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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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1
Come Cropper lads of high renown,
Who love to drink strong ale that's brown.
And strike each haughty tyrant down
With hatchet, pike and gun
 
—From “The Croppers Song,” 1812
 
April 1812
Leeds, Yorkshire
 
A
nnabelle Stirling reached out a hand to reverently stroke her shop's new gig mill, which would mechanize the raise of a fabric's nap. She'd scrimped from the shop's profits for over a year to afford it, and it was finally here. The shop had been chaotic and disorganized during the three days it took for the workmen to set it up, but it was surely worth it.
She frowned. All of the shop's workers, and half the village, were here to see it in operation for the first time. But where was Wesley?
“May I try it, Miss Stirling?” Henry asked. He was the first cropper they'd hired when deciding to expand from merely being cloth merchants to also taking rough cloth and doing the final finishing work on it. Since bringing on Henry, they—well, Belle—had hired three more croppers.
“Of course, it's only right that you should try it. You'll be the one in charge of it,” she said.
Henry looked tentatively at the enormous piece of machinery, which looked like a large drum in the middle of a letter C. Fabric would be fed in at the top of the C, and fed around the spine and over the drum, straightening and stretching through a set of rollers, then would be gathered in soft folds at the bottom of the C. Henry stood facing the inside of the C, which towered at least two feet over his head, his foot poised over a foot pedal.
“When you're ready,” she said quietly.
Henry began pumping his foot pedal, and a combination of gears and belts attached at various points to the mill screeched and protested loudly. Sweat was already pouring down the man's face as the drum began rotating slowly. He reached up and pulled the edge of the long length of fabric over the top of the C and into the first roller above the drum, feeding it in and out of the rollers that would automatically smooth the cloth, removing the nap in a consistent and reliable manner.
His audience stood breathlessly, Belle included, to see the finished product. After Henry had fed about ten yards of cloth through the machine, he stopped pedaling to examine the cloth. He furrowed his brow as he pinched a section of fabric and ran his thumb over it. He looked up at Belle.
“Miss Stirling, I don't know. Not as good as I could do myself.”
Belle lifted a section of cloth that had been cropped and deposited in the bottom of the C. Henry was right. The finishing wasn't quite as fine as what he did. But she looked at the quantity of fabric that had been finished in record time and announced, “Henry, nothing could possibly replace your hands on a set of shears. But look at how much you've accomplished already this morning. I say the gig mill is a success.”
And with that, everyone who had crowded inside the room ran forward to touch the fabric and form their own opinion on its quality.
Late in the day, after nearly everyone in their village near Leeds had come forward to handle the newly processed cloth and then gone off to gossip about it in the coffee shop, Henry came to her, hat in hand.
“I dunno, Miss Stirling, how we can 'spec to compete with merchants selling hand-finished cloth. My own work is much better, and I surely don't mind goin' back to it.”
“Yes, your handwork is better, but you saw how much fabric you were able to finish in just a short amount of time.”
He twisted his hat through his fingers. “Yes, ma'am. But it's your reputation I'm worried about. If you start selling poor-quality cloth and all.”
She smiled. “Henry, your job is secure. I couldn't possibly do without you. I'm just glad you'll be able to accomplish so much more each day.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He continued to stand there, looking nervously from side to side.
“Is there more?”
“I was just wondering, er, whether Mr. Stirling was pleased about the new gig mill. I noticed he wasn't here when we started it up. Just thought he might have his own opinion.”
“I'm not quite sure where Mr. Stirling is today. I know, though, that he will be quite delighted when he sees its remarkable potential for the shop.”
Which wasn't entirely true, but enough to satisfy Henry and send him on his way back to his family for the night.
Where
was
Wesley today? He knew the gig mill was being installed and would be in operation for the first time this morning. Belle sighed. Although her brother, Wesley Stirling, had inherited the shop after both their parents had been swept away in a fever epidemic that had run through the area nearly five years ago, it was Belle who had taken responsibility for the small shop and its workers. Her parents ran it as merely a cloth merchant's shop, but Belle saw the benefit in bringing in pre-finished cloth and having it finished herself before sending it on its way downriver via the River Aire to land transport for eventual arrival and sale in London and beyond.
By establishing her own dressing shop and having fabric finished on the premises, she could control the final quality of what was sold and thereby manage the shop's growing reputation. The new gig mill didn't produce as fine a finish, but, oh, the output.
Not that Wesley had much interest. Much to their father's despair, her brother, older by two years, had run off to India with a local village girl, Alice Treadle, in some kind of business prospect that he never quite explained. When he was called back after their parents took ill, he never explained why Alice didn't accompany him on his return.
Wesley's presence was largely unnecessary, since he merely signed or approved whatever Belle wanted, leaving management of the shop to her and spending days—and sometimes nights—at undisclosed locations.
It had been this way for as long as she could remember. Her father—Fafa, as she always called him—had tried to encourage Wesley's interest in the business, but he was always more concerned with playing in the woods, or chasing birds, or, later, pursuing comely girls he fancied.
So when Belle first reached out a hand to stroke a piece of fabric and cooed about its softness, Fafa turned his attentions to his younger child. He and Belle would ride over to farms so she could stroke the backs of sheep, cattle, and goats, and Fafa would explain to her how wool, leather, and cashmere came from each animal, respectively, and why the animals must be husbanded properly for not only meat but skin and hair.
They visited fields together, where he would pick stalks of flax and place them in her hands. “This will become a linen fabric one day, Belle,” he said, much to her amazement. How could a plant with sweet, pale blue flowers turn into lengths of linen, damask, and cambric?
“It can become fabric and more. Cabinetmakers turn its seed into an oil to finish wood. It's also used for medicine. But I'll show you how it becomes cloth.”
They went to a heckling shop, where Fafa lifted her onto his shoulders to watch workers preparing dried flax fibers that had already had their seeds threshed and straw scutched, or separated, from the fibers. Belle was entranced as she watched workers drawing the flax stalks through what Fafa called heckling combs, each a bed of long iron pins driven into a wooden block. The shop contained various sizes of these combs.
“Why are they different?” she asked.
“Depends on what they're making,” Fafa said. “The finer the combs, the finer the yarn spun from the flax will be.”
The workers carefully drew the processed fibers through the nails, leaving behind more straw and even some of the fiber. The dust produced was stifling and the smell odious, but Belle was too spellbound in the rhythmic pulling and gathering to care.
Fafa pointed. “See the fiber left behind? It will be used to make rope. Practically every bit of the flax plant can be consumed for various purposes. The better fibers will be spun into yarns, and from there woven into different linen fabrics. The croppers will perform the final finishing on the fabric.”
“But how does the yellow fiber become different colors?”
Fafa laughed at her enthusiasm. “Ah, Daughter, that's the dyeing and printing process. You have much to learn.”
Belle was never sure what she loved more: learning about the cloth trade or spending so much time with her father. Eventually the two became one in her mind.
Fafa gave her simple tasks in the shop, such as sweeping scraps from the floor, and later taught her how to measure and cut. But she was also spending more and more time at his knee, learning.
As she grew older and could recognize various fabrics on sight, Fafa tested her in many ways. He would have her close her eyes, then place pieces of cloth in her hands, asking her to identify them by touch.
Sometimes he would randomly ask her questions. “I am a customer who needs to have a shirt made. What fabrics would you recommend for me?”
“For everyday wear or a dress occasion?”
“Everyday wear.”
“For warm days or cool?” she asked.
“Warm.”
“Are you working class or an aristocrat?”
“Let's say I am an architect with aristocratic clients. More highly esteemed than, say, a butcher, but no hope of a title.”
Ah, Fafa was trying to confuse her. “Then I would suggest our gray broadcloth for you, sir. Although it's a wool, it hangs lightly and will be comfortable on summer days. You will look elegant enough before your clients, but the pale color will prevent you overstepping your bounds as a tradesman and offending them.”
Her father clasped her in his arms. “Ah, Belle, you are my clever girl. Your mother and I will be proud to watch you grow into a respected draper one day.”
She basked in this kind of praise.
One day, Fafa presented her with a badge that he told her came from the Worshipful Company of Drapers in London. It signified that she was an honorary member of this guild. Her heart nearly swelled to bursting over the badge, which she wore pinned to every dress she had until the badge was nearly in tatters. Later she realized that her father had made the badge himself, but she loved him the more for it. She still kept the badge's remnant as a reminder of Fafa's faith in her talent.
Belle knew she was becoming the son and heir Fafa wanted. Papa's loving but resigned eyes acknowledged it. And Wesley's resentment reflected it.
The day Fafa said cryptically, “The future of the family is solely in your hands, Belle,” she knew he intended the shop for her, not Wesley, even though her brother would be the official heir.
And so it happened. Belle learned more, Wesley cared less, and Fafa gradually turned responsibilities over to his teenage daughter. By the time Wesley returned from India following their parents' deaths, Belle was the de facto owner of the Stirling Draper Shop.
Belle shook her head. Well, it was better this way, for there was nothing more satisfying than being in the shop,
her
shop, rolling the long bolts of fabric after the croppers—now the gig mill—had done their work for the day. Even more, she enjoyed using cloth samples to show how they might cover plump pillows, or turn a drab settee into a striking centerpiece for a parlor. She perpetually kept an ever-changing tableau or two at the front of the shop to show local customers the latest fabric styles and how they could improve even the simplest home into one that was warm and inviting.
Many cloth merchants, Fafa included, were concerned about selling fabrics to dressmakers. Belle cared about getting her cloth turned into draperies, chair cushions, and sometimes even wall coverings. She wondered what Fafa would think now of the new mechanization taking place, and her interest in interiors.
The jangling of the doorbell broke her reverie. Hurrying out to the front of the shop, she greeted her customer warmly.
“Amelia! Have you come to see our new mill? I noticed you weren't here this morning.”
“And from what I hear, I was the only person in Leeds who wasn't here. How fares the beast?”
“Come see.” Belle led her friend to the room containing the gig mill, now stilled in the waning hours of daylight. She and Amelia Wood had been friends for as long as Belle could remember, although her own boisterous personality had overshadowed Amelia's shy, thoughtful nature. Belle remembered running into the rectory like a hoyden when she was around ten years old, a bundle of stinking, freshly shorn sheep's wool in her arms, picked up during a visit to a new weaver from whom Fafa was considering a purchase.
The vicar had shooed the two girls into the yard behind the rectory, and Belle spent the afternoon draping and rearranging the wool over Amelia's shoulders, finally convincing her friend that she'd made her a royal mantle. Amelia's patience for Belle's frolics was never ending, and Belle always tried to drag her friend out of her timidity. She was usually unsuccessful.

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