mountains means its acreage is limited. The timber industry uses what the shepherds don’t. There’s no way to increase the amount of wool produced, and you weavers are already using all of it. The factory can only have raw materials if it takes them away from you. Less wool for you means less finished cloth and less profit. It’s not a complicated equation.”
She could see she was losing them with “equation.” “Look, this is what it comes down to,” she said, her exasperation building. “Pierpont is deceiving you. The factory will turn you into his employees. He’ll pay you a wage, he’ll take the rest of the profits, and you’ll lose control of the industry you’ve spent your lives building. Stand up to him, refuse his offer, and Longbourne really will prosper.”
The room was silent. Finally, the woman who’d spoken before said, “I don’t like the idea of working for anyone but me. I don’t want this factory here.”
A murmur of agreement built through the crowd, and Zara relaxed. Finally, they’d seen sense. “One of you should tell Pierpont your decision,” she said. “He won’t be happy about it.”
“Why not you?” said the querulous man.
Zara mentally kicked herself. “I’m just the newcomer,” she began.
“And the one who understands it all. I’m still not sure I get why there’s not enough wool to go around,” he replied. “Besides, we’re neighbors now, and happen we should trust each other.”
She looked at him more closely. She’d seen him around town, true, and now that she thought about it she remembered him going into the house just south of Sabrina’s—of hers, but she hadn’t thought of that in terms of “neighbor.” “I don’t know your name,” she said.
“Aubrey Martin,” he said. “Welcome to Longbourne, Mistress Weaver.”
Now the murmur was one of welcome, and the crowd was breaking up. The meeting was over. Dazed, Zara nodded her thanks and went to the bar. “What can I get you?” the woman behind it said. “Beer? Or happen you need something a mite stronger?”
“Whiskey,” Zara said, and the little glass appeared as if by magic. She gulped it down, relishing the way it burned. “I think I need two.”
The woman grinned. “Coming right up,” she said. “Maida Handly. We’re both newcomers to Longbourne.”
“
Are they all so…accepting?”
“They are. I had more friends by the end of the first week than I think I had in all of Ellismere, the whole time I lived there.”
“I see.” Zara had steered clear of making friends the last twenty-two years. It was so much easier not to put down roots when you knew you’d be moving on five or seven years down the road. “It’s a little disconcerting.”
“You’ll get used to it.” Miss Handly slid the glass across to Zara. “Welcome to Longbourne.”
Zara sipped her whiskey and surveyed the room. She’d have to be careful not to rebuff anyone, but she truly wasn’t interested in making friends. She could speak for them without making any commitments, certain sure, but she shouldn’t make any lasting connections.
“Amelia Ponsonby,” said the heavyset woman. “You make a lot of sense. You’re buying Sabrina’s place?”
“Looks like,” Zara said.
“Well, you’ll want to come to our knitting circle, belike. Everyone brings something and we gossip about our neighbors.”
“Ah…I don’t know how to knit and I’m a terrible cook.”
“Not a knitter? Well, come anyway. It’s a lot of fun.” She patted Zara’s shoulder and moved away into the crowd. Zara stared after her. What was that about?
“You spoke well,” a man said, startling her. He was short but well-built, stocky, and his hazel eyes were amused. “I’m no weaver, but I live near that proposed factory and happen it’s not the kind of neighbor I’d like.” He stuck out his hand. “Robert Richardson, and I’d like to invite you over for supper sometime. My wife Eleanor is a good cook, and I just heard you say you weren’t.”
“I—” She felt as if the whiskey were having an effect on her despite all reason. “Maybe some time.”
“We like to make newcomers feel welcome. Eleanor will call on you soon and talk you into it. Best of luck with that Pierpont fellow.” Richardson clapped her on the shoulder and turned away. Zara set her unfinished glass down and made her escape.
The chilly wind had picked up, and she rubbed her arms to keep warm. She’d meant to buy winter clothes here rather than ship them up the mountain, but now she was a little afraid if she went to a clothier’s she’d come out with an invitation to spend Wintersmeet with some well-meaning strangers. It was going to be very hard to stay aloof in the face of all this unrelenting friendliness. You’re only going to be here five years, maybe seven, she told herself, you’re essentially passing through, and making friends only hurts in the long run. But she remembered Miss Handly’s kind words, and Mister Richardson’s invitation, and a part of her that had lain dormant for years reached out for the light. She pushed it away. She wasn’t going to be stupid. Never again.
***
The whirring of the spinning wheels, not quite in rhythm with each other, made a nice background to the long, tedious task of dressing the giant loom for weaving. Zara pulled strand after strand of yarn through the heddles, counting silently. Her first weaving in her new home, and the fine yarn was a beautiful deep green that soothed her mind, which was eager to begin. Patience was not exactly one of her virtues.
Someone pounded on the front door. Zara dropped her hook and cursed. The spinning wheels came to a thrumming halt. “Answer that,” she snapped at Mitchell, and the gawky young man stood, tripped on his stool, and almost fell into the door. Zara picked up the hook and went back to counting, trying to find her place. Whoever this was had better not be wasting her time.
“Agatha!” Amelia Ponsonby stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. “Agatha, he’s stealing the wool!”
Zara threw her hook on the floor, where it bounced once with a dull tink. “Who’s doing what?”
“Mister Pierpont,” Amelia gasped. “He’s buying up the wool. I went to Merden’s today to pick up my purchase and he said Mister Pierpont had paid him a third again what I did. He said the other sheep farmers are getting the same offer. Agatha, what do we do?”
“That’s idiotic,” Zara said. “No, I don’t mean you, Amelia. He can’t afford to pay that much for wool without losing money.” But even as she spoke, she saw Pierpont’s strategy. He only had to cut off the weavers’ supplies until they exhausted their funds and couldn’t stay in business, then he could return to buying at the lower price. And since he’d be the only one buying, he could drop that price even more—and unless the sheep farmers could afford to send their wool down the mountain, at additional cost, they’d have to accept what he paid. “That bastard,” she muttered. “Mitchell, Annetta, you’re free for the day. Amelia, I need to speak to Mister Merden.”
They crossed the valley in silence, wrapped tightly in their cloaks against the fine drizzle of misting rain. Zara berated herself the whole way. Speaking to Pierpont was pointless. You should have known he wouldn’t give up just because the weavers resisted him. You should have anticipated this. She wished she knew the actual figures behind the economics. How much did it cost to ship raw wool as opposed to fabric? It had to be a substantial difference, or the sheep farmers would be doing it already. Pierpont was going to put her out of business; she barely had enough money to buy wool at current prices, let alone the inflated ones Amelia described.
Merden’s farmstead was just outside the little village of Corraden, nestled into a fold in the mountains, from which his grazing pastures stretched out for miles. Zara didn’t do business with him, since Andrew Hatten had been Sabrina’s supplier for thirty years, but she knew him to be shrewd and successful—someone who was always looking to squeeze every ounce of profit out of a situation. If she could convince him of the facts, of Pierpont’s true motives, Merden would be a valuable ally, because he wouldn’t want to see his neighbors making more than he was.
They knocked on the front door of the sprawling farmhouse and waited. Amelia jigged from one foot to another. “Calm down,” Zara said.
“I’m cold. And I’m not sure how you can stay so calm.”
Forty years of practicing. “This is just a setback, and a small one. You’ll see.”
The door opened. “Agatha! And Amelia! What brings you here?” said Florence Merden.
“We’d like to speak to Mister Merden,” Zara said.
“He’s out the back, but happen he’d be glad for a rest in the warm,” Florence said. “Come in and let me pour you a cup.”
“It’s not a social call, Florence.”
Florence’s face went still. “This is about Mister Pierpont, isn’t it? He was here yesterday, but James didn’t say anything about it, so I figured nothing had come of it.”
So James Merden had been afraid to tell his wife what he’d agreed to. Good. That meant he felt guilty, and guilt was something Zara could play on. “I’m afraid Pierpont is attacking the weavers again.”
Florence nodded. “I’ll get him for you. Please, sit down. The kitchen’s warm and you look like you could use it.”
The plain pine table, scrubbed pale with years of use, felt smooth under Zara’s hand. A memory of the Council chamber, with its centuries-old slab of oak worn smooth and shiny by countless hands, surfaced from deep within her mind. What did young Jeffrey think when he stood beside it, overseeing the Council? Did he remember her, or did he think of his father? Remembering Anthony’s death still pained her, though it had been twenty years before, and mention of “King Jeffrey” always left her a little disoriented. She folded her hands in her lap and waited. Before long, the back door swung open and admitted Merden, who was a big man with grizzled hair and a thick gray mustache. “What do you want?” he asked, keeping the table between them.
Zara smiled grimly. He thought belligerence would cow her? “To keep you from making a mistake,” she said.
“I don’t call increasing my profits a mistake,” he said. He didn’t sit down, so Zara rose to face him.
“I don’t want to interfere in your business,” she lied, “but I don’t think you’ve thought this through.”
“Haven’t I?”
“What d
o you think is going to happen when the factory is the only one buying from you?”
His brow furrowed. “What?”
“If you don’t have anywhere else to sell your product, the one controlling the price is your purchaser. How long do you think he’ll be willing to buy from you at that price?”
Merden shrugged. “He’s not the only one. The weavers are paying it too. I should have raised prices years ago.”
That was a blow. “Not all of them can pay. You’re going to put them out of business.”
“Not my problem if they can’t manage their affairs. Certain sure it’s not.”
Zara opened her mouth to say something she knew would be futile, and the door banged open again. “Aunt Florence, mama says I can visit with you, can we make pie?” said Annetta, Zara’s younger apprentice.
“Oh, sweetling, happen now’s not the best time,” Florence said.
Zara looked at Annetta. Her resemblance to James Merden was probably too strong for anyone’s comfort, and she wasn’t going to grow up to be more than pleasant-looking, but she was a hard worker who already knew much of the weaver’s trade. “Annetta’s mother is your sister, isn’t she, Mister Merden?” she said, an idea taking shape. “Rose Garrity.”
“She is,” Merden said, confused at the sudden change in topics.
“She’s a tough lady, Rose is,” Zara said cheerfully. “Very opinionated. Very strong-willed.”
“Yes,” said Merden.
“I know she doesn’t shy from telling people what she thinks. And they tend to do as she says, if only because she argues them into it. But then, you’d know this well, being her brother.”
Merden scowled at some private memory. “Certain sure she does.”
“And all of you sheep farmers are determined on raising prices?”
Now he really looked confused. “What—why does that matter?”
Exile of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 0) Page 4
